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.
Showing posts with label sport. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sport. Show all posts
Monday, 16 August 2010
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
More Than a Consolation
Charlotte found the note on the kitchen table, scribbled on the back of a receipt and weighed down by a 1961 Tottenham Hotspur commemorative mug.
"Dearest Charlie, " it read. "Sorry to burgle but needed the cash. Emergency. Will pay you back one day. Thanks for understanding, Clive. X."
Her eyes widened in anger - the "X" was one step too far.
Charlotte left the kitchen and wandered back into the sitting room to take another look. The TV was gone. So was the laptop. And the iPad. And the signed picture of Jermain Defoe. And the 7" of Diamond Lights. And the Official Club Calendar 2002/03. "Needed the cash" my arse, she thought.
What else had he taken?
Suddenly panicked, she ran across to the dresser and pulled open the drawer.
Thank God. The season tickets were still there.
Charlotte smiled. He could have taken those tickets, but he'd left them for her.
It meant a lot. It meant that she was going to White Hart Lane on Saturday. It meant that everything was going to be ok.
"Dearest Charlie, " it read. "Sorry to burgle but needed the cash. Emergency. Will pay you back one day. Thanks for understanding, Clive. X."
Her eyes widened in anger - the "X" was one step too far.
Charlotte left the kitchen and wandered back into the sitting room to take another look. The TV was gone. So was the laptop. And the iPad. And the signed picture of Jermain Defoe. And the 7" of Diamond Lights. And the Official Club Calendar 2002/03. "Needed the cash" my arse, she thought.
What else had he taken?
Suddenly panicked, she ran across to the dresser and pulled open the drawer.
Thank God. The season tickets were still there.
Charlotte smiled. He could have taken those tickets, but he'd left them for her.
It meant a lot. It meant that she was going to White Hart Lane on Saturday. It meant that everything was going to be ok.
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