Those of you who have only had the misfortune to run into me since might find it a little hard to believe, but I used to be an athlete.
In another life I spent most of my weekends from September through till May travelling the country pushing round a basketball court. I played at all levels of the game in Britain, and even had a brief flirtation with the international scene at under 18 and under 22 level. As it turns out it was the last of these experiences that started to turn me off the game and on to the Springfield Hotel.
I mention this because the World Wheelchair Basketball Championships are currently taking place in Birmingham. A few of my Facebook friends happen to be taking part also, so I still have a passing interest in the fortunes of the Great Britain teams (men and women). My own experiences mean that you wouldn't have to go very far to find a more enthusiastic Great Britain fan, but I still have enough patriotism and common decency towards my friends and former team-mates to wish them well.
So where did it all go wrong? Well, life gets in the way. That's a lame excuse for dismally failing to become an international superstar, but it's the only one I have. That, and the fact that I didn't have even 10% of the talent that one or two misguided judges thought and said I did when I was very young. It's all very well showing up old stagers when you're 13 with your spikey mullet, but can you sustain it when it comes to mixing it with those that are not past their best? Er.......no actually.
The death knell for my international ambitions came at the Junior World Championships in Toronto in 1997. I'd been used a lot in the training sessions leading up to the tournament and was hopeful of getting plenty of court time, if not starting matches in the tournament proper. It didn't quite pan out that way. The coaching staff must have seen something they didn't like in those sessions because by the time we opened the tournament (I can't even remember who we played now, perhaps I have blocked the whole ordeal out almost entirely) I was on the bench.
I stayed there for most of the week. It's a good job you can stay in your chair rather than actually having to sit on a bench otherwise someone would have been pulling splinters out of my arse for years to come. When I did get my chance I remember losing possession to Troy Sachs, a man who a year previously had torn everyone to shreds at senior level in guiding Australia to Paralympic success in Atlanta, and being subsequently benched again for failing to chase back at him. At the time attempting to chase back against the world's leading player seemed futile. Far better to save energy for what was to come. However, I didn't need much energy thereafter, as I was once again benched.
We had a meeting at the end of the week to evaluate our performance. Simply because I was asked the question, I offered the opinion that I was disappointed not to have seen more court time. Some of my team-mates actually laughed out loud. It was at this point that, if there had been any doubt, I knew absolutely that I wasn't going to make it. I expected it to hurt more than it did. After all, I had spent the previous eight years wanting nothing other than to play for Great Britain's senior men's team. Yet here I was giving up in the most inglorious circumstances. Looking back on it now it is no disgrace to have not held down a regular spot in that team. It just happened to contain Joni Pollock, Dan Highcock, Peter Finbow and Terry Bywater, all of whom went on to star for Great Britain at senior level.
I played another nine years at club level. I had and still have some great friends from my time in the game, but around four years ago things got complicated. My kidneys began to feel the strain of my alcoholism and general bladder abuse, and two-hour training sessions which were previously comfortable became mountainous ordeals. I was only playing at the third level, and even then without any great distinction. I remember during one game at Chester having a great first half were everything went perfectly, only to suffer some kind of mental breakdown in the third quarter. Of course it wasn't a real mental breakdown. I was just bladdered from the night before and my body had chosen that inopportune moment to start the come-down.
Some personal issues also came to a head and I have to admit that I didn't want to be around the club for a while. A while turned into a year, which turned into two and now stands at four. Four years without picking up a basketball. It's all a far cry from those early days when all I wanted to do was get on a court and throw a ball around or shoot a few hoops. To coin a phrase. Hoops? Pah! I've thought about this and often wondered whether I started playing too young in life. I was only 13 when I first became obsessed with the notion of making the Great Britain side, but here I was at 31 wanting to be anywhere but on a basketball court. I was burnt out, physically and mentally.
I don't think I will ever play again. You can never say never, but the longer I am out of the game the harder I believe it will be to get back in. Even if I did go back I would never be able to play at the top level again, and I maintain a great fear of embarrassing myself on the court. When you do that you know it is time to get out. I've seen far too many players carry on at a level they weren't up to. I wouldn't knock those people for trying. It's pretty damned admirable when you think about it, but it's just not for me. Not now that I work through the day aswell. I don't have the energy or the motiviation for it now.
Like in Toronto in '97. I'm just not good enough.
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