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Authors: James Hamilton-Paterson
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those stars and he thinks: That bugger’s no different from me. Bit better built, nothing a few months of weights and saunas couldn’t put right, but that could be me being kissed by film actresses and accepting cheques from the Duchess of Doggydo and advertising a lot of rubbish with glucose in it on every high-street hoarding. All I need is the Big Break. He’s a fantasist, you see, because he leaves out the hard work bit: the months in the gym, the tons of weights, the pushups and the lonely miles along the A1 at dawn. He sees instant recognition, immediate fame. The Big Break.’
Bob Struthers reached down and pulled open a desk drawerfrom which he grabbed a handful of loose sheets at random. ‘There you are,’ he said, dropping them on the desk. ‘Fantasy. Every day I get them, letters by the sackful.’ He picked one up. ‘“Dear Bob Struthers, I’m an avid watcher of your programme blah blah. You’re not going to believe this but yesterday, 3 July, at the Penge Sports Hall, I was timed at fifty-three point seven seconds for the hundred metres freestyle. I have six witnesses to prove it and the stopwatch was electronic and has since been checked by a certified jeweller blah blah. Could you please ensure that my name is put forward immediately to the England Team selectors for Honolulu next month? It is vital for the success of our country, whose reputation as a sporting nation I’m sure you blah blah. I am sending a copy of this letter by registered mail to Sir Benedict Frowde, Chairman of the Board of British Aquasports Selection Committees. Yours sincerely.” Typical.’ Bob Struthers let the sheet fall back to his desk. ‘The only thing he left out was the “PS I am not a crank. Please take this letter as seriously as it was intended.” Most put that in. But you see what I mean? Everybody connected with sports gets letters like that all the time. I just get more of them because I’m so exposed. The Big Break’s what everyone’s after: you ain’t seen nothing till you’ve tried me. Like those women.’ And Bob Struthers smiled tiredly to himself, to the letters on his desk, to the silver television trophy. ‘Does that answer your question yet, Carney?’
Carney Palafox was still uncertain as to whether Bob Struthers had divined his real purpose in coming, but blushed in any case. Did he have to come for an impromptu interview with a sort of fake-macho has-been to be told he was a middle-aged fantasist? He supposed he did. But searching resignedly to see what had become of the withered little conviction he had brought with him into the room he was considerably surprised to find it intact. There was only one way to settle the matter. Deeds.
‘Nearly,’ he said. ‘But I still think for the character I have in mind we’re going to have to rule out the slow traditional route and go for this big break thing.’
‘I see. OK, what is this guy of yours? A sprinter? Field-eventer? Swimmer?’
‘Oh, anything you like.’
‘Why didn’t you say? I had him fixed in my mind as some sort of sprinter.’
‘I sort of did, too. But he doesn’t have to be.’
‘Try this, then; no problem. Enter him for the London Marathon in November. Actually, it’s being run in a week’s time. But, anyway, have him carve a minute or two off that. Why do you think all those thousands tag along? It’s not just the challenge. How many people do you imagine would take part if there was guaranteed no TV coverage?’
‘Not so many?’
‘Not so many, Carney, is what I was attempting to suggest. It’s ideal. TV, a few international marathon names to set the pace for the young hopefuls all after – you’ve guessed – the Big Break.’
*
When Carney Palafox unofficially joined upwards of eighteen thousand competitors for the London Marathon a few days later he was still in the grip of his powerful conviction, so much so that he had taken some care with planning his running equipment: a pair of jeans, an old
Bob Struthers reached down and pulled open a desk drawerfrom which he grabbed a handful of loose sheets at random. ‘There you are,’ he said, dropping them on the desk. ‘Fantasy. Every day I get them, letters by the sackful.’ He picked one up. ‘“Dear Bob Struthers, I’m an avid watcher of your programme blah blah. You’re not going to believe this but yesterday, 3 July, at the Penge Sports Hall, I was timed at fifty-three point seven seconds for the hundred metres freestyle. I have six witnesses to prove it and the stopwatch was electronic and has since been checked by a certified jeweller blah blah. Could you please ensure that my name is put forward immediately to the England Team selectors for Honolulu next month? It is vital for the success of our country, whose reputation as a sporting nation I’m sure you blah blah. I am sending a copy of this letter by registered mail to Sir Benedict Frowde, Chairman of the Board of British Aquasports Selection Committees. Yours sincerely.” Typical.’ Bob Struthers let the sheet fall back to his desk. ‘The only thing he left out was the “PS I am not a crank. Please take this letter as seriously as it was intended.” Most put that in. But you see what I mean? Everybody connected with sports gets letters like that all the time. I just get more of them because I’m so exposed. The Big Break’s what everyone’s after: you ain’t seen nothing till you’ve tried me. Like those women.’ And Bob Struthers smiled tiredly to himself, to the letters on his desk, to the silver television trophy. ‘Does that answer your question yet, Carney?’
Carney Palafox was still uncertain as to whether Bob Struthers had divined his real purpose in coming, but blushed in any case. Did he have to come for an impromptu interview with a sort of fake-macho has-been to be told he was a middle-aged fantasist? He supposed he did. But searching resignedly to see what had become of the withered little conviction he had brought with him into the room he was considerably surprised to find it intact. There was only one way to settle the matter. Deeds.
‘Nearly,’ he said. ‘But I still think for the character I have in mind we’re going to have to rule out the slow traditional route and go for this big break thing.’
‘I see. OK, what is this guy of yours? A sprinter? Field-eventer? Swimmer?’
‘Oh, anything you like.’
‘Why didn’t you say? I had him fixed in my mind as some sort of sprinter.’
‘I sort of did, too. But he doesn’t have to be.’
‘Try this, then; no problem. Enter him for the London Marathon in November. Actually, it’s being run in a week’s time. But, anyway, have him carve a minute or two off that. Why do you think all those thousands tag along? It’s not just the challenge. How many people do you imagine would take part if there was guaranteed no TV coverage?’
‘Not so many?’
‘Not so many, Carney, is what I was attempting to suggest. It’s ideal. TV, a few international marathon names to set the pace for the young hopefuls all after – you’ve guessed – the Big Break.’
*
When Carney Palafox unofficially joined upwards of eighteen thousand competitors for the London Marathon a few days later he was still in the grip of his powerful conviction, so much so that he had taken some care with planning his running equipment: a pair of jeans, an old
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