Not the Paralympic story you might expect

Sport can be cruel, but that’s how it is when there are winners and losers. I wasn’t so much upset, more angry. Yesterday, our final game of the competition, was for fifth or sixth place against Sweden. Winning that game secured us a fifth place finish, FIFTH! This was the big one, the home Paralympics, London 2012, and we were meant to do far better than just fifth. Our target was to medal. As Captain I felt I’d let my teammates down, my coaches down, my friends, my family, neighbours, the whole country, I’d let them all down. And what about all those interviews I’d given during the build-up saying just how ready we were; how confident I was that the team would medal and how the home crowd would give us that advantage? My word, did I have egg on my face.

As with all athletes competing at the Paralympics, we, the wheelchair rugby team, were staying in the Athletes Village. The Village was sandwiched between the Olympic Park and the Westfield shopping centre in Stratford and it was huge. It provided thousands of bed spaces for the London Olympic and Paralympic Games. Basically, it was all the new apartments that had been built, but they still needed the final fixtures and fittings. Yes, the building work had been completed and they were perfectly safe, but the apartment kitchens had not been fitted and the final coats of paint had not been put on the walls. All the ground floor shops were, for now, makeshift offices, help points and physiotherapy rooms, ready for the athletes and their every need.

It was a busy place. The athletes were housed with fellow competitors from their home country. You could very easily tell where each nationality was staying as they all proudly displayed flags or, in Australia’s case, inflatable kangaroos with sunglasses tied across balcony railings ... be careful there Aus, you’ve not won anything yet. Feelings of competition, territory and strength were in the air. It was amazing. The village was regimented and strict but it all made sense: noise curfews in the evening, always carry your accreditation, no guests, that kind of thing. Athletes were focused on their discipline and wore their Paralympic kit with pride, complete with creases across the chest because it was straight out of the packet. Dinner queues in the huge food hall were orderly, quiet and singularly focused on salmon, pasta and veg. But as the games went on things started to subtly change and the balance shifted.

It was now day ten of ten and with the majority of events finished and medal dreams achieved or shattered, athletes were starting to let their hair down. People who were just a day or two ago an adversary had now become close friends – well, until the next competition anyway. A party atmosphere was descending and that quiet salmon queue had, over time, turned into a loud, chatty, smiling crowd in front of McDonald’s. People who’d had a dietician telling them what to eat and when to eat it during their years of training were now ordering two or three Big Macs at a time, completely carefree. Wheelchair rugby was one of the last disciplines to finish at the games, so there was very little down time in the village for me and the team to enjoy ourselves. But tonight was the closing ceremony.

I left my room and made my way through the apartment to give Mike Kerr a knock. I got to his room and was greeted with a thick Glaswegian “Aye?” through the door. I didn’t wait for an invite into his room, Mike and I were too relaxed for that. Mike was the team Vice Captain and we had grown close as teammates and even closer as friends. Close enough for me to know if I’ve woken up unhappy with our performance during the competition then Mike was going to be fuming. Mike and I were very much good cop/bad cop when it came to team dynamics as Captain and Vice Captain; I was the good one. 

Mike still wasn’t dressed “Come on,” I said “We’ve got a burger with our name on it, hurry up.” Mike looked up from his phone on his towel-covered lap, “McDonalds?” he grinned as he closed his phone and threw it on the bed, “We’ve got bigger fish to fry than that my friend… Lets go to the pub.”

“The pub?” I replied in surprise but most definitely excited by the thought of it. I could already picture an ice-cold beer in my mind and the taste of it on my tongue. Wow, my sports psychologist had done a better job with that visualisation technique stuff than I thought! But what if the coach wants to see us? What if a team member needs us? What if there is a meeting? What if we miss any information about what’s happening tonight at the closing ceremony? I voiced my concerns to Mike. “What if any of that happens?” he said rhetorically, “What’s going to happen? All that’s left is the closing ceremony; the Paralympics are over, we’re leaving tomorrow. What’s Coach going to do? Drop us from the squad?”

Mike was right, there wasn’t time to be in trouble… it wasn’t like we were sneaking out for a pint before a match, and we’d done everything by the book for years. Surely a lunchtime pint on the closing day of London 2012, just a little livener before getting ready for the ceremony, couldn’t hurt? Mike read my face, “Go back to your room, get out of kit and put some jeans on Skipper, we’re going out.” I didn’t need much persuading. I turned and headed back to my room, I’d have taken my shirt off on the way down the corridor if you could push a chair and get undressed at the same time, I was so excited at the thought of this minor rebellion. Back in my room I had to dig right to the bottom of my bag to find something that wasn’t kit… blue kit, red kit, white kit. Kit, kit, kit – finally, a civilian T-shirt!

