Mitchell Craddock

Mitchell Craddock strokes his moustache with one hand and slicks back his hair with the other. He reaches into the pot of chalk, scoops out a handful and slaps it between his preposterous palms. He adjusts his handstraps - they are firmly in place. The tight lycra clings to his skin. He is ready for the clean and jerk.

Craddock looks straight ahead, like a blinkered horse, picking a spot in the middle distance on which he can focus and unfocus, focus and unfocus. The same routine for the past fourteen years: one man, one bar.

Craddock squats. The lycra is pulled harshly across his buttocks. It is strained but does not split. He feels the seams dig into his inner thighs - a slight, sharp pain that concentrates the mind. He gently rests his fingers on the bar. He drums them lightly, then settles. The same routine...

Craddock looks back up to his middle distance point and focuses, unfocuses, urges all thoughts from his mind. But, try as he might, the world slithers in.

Mitchell Craddock, Olympic Champion. He grips the bar tightly.

Mitchell Craddock, MBE. A tear dribbles down his cheek.

Mitchell Craddock, National Hero. His knees sink to the floor.

Mitchell Craddock is spent.