Chris Hoy’s cancer prognosis has delivered a jolting shock to the senses, a stark reminder that even legendary Olympic medal-winners are human and vulnerable to life’s curveballs. This revelation has provided a powerful dose of perspective, a precious commodity in both sport and life. Announced during cycling’s World Championships in Denmark, where Hoy was presenting, it was instantly impossible to view the next races as anything other than slightly frivolous, even indulgent. A new clarity emerged, recognizing their importance but not their ultimate significance, no longer life-defining as commentators often suggest. We searched for joy within them, essential if they were to have any meaning.
Hoy has refocused our attention on the bigger game we all play, one that lasts long after the finish line has been crossed, the medals awarded, and the velodrome crowds have gone home. Hoy is clear that his cancer is not a win-or-lose game. His demeanor echoes the words of American sportswriter Grantland Rice: “For when the One Great Scorer comes to mark against your name, he writes – not that you won or lost – but how you played the game.” Turning to his old Olympic psychologist Prof Steve Peters for support, Hoy reminds us of the importance of developing mentally as well as physically when faced with immense challenges. He humbly shows that none of us comes ready or equipped for what life throws at us, Olympic champion or not.
Hoy was already the ultimate role model for how to play the game, known for his kind-heartedness while being one of the fiercest competitors on the track. He is a strong proof that you don’t need to be nasty to win, that virtues and values always matter – a stark contrast to Nike’s controversial Olympic advert this summer, which stoked outdated narratives about “real winners” lacking compassion, respect, or empathy for others. Sport desperately needs perspective. While I wish it didn’t have to be delivered in this way, Hoy has instantly highlighted the shallowness of diving footballers and the ridiculousness of the latest transfer tittle-tattle. He may also unwittingly help a few athletes teetering at the edge of the Olympic blues, that emotional comedown when the singular goal of winning suddenly falls away once the Games are over.
In finding a purpose to his predicament to reframe what it means to live with Stage 4 cancer, Hoy demonstrates real resilience. Not the stiff upper lip kind, but a resilience based on our chosen response to adversity, the perspective we bring to challenges, the ability to find meaning and joy in the everyday, and the prioritization of relationships above everything else. In line with research in the military, elite athletes, people experiencing trauma or grief, resilience is founded on purpose, perspective, meaning, joy, and connection.
I read the news about Hoy while competing at the Head of the Charles Regatta, the biggest rowing meeting in the world. Thousands race down the Charles river on a 4km course that winds its way through a picturesque part of Boston, Massachusetts, past the Harvard boathouses and through some beautiful bridges perched at angles that haunt the most talented of coxes and rowers steering coxless boats. Each year the regatta grows and is becoming a powerful catalyst for connecting the rowing world in new ways across countries, ages, and events. I saw it in a different light after Hoy’s news.
The regatta innovates in a way sport needs to do more. Olympic rowers made up composite crews, in the same boat with rivals from different countries they’d raced against in Paris. Britain’s Olympic champion Imogen Grant led a lightweight eight who had been in separate boats for years. If rowing is about how fast can you make a boat go, why wouldn’t you race with someone from another country? It struck me how mad it is that it’s so rare, how we are robbed of what could make up some of the best crews because sport is always arranged on a national basis. There was also an event for cancer survivors in eights, a moving sight that evoked waves of emotions that rippled through the thousands lining the banks. I was part of a crew of British Olympic rowers from my generation, teaming up with four Canadian contemporaries who we’d competed against but never got to know. The connection was instant and deep.
Schools, universities, and clubs from around the world take part and age categories run from 30 to 80. Our mixed crew with an average age over 50 raced the clock against a range of crews, including a younger one with Paris Olympians given an age-adjusted time handicap. We need more of this imagination and ambition in sport to set up greater opportunities to explore what’s possible beyond the narrow, arbitrary categories we’ve been stuck in for so long.
As I went out to race on Sunday after Hoy’s news, I found myself in quite a different mindset. Rather than worrying about how hard the race would be and doubting how I would handle the pain and fatigue, rather than fretting about where we’d finish, I felt a strong well of gratitude to be able to race and the simple joy that comes from the close connection you share when competing together. Both are great ingredients for a strong performance. Sport could and should be about more than the scoreline. We got to know of Hoy because of his phenomenal sporting prowess but we have come to love and admire him because of how he shows up in moments of extreme pressure and vulnerability. Sport has not just given us a medal-winning machine but a deeply inspirational character and a sharp reminder that what really matters on and off the field of play is how we show up. We should all make sure in our next school matches, club games, and international competitions that we don’t forget to play the bigger game.
Source link: https://www.theguardian.com