Ten minutes later I was ready to go, and we slipped out without a word to any of the team. Mike sent a message to Patty, the team manager, to say we were popping out for a bit. Well, that’s what he told me anyway.

We headed out through the security checkpoint over to Westfield shopping centre. I remember noticing how many temporary ramps had been installed for wheelchairs. Why were they temporary? Were no wheelchairs or pushchairs going to use this route once the games were over? Sneaking off like this reminded me of the feeling I had that one time I bunked off school, I hope I don’t get caught this time as well! We looked around for a while, trying to find somewhere open for a drink, eventually stumbling across an outdoor pop-up bar, it was just there for the Games. It was inviting, bathed in sunshine and the music was lively and loud.

The first rule wheelchair rugby players make when having a beer is not to speak about wheelchair rugby. It’s right up there with politics and religion. But you’d have more luck stopping the British talking about the weather. We broke the rugby code after about 5 minutes. I can’t quite remember if it was Mike or myself but one of us crumbled like feta cheese. We pulled it all apart, hoping we could explain to ourselves over one beer where it all went wrong and how we finished 5th. Well, we went round in circles discussing game play, coaching, tactics, coaching tactics, player tactics, player classification, player decisions, referee decisions, all of it, and it took much longer than one beer.

Time was marching on and in the afternoon sun, the bar was getting busy, too busy for us to hold down any kind of meaningful conversation. The atmosphere was getting lively and the interruptions from passers-by were now coming thick and fast. “Are you two competing? Wow, Wheelchair Rugby, it looks scary, there is no way I’d play that, you two are crazy, can I get you a beer?” The questions were hugely varied and showed Mike and I just how diverse the public’s understanding of Paralympic sport was. My favourite of the afternoon was from an interested elderly lady who came to speak to us. After five or six minutes of small talk and explaining exactly what wheelchair rugby was, she departed with the comment, “Isn’t it nice there is something for you both to do” and patted me on the head. It dawned on me that the majority of people still didn’t realise I trained every day to be my best, to beat competition from around the world, just as they trained to beat me. I’d missed family birthdays, friends’ weddings and more to wear my Paralympic shirt – and not just for a month or so, but for years.

It quickly became apparent that they were not just interested in the sport, but our history, more specifically, our disabilities. Their tactical approach was normally an awkward gear change. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you end up in a wheelchair?” or “So, what happened to you?” as their eyes look you up and down, or they’d simply point to the chair. Now please understand I’ve no problem telling people about my disability. It’s a part of me I’ll happily explain to anyone with an interest – just think of your approach. Prior to my injury, I didn’t personally know of anyone in a wheelchair or anyone with a physical disability, I had very little ‘Disability Education’ as I grew up. I certainly knew nothing of spinal cord injuries or the sports available to people with them. I think it’s fair to say that I’d still be in the dark about it all if I hadn’t lived it myself. I used to think if you broke your neck you died: my mum and dad used to ring chickens’ necks to get them ready for the pot.

I realised the afternoon’s drinking might be starting to get away from Mike and I. We hadn’t eaten anything and we’d definitely been making the most of the hospitality and peoples generosity. My phone was out of charge so I asked Mike for his. I took it out of his bag on the back of his chair only to see missed call after missed call from Patty, the team manager. There were messages as well, not just from Patty, but also from the other players and staff. There was enough there to indicate to me that maybe we should be heading back without even reading them. Mike was chatting but I cut across his conversation with zero concern for my interruption “Finish your beer”, I said, “We’ve only got an hour before meeting everyone for the closing ceremony.” With that news even Mike looked at me with raised eyebrows, he knew that didn’t give us long. We agreed with not much more than eye contact there was enough time to finish the drinks in front of us before heading back – there is always time to finish your beer.

We got back to the GB apartment blocks and to our rooms. Every corner we turned we seemed to be met by teammates already dressed and ready for the ceremony asking us where we’d been and reminding us to hurry up. I rushed through the process of showering and getting my closing ceremony outfit on… wow, this blazer is a bit tighter than I remember. I was ready and downstairs in record time. On any other day, finding my teammates was super easy. Normally, they are the only ones dressed the matching outfits… not to mention the only group in wheelchairs, but not this time. Now there was a total of 541 GB athletes all in the same get up and half of them in bloody wheelchairs. This wasn’t going to be easy. Finally, there they were.  I was greeted with laughter, pats on the back and questions about my absence that I laughed off. The line started moving just seconds after I joined it. There was music, dancing and singing. There was also the odd hip flask being passed around as well - looks like Mike and I weren’t the only ones with that idea then – Thank you, I don’t mind if I do.

