Running from the Track

Edward Farley recalls the school-time experiences that left him feeling disillusioned by organised sport. He urges others who may have faced similar difficulties in school to give sport another chance within the context of a more inclusive and welcoming university environment.

It was the walk through Freshers’ Fair that pushed these uncomfortable feelings to the forefront of my mind. All those sporting societies lined up, one after the other, each promising care, fun, and, above all, teamwork, friendship and comradery. All these promises may well be true, but I was too scared to even approach them, all because of those same unshakeable

feelings...

Feelings that were no one’s fault, of course. Not the societies, not the sports themselves, and certainly not mine. As a second year student, who only really stepped onto campus for the first time this year, it’s painful to recall myself wandering around the sports hall fearfully.

Four years have passed since I left ‘high school’ and, for four years, I have been running from a psychological sports injury that still hasn’t cleared up. An injury that flared up once more that day as I walked through Freshers’ Fair.

This feeling was five years in the making, though. A younger, innocent me lined up for P.E., my stomach turning, bolting, jolting. In the changing room, I remember the smell of Lynx spray and damp. Years of water soaked into the door mat, seeping under the changing room tiles. I would arrive, already sweating a little bit, partly due to nervousness, but also because I already had my PE kit underneath my uniform. If I didn’t get dressed beforehand, I would be inside the changing room for too long. I would have to take off my clothes, find my kit and listen to ‘the chosen ones’, the real sportsmen performing their warmups. I would be greeted with insults and laughter about my body, my personality, the way I unzipped my bag. If I had my uniform on already, it avoided the risk of being picked apart, x-rayed, exhibited. It saved me feeling like I was nothing more than a mound of flesh on a lazy Susan, rotating around as people laughed, pointed and stared.

The only thing left in my bag would be my trainers. After putting them on, I would push my school shoes as far as I could underneath the bench, one time even tying them together. This was so they would be easier to find at the end of the lesson after my classmates hid them; it prevented me from having to look for each individual shoe.

Is this a place where I was meant to feel safe? It reached the point where the fear became too much. I pleaded with my teacher to let me get changed in the toilets, instead. It was easier to get changed next to a toilet paper dispenser or an old loo brush than it was next to my peers. It was easier for my teacher to hide me away than address the problem. After all, he must have been sick of hearing my complaints and receiving desperate emails. Huddled in the leaky, damp stall, I berated myself: why me? I would look at some of the others in my group and selfishly ask: why are they not bullied? Why do I deserve it? Why are they not being pummelled with insults (or the occasional hockey ball)? Why aren’t they helping me? Why won’t they even talk to me?

Since these formative moments, whenever I enter any sports setting, I’ve felt this way. I’m overcome with the same urge to find somewhere safe to shelter; mentally, I’m still hiding in those toilets. In the time since it happened, the individuals who treated me badly most likely haven’t spared me a thought. So, why am I still unable to stop asking myself these questions? Why did I feel that same sense of dread fill me as I walked through Freshers’ fair? Would the sports teams here do the same thing to me? Would they hurt me the way my classmates did?

Of course not.

Seeing stalls of happy faces, people of all sizes, heights and genders all harmoniously blended together, I realised how my relationship with sports could have been. Perhaps, if I was privy to such an inviting atmosphere earlier on, before the damage was done and the scars ran so deep, it might have been different. I was reminded just how paralysing those fears were to me. These sports societies seemed like places of genuine safety and community. Places that stood for all the things I’d craved as a young boy in P.E. class. And yet, I could hardly bring myself to face them.

There are so many sports I would love to try but, even at 20, it’s a hurdle I fear I can’t overcome. There is a much larger conversation at play here. A conversation we seldom talk about, either as boys or men. It is the fact that the masculine, testosterone-filled pitches of the past leave lasting effects and scars that we don’t care to think about, at least not until they come back to greet us later in life. It’s a sad thought to reconcile, that perhaps there were other individuals there that day in Freshers, also unable to overcome past wounds, battling the same experiences that I had. Individuals who walked up to those stalls, only to walk away again. The conversation surrounding bullying and toxic masculinity in sport is one that must be had. Urgently. The experiences children have in P.E. class at school can impact their outlook on their bodies and abilities all the way to University and beyond. I hope the young boys of today are being taught to treat those who don’t fit the typical ‘athletic’ mould with more kindness. Their actions have a lasting impact, more lasting than they could ever imagine.

But for those, like me, who are already carrying these scars, it’s time for us to ask ourselves: how can progress be made if we don’t process the issues in our past?

I am still embarking on this personal journey. After leaving the fair, and writing this article, I found myself feeling hopeful, amused even. I realised that, this time around, sport wouldn’t inflict me with the pain that it had in the past. I was comforted by the thought that these sports teams are governed by a Students’ Union, holding them accountable. University sport really does feel like a safer space.

To any readers who share sentiments like mine, I ask you not to be discouraged. Yes, it’s incredibly hard to recover from past traumas, but it’s not impossible. The route to recovery is found by looking forward, by remaining hopeful of the better experiences that are sure to come. My own personal recovery involves me reclaiming my past through writing, but it’s up to you how you process your own traumas. Just remember that if there’s a ghost that still haunts you, you are not alone.

University is meant to be a space to try new things, to create new memories, and sports is an important outlet for that. Joining a sports society provides an invaluable opportunity to find new friends and pursue new experiences. Experiences which should not be hampered by the fears and insecurities of the past.

Good luck on your own personal journey. I hope you lay to rest any painful memories and make some amazing new ones. By opening up about that young boy terrified of P.E. lessons and huddled in a toilet cubicle, I’m hoping I’ll start to make peace with mine.

By Edward Farley

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