As a proud parent—someone who thinks the absolute world of their children—I was once again bursting with happiness and amazement when my older boy was chosen to compete in the Year 3 and 4 cross-country competition at the legendary Lee Valley Athletics Centre.
Now, let’s be honest, this was our fourth visit to the center. At this point, I practically felt like I should be on the payroll. But it was still a weird feeling because athletics was never our thing. The world knows by now that he’s a pretty decent football player, but track and field? That was never part of the grand plan.
Then came the logistical madness. Every single parent had to take their own child to the competition in their own car. I STRONGLY disagreed with this. I get it—schools have financial constraints. But come on, allocating twelve parents to drive kids three miles instead of hiring a minibus? That’s just silly. A bus isn’t just about convenience—it’s about team spirit! A bus ride means pre-game bonding, chanting, laughing, and hyping each other up. Instead, we had parents fighting for parking spots, idling cars like we were in a chaotic airport pickup zone, and children getting out at random times. It was so unprofessional.
What if a parent had car trouble? A flat tire? Engine failure? Boom—one child misses the race. Maybe for the school, it’s just another event, but for the kid? This is their Olympic final! Sure, a bus could break down too, but let’s not go full conspiracy theory here—the odds of one out of twelve cars having an issue are WAY higher than a single bus failing.
Anyway, we arrived. My boy stepped out, wrapped up like a snowman—puffy jacket, long trousers, the whole winter collection—despite the sun shining. Now, as I always say, I’m no professional coach, but if someone is dedicated, committed, and ready to give 100%, I’m their biggest supporter.
Every other child stood there in school jerseys and shorts, shivering. I couldn’t believe it—England or not, it was early March! Forty-five minutes of standing half-naked before running? Insane. The kids were outside, but I took my boy inside. While the other kids ran around like headless chickens, I had him warming up properly. I had looked up warm-up routines, and by the time the teaching coach arrived, my boy had done 15 minutes of solid prep and had a banana. Yes, he looked slightly like a martial artist in his warm-up gear, but who cares? Looks don’t matter on the track—focus, commitment, and preparation do.
Then came the first race: the girls’ competition. Every single boy except mine was jumping, screaming, running along the track, cheering them on. Now, I appreciate good sportsmanship, but my boy had his own race coming up. Energy is a currency—spend it wisely. Cheering is great, but when you’re about to compete, conserving energy and staying locked in is the smarter move.
Then something funny happened. I saw one of the parents suddenly tell their son to put on a school jumper. I had to laugh inside. It doesn’t bother me when people copy us; what bothers me is that they don’t think of these things themselves!
Just before the race, my boy came up to me with an interesting piece of intel: an old teammate of his was also running. And not just any kid—this one was now at Watford FC’s Academy. That’s serious business. Now, I was even more excited—this wasn’t just a race; this was a battle.
I gave my son final instructions: keep warm till the last moment. When the race started, 96 competitors took off like a stampede. I was filming, but they ran through forests and bushes, so my footage looked more like a Bigfoot sighting than a professional sports clip.
At first, I was a bit frustrated—he started way out in the outside lane, exactly where I told him NOT to be. But within seconds, he squeezed his way to the inner lane like a seasoned pro. I wanted to shout instructions, but he was already doing everything right. After the second lap, he was in fourth place.
Then it hit me. He wasn’t racing against the whole pack. He had one target. Watford FC boy.
By the last lap, he had climbed to second place. With ease, he was closing in on the academy player. My heart was pounding. Four laps in, he crossed the finish line just a few yards behind.
I have to admit—my heart dropped. But it wasn’t disappointment. It was pride. This was the proudest moment of my life.
The nearest kid from his class? Finished 13th. The next-best from his school? 29th.
Parents swarmed around him, shaking his hand, congratulating him. I just stood to the side, quiet. One mother turned to me:
“I don’t know how happy you are, but I’m over the moon for him.”
She had no idea. This wasn’t just happiness—it was validation. Every mile he ran, every training session, every sacrifice, every time his mother or I stood out in the cold while he practiced—it all paid off.
He came second, only losing to a boy who trains at a professional academy.
Of course, I had to do my research. I found the Watford lad on social media. Scrolling through his feed, I saw all the professional coaches who had trained him. His parents must have spent thousands and thousands on private one-on-one coaching.
And here we were. We hadn’t spent a penny beyond regular football fees. We invested time.
Next year? We’re coming for that number one spot. Time to knock the king off his throne.