Perplexing Athletes
By J. P. W. MALLALIEll, M.P.
AN athletics meeting is the most bewilderingly delightful sport I know. At cricket or football or racing your attention, when it is attracted at all, is attracted by one thing. Your delight, such as it is, is concentrated; and you know what is going on. But at an athletics meeting, for much of the time, you do not and cannot know what is going on, although you see it all. There are varied fragments like the glints of the sun on many-coloured glass. But there is no pattern, no continuity, no form. Yet the effect is completely, wholly, satisfying.
I was at the White City on Saturday to watch Oxford against Cambridge. When I tell you that Oxford beat Cambridge by 68 points to 58 you will say that at least this meeting had a formal end—a satisfying formal end, you may add. But in fact there was no end, as you will see. For all I know university athletes are still, to this moment, stretching their muscles on the green grass; and there was certainly no beginning.
The first event—the Pole Vault—was timed for 2.15 p.m. It did not in fact begin until about 2.30 p.m. But long before 2.15 p.m. things were happening in the White City. Some men in track suits were jogging slowly and steadily round and round the stadium almost as though they were part of the earth's movement. Other men in track suits, jogging dismally round the stadium, 'would suddenly streak like meteors. Two men chatting together would suddenly clasp hands and work their arms like pistons. Another, walking casually across the grass, would suddenly leap in the air or contract himself to half his size like wound-up clockwork. These of course were all limbering exercises. They seemed to go on all afternoon, though I discovered later that some of the things I thought were still limbering exercises were in fact the real events. But nobody told us.
The first event, as I say, was the Pole Jump. I realised it had begun when I saw that the limberers-up had taken off their sweaters. But with or without sweaters nothing much seemed to be happening. Something was happening in the Putting the Weight, but I was too far away to see what. Some- thing did happen in the 100 yards—a superbly-run victory for Finlay, the Cambridge President—which I saw and quickly tried to forget. Then the announcer broadcast the jumps to date in the Pole Vault and added: " A. J. Burger (Oxford) has not yet entered the competition." I wondered if he had missed his train. So, against a background of silver javelins sweeping through the air in graceful arcs, or of bronzed men grunting themselves into graceless and seemingly inexplicable contortions, we were presented with the one mile. Because I want to be detailed about the later three miles, I will only be sketchy about the one mile. Suffice it to say that the Cambridge first string, Robinson, led until the last half of the last lap, that, at this point, Oxford's red-headed Chataway moved easily and relentlessly into the lead, that both runners beat the previous record and that, at the finish, neither looked as though he had been out of breath.
At this point the announcer told is that the Oxford second string had failed at such and such a height in the Pole Vault and that A. J. Burger (Oxford) was now entering the competi- tion. By now I had discovered that it was no question of missed trains with A. J. Burger (Oxford), but rather that, as the record-holder, he did not bother to jump until the bar had been raised to the level of his dignity. Thousands of eyes now looked at A. J. Burger (Oxford) and thousands of minds thought: "Ha ! What a lark it will be if, after what the Labour Party calls ostentatious abstention, he fails at his first jump." A. J. Burger (Oxford) still in his track suit, shambled to the bar and studied it for some seconds. Then he reached for his pole and, with it, made a number of measure- ments. Then he shambled back to the bench, removed his track-suit and shambled to the end of the run. As he turned I noticed that he was bald, and he noticed that his shoe-lace was undone. He could not do much about the first but, having rectified the second, he shambled along the run and cleared the bar by a good foot.
On we went through the hurdles, the long jump, the half mile and the high jump, and still in the background silver javelins cruised through the air and stronab men emitted grunts which were almost visible. Then came the three miles and there, on his mark, looking as fresh as the sunrise, was the red- headed Chataway who, 37 minutes before, had broken the Varsity record for the mile. They were off; and at once Chataway took the lead. Obviously he was merely going to pace his first string, and would fade away after about the eighth lap.
Here the announcer said : " A. J. Burger (Oxford) will now try to break his own record," and everything in that stadium seemed to stand still except for the three-mile runners who were now in their second lap, Chataway pacing manfully. Burger stood at the end of the run, looking as though exercise bored him. He gripped his pole and then ,eased himself into that toddling, almost crab-like motion which a runner must adopt when both his hands have to be placed on the same side of his body. Seconds later there was a shout so ecstatic that Cambridge's second string in the three miles was put clean out of his stride. A. J. Burger (Oxford) had done it again.
Back to the three miles. The three leaders were bunched -together. They were all Oxford. The Cambridge first string was, perhaps, twenty yards behind, fighting hard, but going back on his heels. Their second string was half a lap behind. The third string was about to be overlapped by the leaders. With panting courtesy he moved aside to let them through, then slogged on in desperate but not inglorious loneliness. Soon there were only two in the race, Scott-Wilson, the Oxford second string in the lead, and Chataway breathing ever so gently down the back of his neck. Round the last bend Chataway eased himself level with Scott-Wilson and together, almost hand in hand, certainly like two horses in a carriage and pair, they came prancing home. It was a wonderful performance; but my loudest cheer was for the Cambridge third string who, with nothing to gain and at the risk of getting himself involved in the next race, went on and on until he came to the end.
Quite suddenly I found we had reached the end of the programme, and then I wondered who were the winners. True there was the scoreboard. There was also the announcer. But the scoreboard showed one score, the announcer declared another, and neither agreed with the score I had totted up myself. Then someone behind me discovered that the meeting was not over yet, that all those grunts in the distance came from the discus-throwers and that if Cambridge were first and second in the discus, they could still tie. We waited as the sun went down and, by and by, someone said that the discus had been won by Cambridge. I did not believe him. Obviously A. J. Burger (Oxford) had not yet entered the competition. However, I was quite relieved when Oxford did win the discus, and hence the match, without calling upon Burger. The effort would have endangered his health.
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