Good vs Evil

For two weeks, Sports Day had been a mystery.

Would it happen?

Would it not happen?

Nobody knew.

Every morning parents checked emails.

Every afternoon teachers checked weather forecasts.

Every evening children asked questions.

“Is Sports Day tomorrow?”

“We don’t know.”

“What about now?”

“We still don’t know.”

“What about if the rain stops?”

“We STILL don’t know.”

The school leadership team had cancelled it, moved it, postponed it, reconsidered it, reviewed it, discussed it, and probably held several tea-filled meetings about holding meetings about it.

By Thursday evening, most parents were convinced Sports Day existed only as a rumour.

Like Bigfoot.

Or affordable parking in London.

Then finally the message arrived.

SPORTS DAY WILL TAKE PLACE TOMORROW.

The entire school breathed a sigh of relief.

Except the teachers.

The teachers knew what was coming.

Sports Day.

A wonderful celebration of sport.

Or, as teachers called it:

“Eight hours of semi-organised chaos in direct sunlight.”

Alfie Brand was ready.

Very ready.

He had trained.

Not officially.

Nobody had hired a coach.

Nobody had bought expensive equipment.

But every trip to the park had somehow become an opportunity to practise sprinting.

Alfie loved running.

Unlike his younger brother Barry, who viewed running primarily as a way of escaping responsibility.

At eight years old, Alfie was sensible, serious and determined.

He was entered into three races.

The 50 metres.

The 200 metres.

And the egg-and-spoon race.

One of these required athletic excellence.

One required speed and endurance.

And one required carrying breakfast without dropping it.

Sports are complicated.

Unfortunately, there was another competitor.

A boy from Alfie’s class.

The bully.

Nobody liked him.

Not really.

He pushed smaller children.

He laughed when people got upset.

He cheated at playground games.

And somehow always acted surprised when nobody wanted him on their team.

The bully was also fast.

Very fast.

This was annoying.

If villains were going to exist, many parents felt they should at least be slow.

The parents gathered around the track.

Whispers spread.

“Is Alfie racing?”

“Yes.”

“Against him?”

“Yes.”

“Oh good.”

Nobody said exactly what they meant.

But everyone knew.

Good versus evil.

Alfie versus the bully.

The race everyone wanted to see.

The 50-metre final came first.

Children lined up.

Parents raised phones.

Teachers blew whistles.

The bully smirked.

Alfie ignored him.

“Ready!”

The children crouched.

“Set!”

Silence.

“GO!”

The runners exploded forward.

The bully started brilliantly.

Alfie started brilliantly too.

The crowd roared.

Parents shouted encouragement.

Some parents shouted tactical advice despite having no coaching qualifications whatsoever.

“USE YOUR LEGS!”

One father immediately regretted this.

The race was close.

Very close.

Alfie pushed harder.

The bully pushed harder.

They crossed the finish line almost together.

The result was announced.

First place.

The bully.

Second place.

Alfie.

A collective groan rolled around the field.

Not because Alfie had lost.

Second place was excellent.

But because the bully had won.

The bully celebrated as though he’d conquered an empire.

He strutted.

He posed.

He pointed at imaginary cameras.

One parent muttered,

“He’s eight.”

Another replied,

“He’s behaving like a retired heavyweight boxer.”

Alfie looked disappointed for about seven seconds.

Then he smiled.

There were still two races left.

Meanwhile, at the preschool end of the field, disaster was being carefully supervised.

Barry and Marmaduke were preparing for the three-legged race.

Miss Patel watched them with the expression of someone monitoring two squirrels carrying fireworks.

Barry and Marmaduke were best friends.

Inseparable.

If Barry was somewhere, Marmaduke was usually half a step behind asking,

“What are we doing?”

Barry would answer,

“No idea.”

And off they’d go.

Miss Patel attached the strap around their ankles.

Then she laughed.

Several parents looked confused.

“What’s funny?”

Miss Patel smiled.

“I honestly don’t think these two understand personal space.”

Barry and Marmaduke looked at her.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re always together.”

“We are.”

“Basically joined at the hip.”

Barry nodded proudly.

“We share ideas.”

“Mostly Barry’s ideas,” said Marmaduke.

“Exactly.”

Miss Patel shook her head.

“Tying your ankles together doesn’t feel like much of a change.”

The whistle blew.

The race began.

Several teams immediately fell over.

One pair somehow turned completely sideways.

Another pair forgot which direction they were travelling.

Barry and Marmaduke, however, had years of experience operating as a single unit.

“Outer!”

Barry shouted.

“Middle!”

Marmaduke repeated.

“Outer!”

“Middle!”

They bounced across the grass.

Parents cheered.

Teachers applauded.

Amazingly, they came second.

Second!

Barry and Marmaduke received a bag of sweets each, as a prize.

The reaction was extraordinary.

You would have thought they’d won Olympic gold.

Or inherited a small kingdom.

“We did it!”

“We won!”

“You came second.”

“Exactly!”

The boys hugged.

Then immediately began discussing sweet-sharing strategies that involved neither actually sharing.

Back on the main field, tension was rising.

The 200-metre final was approaching.

Parents gathered around the track.

Children whispered.

Teachers checked stopwatches.

The bully stretched dramatically.

Nobody asked him to.

Alfie simply stood quietly.