We made our way en masse into the Olympic Stadium to do our lap of honour in front of the 80,000 fans all there to enjoy the moment with us. In that moment amongst the fireworks, the music, the crowds and friends I realised this was a memory worth making. I had worked hard for this, really hard and I deserved the smile on my face. I posed for one of those photos - you know the ones. From the right angle and at the right distance, it looks like you are holding up the leaning tower of Pisa, the Moon or The Pyramids. In this instance I was holding the flames of the Paralympic torch in my hands. As I stopped to hold the pose I could see a television camera out of the corner of my eye capturing my happiness and zest for life in that moment. What I didn’t expect it to catch was me losing my balance and falling out the back of my wheelchair. I’ve had some embarrassing moments in my life but falling out my chair at the Paralympic closing ceremony in front of thousands of people is right up there – who had that hip flask?

Lap of honour over, it was time to strap in and get ready for some live music from Coldplay, Rihanna and JayZ. Everyone was going wild. I had a look for Mike, it wasn’t easy among the flashing lights and sea of people. I asked around and got nothing but shoulder shrugs and head shakes in reply. No one had seen him since we got back from our afternoon session. I smiled in disbelief and had to chuckle; no way, how drunk was he? The evening went on long after the ceremony as we skipped from one after-party to another. The final resting place that night for majority of the squad was the casino at the Westfield shopping centre, along with some of the Australian team.

Yes, we’re rivals around 364 days a year, particularly during competition, but we have mutual respect for each other as sports people. Off-court, after one competition and before preparing for the next, we are lucky enough to have a small window for friendship. We break bread and raise a glass to each other. Being on different teams doesn’t mean we have different approaches to life.  I was a little jealous of the gold medals round their necks, though… bloody Aussies!

The next morning, Mike woke me up. It’s fair to say I was feeling a little delicate. I shared my stories of the ceremony and highlights of the night, but what I really want to talk about was what happened to him. Mike explained how his evening unfolded. When we got back from our afternoon drink, he got on the bed to get changed. Some spinal injured people get changed in their chair, some on the bed. It all depends on their injury; I get changed in my chair. Unfortunately, on this occasion, getting on the bed was the top of a slippery slope for Mike. He explained how he laid back whilst on his phone sorting out where to meet a friend to give them their ticket for the closing Ceremony - his mate was coming all the way down by train from Scotland, just for the evening. Well… Mike fell asleep whilst sorting out the arrangements and that was it. He woke up to an empty apartment just in time to catch the end of ceremony on TV. His friend was left waiting at the Westfield shopping centre for a ticket that never arrived. My mouth dropped as I listened, I couldn’t believe he didn’t get the ticket to his friend after they’d made so much effort.  I’d be fuming. After watching the last of the TV coverage, Mike spent the next however long apologising to his friend, who was already back on the train. Of all the nights to fall asleep! Poor fella.

I had to pack my stuff, it was time to leave London 2012 behind. As I collected my toiletries from the bathroom and stuffed washing into my bag, I remembered seeing the moment London won the bid to host the Olympics and Paralympics. It was the summer of 2005, I watched it on the news whilst in hospital at Stoke Mandeville, weeks after my fall. At the time I was weak and uncertain about my future, my potential and my options. I can remember lying in my hospital bed thinking “Well good luck to whoever takes part in that!” The idea I’d be there, Captain of the team, was not even on my radar… I was so far away from thinking something like that would even be possible. At that point I had no idea how life was going to go or what the future might hold, but then again who does?

Fifth was not what I wanted and I felt the team deserved so much more; we’d worked so hard. That said, as I pulled my bag up onto my lap and looked around the room to make sure I’d not forgotten anything I had an overwhelming feeling of pride. I realised that it didn’t matter to me if, like the lady in the pub, people didn’t completely understand my sport. I didn’t mind if people completely underestimated how much time and effort I’d put into training. Yes, of course it was fantastic that people enjoyed the Paralympics; a full arena of fans that came to see you and your team compete was a feeling I’ll never forget, but what did they need to know to enjoy it? The effort I put in was for me. There were no fans cheering me on when I got tired at the gym. There were no chants as my arms went to jelly in the training hall. I’m so glad the games were a huge success and enjoyed by so many - the country coming together and getting involved was phenomenal but the effort I made was for me. I left the Paralympics feeling positive, not thinking about what had just happened but what might be happening next, and it felt good.