f l at s
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f r i day
Goodbye seems to be the hardest word
Main illustration: David Lyttleton. Pen pic: Peter Strain
“T
here’s always next week, mate,” my favourite head coach would say to me after a less than pleasing performance. “You might not be playing after today,” he’d add, giggling all the while. “But there’s always next week.” The thing is, though, that in sport – just as, seemingly, in print media – there does indeed come a point at which next week ceases to arrive. As a young boy, I used to watch Bath playing on Rugby Special and imagine myself as a mighty prop forward, wearing those famous hoops, giving all I could in front of those rickety, perfect stands. I never went so far as to imagine the quilted jacket brigade cheering my name, but it’s fair to say I always played pretty well in my young head. To have managed to inhabit that number one jersey for a decent while never felt anything less than a privilege, but one day I woke up knowing that this very Saturday would be my last. Having existed as a self-imagined immortal for so long, I felt instantly devoid of soul. As if all the good
I knew of myself had just been disproved. I had no idea how I’d react when that whistle blew for the last time. The crowd didn’t know I’d never play for my beloved club again after that day. In truth, only I did. I knew my body was done with the game, but to them I would have looked just as lumbering but generally enthusiastic as ever. In fact, as my body had begun to disavow me of one or two necessary talents over the course of that season, a number of supporters had turned against me. I was the regular recipient of online abuse surrounding my form and technique, and I had quickly gone from being a player who played for his team’s loyal fans to one who, being frank, despised them en masse.
“The cessation felt sudden, unapologetic – a stark reminder of one’s inherent fragility” 08
I realise now that this was silly and reactive, and that only a tiny minority had become what we now call trolls. But back then, with perspective and balance giving way to testosterone and body slams, my departing thought as I left that field so special to me for so long, was: ‘F**k you.’ I was offered a farewell ceremony but couldn’t think of anything worse than waving at any man who’d harangued me so. So away I slipped. I now cherish entirely the memory of my sporting career, but this is not how I ever saw its cessation happening. It felt sudden and unapologetic. It was a stark reminder of one’s inherent fragility, but it also taught me that today, the good bits are certainly to be enjoyed. It is with similar suddenness that we say goodbye to Sport. I read it once by chance, loved it, and called to ask if I could contribute. They said yes (eventually), we had a great time, and now we are gone. It is with both gratitude and sporting hope that we greet this final whistle. @davidflatman