I can’t see his mum or anything so I lower myself to his eye level and say:
“Are you
alright lad? Where’s your mum?” He doesn’t say anything. Just carries on
licking his lolly. “That’s a big lolly,” I remark. Then feeling like I’m the
stranger in a ‘JUST SAY NO!’ advertisement, I quickly stand up to my full
height and ask him again where his mum is.
“She’s still
in the fruit and veg section. She stands there for ages prodding aubergines and
squeezing melons.” He says.
“Oh right.”
We stand there in silence for a bit then he comes out with:
“Did you
see Tiger finally won a PGA tour event again over the weekend?”
“Yes I
did.”
“Yeah it
was a good win too, under a lot of pressure on the final day, he had to really
hold his nerve to see off the challenge of McDowell. Couldn’t have been easy
for a player who, although accustomed to winning, can no longer be said to be
used to it.”
“So I
hear.”
“I bet you
were too busy watching football to take any notice of another sport eh?” He
points the lolly at me like a gun.
“Touché”
“Do you like
Tiger?” He says ‘Tiger’ like he knows
him.
“I don’t
really know him.”
“Okay fair
enough. Let me rephrase the question then. Do you root for Tiger? Do you want
him to win, when you see him on TV?”
“Well,
after the British players I suppose I just want the best players to win.”
“Oh God ‘the British players’,” the kid spins
around, seemingly in exasperation. “Don’t
pretend like we have an actual national identity in this country and we all
root for our own kind. I’m just asking about Tiger as an individual. Do you
like it when he wins or do you prefer to see someone else win?”
“Alright
keep your hair on,” I say showing him the palm of my free hand. “I suppose I
always liked to see Tiger...” Great, now I’m
saying ‘Tiger’ like I know him too, goes through my head, “...winning
things.”
“Why is
that?” The kid says.
“I dunno.
Because he’s the best, or was the best anyway.” He smiles and snaps off a chink
of the lolly between his tiny milk teeth.
“Good. You
know I believe it says a lot about you, the sportsmen or teams you follow.”
“In what
sense?”
“For
example; pre-scandal Tiger was undoubtedly the number one golfer in the world
and had been for ages. The people who liked to see him win and carry on winning
are themselves people with confidence, people who don’t need the boost to their
morale that comes with seeing someone less likely prevail. These are people
comfortable in their own ability to succeed.”
“Interesting,”
I say.
“People
love an underdog don’t they? But I think rooting for an underdog is like admitting
you’re an underdog yourself. It’s like saying: Maybe if this guy wins then there’s a chance I could still do something
with my life too. I get that. I understand the logic of that hope but I
just find it so defeatist. What they ought to be saying is: Right, this Tiger Woods guy has been number
one for ages, what is it that he’s doing that sets him apart? But most
people would rather believe that Tiger’s success is purely down to innate
talent and there’s nothing anyone can do about it, that it’s just ‘the hand he
was dealt’ at birth. This provides them with the perfect excuse for their own
failures in life. But you know what?”
“Eh?” I
mutter, stunned into unintelligibility by the eloquence of this toddler.
“It’s not
talent that makes someone great. It’s skill. Talent can only take someone so
far, it is those sportsmen and athletes that develop their talent into tangible
skills who achieve greatness, which requires dedication.”
“Dedication,”
I repeat solemnly.
“Dedication.
Just like Roy Castle’s Record Breakers,” he licks the ever reducing lolly,
“It’s what you need.”
“Dedication,”
I say again.
“That’s why
I always root for the favourite. I always wanted Schumacher to win when he was with
Ferrari. I always want to see Federer win because I believe he’s the most
skilful player. I want LeBron James’ Heat
to win something because I think he’s the strongest player in the NBA.”
“Fair
enough.”
“So, I get
annoyed when people support the underdogs. I hated seeing Greece win Euro
2004. It irritated me when everyone wanted Jimmy White to beat Stephen Hendry
in all those finals just because he’s English.”
“Hang on a
minute…what year were you born in?”
“I was
upset that Colin Jackson never won an Olympic gold,” he continues ignoring my
question. “Imagine that, being the best for all that time, winning all those
races at all those meets and then somehow managing to always come up short on
the biggest stage.
“So I take
it you’ll be rooting for Luke Donald at The Masters then seeing as he is now
the number one player? You do know Tiger is now officially only the sixth best
player in the world?” The kid balances on one leg but I don’t think there’s any
meaning to it.
“Your
obsession with stats; it’s insane. Here are some stats for you: only Jack
Nicklaus, on eighteen, has won more major tournaments than Tiger Woods, on
fourteen, who also has the third most wins in PGA Tour history, winning
seventy-two to Nicklaus’ seventy-three and Sam Snead’s eighty-two. That makes
him the greatest player still active on the tour. So no I will not be rooting
for Luke Donald at The Masters.” He seems annoyed.
“Do you watch football?” I ask.
“Yes but
I’m not going to say who I follow. That would be too inflammatory. You know how
people get about their football.”
“Yes I do.”
Then I look up and a worried looking woman pushing a trolley comes careering
around the corner and up to the kid.
“I told you
not to wander off!” she scalds him. “Sorry,” she says to me with a grimace and
yanks the kid away by the wrist.
I’m left holding the Patak’s jar in an empty aisle and I
know the conversation is over.
Written by Andrew Hatch
Written by Andrew Hatch
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