The Egg and Spoon Race of Life

Pete Greig, August 2nd, 2010

There was an afternoon in June when I extricated myself early from the office to attend Danny’s Sports Day. I was looking forward to watching very little people running about with egg-and-spoon, three-legged, relay, and that one where you hop around in sacks. Throw in a Dad’s tug-of-war, long jump in the sand-pit, and a couple of Fosbury Flops on the High Jump and it would be better than... well, watching England playing Germany in the World Cup.

On arrival, however, I discovered that there were to be merely many, many running races – 60 meters, 100 meters, 400 meters, boys and girls, different classes, different years, different houses - but not one of these events involved a humble egg, a simple spoon, an organic potato sack, or the tying together of tiny legs. I’ve got nothing against running, and I certainly hadn’t pinned my hopes on anything exotic like javelin (dangerous), shot-put (unrealistic when you can  barely lift your own school bag) or sumo wrestling (frankly, the dress code would not get past the school’s zealous Child Protection policy). But a few hard boiled eggs could surely have made it all less earnest; more fun.

Child after child lined up nervously on the starting line, their little legs looking like pieces of knotted string dangling from their shorts. Mr Jones, the sports teacher whose generous proportions suggested that he may not, of late, have been practicing what he teaches, said ‘On your marks’ and off they all went. Race followed race and, to keep things lively I began betting strawberries with one of the mums. I was pretty good at spotting winners because, by and large, tall kids won and small ones didn’t. Simple as that. Some of the smallest kids took so long to cross the finishing line that by the time they did all applause had died down, awards had been dispensed and Mr Jones had moved onto another race. Next year the headmaster should just come out and make the whole thing a grand tallness competition followed by a giant cream tea. At least with egg and spoon little people have a fighting chance of glory. I reckon I could give Usain Bolt a decent run for his money if there was an egg and spoon involved. It would be like Chariots of Fire but with added farm-produce.

Eventually it came to Danny’s race. He lined up with all the others and suddenly I couldn’t have cared less about gimmicks. I wanted him to win. This was my boy. He was so nervous he hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. This was one of the Very Big Moments. Hudson, Danny’s older brother, had even been up early that morning to cook him a special high-protein breakfast.

The kids lined up on the starting line and the awful truth emerged: Danny was the second smallest in his race. I put down my strawberries, left the ranks of other parents, broke through Mr Jones’ security cordon, and positioned myself at the end of the track, right behind the finishing tape. Judging by the old-fashioned look from Mr Jones, I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I didn’t care. I wanted my boy to see his dad. If by some fluke he won, I would be there to cheer. But if he didn’t (and it was three strawberries to one against), I would clap until he crossed the line and hug him anyway.

Mr Jones gave the command and after one false start they ran as fast as their legs would carry them. Danny fixed his eyes on me and came in third out of four but I cheered him on anyway. At the Olympics, I explained, he’d just have won a bronze medal for Great Britain, which is no mean feat, and he looked at me inquisitively, then smiled. Then we stuck out our chests and pretended to sing the National Anthem together, feeling very proud indeed.

The writer of the book of Hebrews tells us to ‘run the race marked out for us’ by fixing ‘our eyes upon Jesus’. Not on the big people out ahead, nor the smaller ones behind. Not on the ‘clouds of witnesses’ cheering from the sidelines. We’re to fix our eyes on the finishing tape and on the Father, come what may.
And if at the end of the race you are tempted to feel like a failure because you never made it beyond middle-management, or your marriage hit the rocks, or you didn’t spend enough time with your kids, or you never even got to have kids, or you never truly mastered that malignant sin, well to hell with self-condemnation. Your Father in heaven cheers you on regardless. For the winners there’ll no doubt be splendid medals on that final day. And for the losers in the human race, for the late-comers, the spiritual shorties and those forgotten by the crowd, I like to think that maybe the Father will be waiting with a grin. From the pocket of his tweed jacket (of course, He wears tweed) He’ll produce a nice, brown egg: ‘I bet you could have won with one of these’, he’ll say.