Imagine going to an international sporting tournament in
which the competitors are only allowed to go through the back door, can’t get
into the changing rooms and have only one toilet between forty-odd players. During
the recent World Cup, did Rooney have to pay for his own Travel Lodge and
arrive ready-dressed in his kit? When Saurez had the pre-match shits, did he
have to wait in a queue of three blokes and a woman before relieving his nerves
in the only toilet available to him? And when the Queen parachuted into the
Olympics, did she have to do so on a stomach full of Sausage and Egg McMuffin
because some tosser had parked in the disabled space outside her preferred café?
Probably not: but then she’s not an international player in the Tri-Nations
Tournament of wheelchair rugby…
For the
uninitiated, wheelchair rugby pretty much follows the structure of the more
usual rugby union - except that the players are in wheelchairs. Scrummages
happen by a line of three wheelchairs going head to head with the opposition’s
line to push the advantage, kicks are done with the heel of the hand, mauls are
called when the ball-carrier is hemmed in by at least two other players, and
tackles are carried out by smashing your wheelchair into your opponent as hard
as you fucking can. Be aware: wheelchair rugby is not for the faint-hearted.
The
point of having this version is not to have some fluffy physical lip-service
for those poor chaps who can’t walk very well; it’s to have a bloody good game
for anyone who wants to play. It’s a great leveller and the Tri-Nations was
played by men and women ranging from their teens to their fifties. Able-bodied people
played alongside those with disabilities and the difference between these last
two groups was not always apparent on the pitch. It was a real-life version of
the Guinness advert in which a group of friends have a great game of wheelchair
basketball and at the end, all but one get out of their chairs, then they all
go to the pub together. The reality of course would be that the poor sod in the
wheelchair would have to sit outside in the rain as the pub wouldn’t be accessible,
or he’d be on shorts as having the Guinness shits isn’t much fun when you’re sharing the disabled toilet with the
pub mop and bucket, boxes of paper-towels and a couple shagging in the corner.
So for
two days at the Wheelchair Rugby Sevens Tri Nations, I shouted, screamed,
clapped and cheered. I chucked dozens of pounds at the children to go and buy
junk from the catering van so as not to disturb my enjoyment of the games (Beckham
buying a sandwich from a guy with the same blue glove on for two days? Don’t
think so…). I watched men and women slam into each other so hard that they were
thrown from their chairs, snapping ratchet-straps as they went. I saw wick teenagers
whip around three opponents, only to be sandwiched to a halt by two
eighteen-stone props, and I breathed in relief as players gave-up their
advantage in order to hang on to a member of the opposition so that they didn’t
up-end and slam, teeth-first, into the floor.
My
point being, that all those magnificent people entertained me for a whole
weekend with their fantastic sport. In that hall they were leaders of men. They
were sportsmen and sportswomen, wheel-chair mechanics and captains of teams. In
that hall they were fit, capable, feisty, stroppy, hilariously funny and they
were the same as everyone else. No-one looked, no-one stared (well, they did
when the ref took his leg off and waved it at the kids). Amputees chatted with
people with cerebral palsy and the conversations weren’t What’s wrong with you? Or Can
your friend understand me? The conversations were What position are you? Is the
crapper empty yet: I had two McMuffins For breakfast or Are you going to try and nick your Wales shirt?
The sad
thing for me was that the moment those
magnificent sports-men and women left that hall either to the crapper they had
to queue for, or the changing room they couldn’t get into, or the car that
their partners had to help them load up, their disabilities became apparent
once more. They would return (via the fire exit as the main door had a flight
of steps) to offices that refuse to adapt to them, homes they can’t get around,
jobs that are presumed to be beyond them and shops and restaurants that can’t
be bothered to accommodate them. This is not a bitch about a tournament that
didn’t manage everyone’s needs as well as it might - or as well as it would for
those without disabilities - this is a bitch about a society that’s missing out
on all that energy, all those skills, all that humour, all that
resourcefulness, all that willingness to hit the crap out of someone else if
that’s what they have to do in order to get the job done.If you liked this blog, why not buy the books?