Focused.

Ready.

Mrs Brand looked nervous.

Mr Brand looked nervous.

Even parents whose children weren’t racing looked nervous.

The bully wandered over.

“You won’t beat me.”

Alfie shrugged.

“Okay.”

This wasn’t the response he’d wanted.

Bullies prefer reactions.

Alfie gave him none.

The whistle sounded.

The runners took their places.

The field became silent.

The kind of silence that only happens before something important.

Or before Barry explains one of his plans.

“Ready!”

The children crouched.

“Set!”

Everything stopped.

“GO!”

The runners launched forward.

Alfie flew.

There was no other word for it.

He attacked the bend.

His arms pumped.

His legs drove forward.

The bully stayed close.

Very close.

The crowd roared.

Halfway round they were neck and neck.

Parents shouted themselves hoarse.

Teachers forgot to be professional.

Children screamed encouragement.

Then Alfie found another gear.

A gear nobody knew he had.

Not even Alfie.

He accelerated.

The gap appeared.

A metre.

Then two.

Then three.

The bully’s face changed.

Confidence became panic.

Panic became desperation.

Desperation became acceptance.

Alfie was gone.

Down the final straight he flew.

Like a gazelle.

Like a rocket.

Like a gazelle riding a rocket.

The finish line approached.

Alfie crossed first.

By a clear distance.

The field erupted.

Parents cheered.

Children cheered.

Teachers cheered.

One teaching assistant nearly spilled her coffee.

The bully crossed second.

Then something remarkable happened.

The bully cried.

Not a dramatic movie cry.

Not a tiny sniffle.

Actual tears.

The kind usually associated with losing favourite toys.

Or finding vegetables hidden inside dinner.

Nobody laughed.

Well…

Almost nobody.

Several parents had to look away because their faces were doing suspicious things.

The official time was announced.

Then announced again.

Then checked.

Then checked again.

The PE teacher looked stunned.

“That’s a school record.”

Silence.

Then even louder cheering.

Fastest 200 metres ever recorded at the school.

Ever.

Alfie stood there blinking.

He hadn’t expected that.

Mrs Brand burst into tears immediately.

Not elegant tears.

Not subtle tears.

Proud-parent tears.

The unstoppable kind.

“Oh goodness.”

Mr Brand smiled.

“He did it.”

“He really did.”

“I know.”

Mrs Brand continued crying.

“I know!”

Alfie jogged over.

“Mum?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

She hugged him anyway.

Parents nearby applauded.

Even parents who barely knew him.

Especially parents who knew the bully.

After all that excitement, the school wisely scheduled the egg-and-spoon race.

This was a clever decision.

Nobody can stay furious or competitive while carrying an egg.

The egg demands respect.

Children lined up.

Eggs balanced carefully.

Teachers prepared themselves for inevitable chaos.

The whistle blew.

Everyone moved.

Slowly.

Painfully slowly.

The bully rushed ahead.

His egg immediately fell off.

The crowd laughed.

The bully looked offended.

As though gravity had personally betrayed him.

Alfie moved carefully.

Step by step.

Concentrating.

Children dropped eggs everywhere.

One egg achieved impressive distance.

Another somehow travelled backwards.

Nobody knew how.

Alfie stayed calm.

Steady.

Focused.

Near the finish line only three competitors still had eggs.

Then two.

Then one.

Alfie crossed first.

Holding his egg triumphantly aloft.

The crowd cheered again.

The egg received polite applause for its contribution.

Alfie had won.

Again.

At the end of Sports Day, medals were handed out.

Certificates were distributed.

Photographs were taken.

Teachers began calculating how long they could sit down for once everyone went home.

Alfie collected his awards.

One first place.

Another first place.

One second place.

And a school record.

Not bad for a day’s work.

Barry and Marmaduke had started their  sweets.

Which, in their minds, was objectively better.

“How many sweets did you get?” asked Barry.

“A whole bag.”

“I got a whole bag too.”

“We’re basically champions.”

Alfie looked at them.

“I broke a school record.”

Barry nodded.

“That’s nice.”

He held up a jelly snake.

“Can your record do this?”

Alfie sighed.

“No.”

“Thought not.”

Marmaduke laughed so hard he nearly dropped half his sweets.

As families drifted home, Miss Patel watched Barry and Marmaduke wandering off together.

One carrying sweets.

One carrying slightly more sweets.

Neither looking where they were going.

She smiled.

“You know,” she said to Mrs Brand, “I still don’t think they’d race each other.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“They’re too close.”

Barry immediately walked into a sign because he was talking.

Marmaduke walked into the same sign because Barry had.

Miss Patel nodded.

“See?”

Mrs Brand laughed.

“Joined at the hip.”

“Exactly.”

Ahead of them, Alfie walked proudly home.

School record holder.

Winner of the 200 metres.

Winner of the egg-and-spoon race.

Hero of Sports Day.

Behind him came Barry and Marmaduke.

Arguing over sweets.

Walking into things.

And accidentally sharing a jelly snake.

Somehow.

And if you asked their parents who had enjoyed Sports Day most?

The answer was surprisingly simple.

Alfie had won glory.

Barry and Marmaduke had won sweets.

But Mrs Brand had won something even better.

A memory she would be talking about for years.

Probably while crying again.

Just a little bit.