Greater than Gold

Ah will never ferget the Olympics in Paris, ‘24. The throb o’ th’ crowds, th’ music of’a million voices, th’ magnificent Arc de Triomphe. Th’ bloody heat that somehow didn’a matter as we ‘eld our collective breath in moments o’ solidarity. Or ‘atred, if’ya like. No matter, really. We were together, ‘ate or love, around that stadium, under those flags, grains o’ sand washed over the ocean o’ gran’stands.

We were in th’ ‘stands – Ah say, “we”, even though Ah crossed th’ Channel alone, because Ah’m tryin’ to tell ya, y’aren’t alone at th’ Games. Ah were watchin’ th’ 400 metres. “Why th’ 400 metres,” y’ask? A sorry fool Ah met on th’ ferry thrust ‘is ticket into me ‘and, that’s why.

Might’a downed a beer or two or three or four, first, but it were still ‘is idea. “Can’ bear it, lad,” ‘e lamented into ‘is mug as we cooled off in a local place th’ night afore th’ race. “Not with our jewel in th’ gutter.” Ah knew of whom ‘e spoke. Ah s’pect th’ whole world couldn’a help knowin’, th’way th’newsmen near-drowned one in ‘eadlines mornin’-til-nigh’. Couldn’a blame ‘em. Cryin’ shame it all were.

Britain’s crown jewel in th’ 100 metres, th’ Flyin’ Scotsman, ‘ad excused ‘imself from th’ race. This chap – Ah’m still shakin’ me head, even now – this chap said ‘e done what ‘e done on “principle.” Said Sunday were God’s day an’ not a day fer sports. Said i’twere between ‘im an’ ‘is God. Can ya believe that? The audacity, th’ cheek, the unmitigated temerity!

Here this runner were, poised to take ‘ome th’ gold medal at the Olympic Games, an’ ‘e says ‘e can’t, because th’ heat fer ‘is race were scheduled fer Sunday. What’s a Sunday at the Olympic Games, Ah thought? ‘e said a Sunday were a Sunday no matter where ya were an’ what temptations came yer way. Well Ah s’pose there’s a mite o’ reason in that, but surely, fer th’ Games, even God ‘imself might make an exception, don’ya think?

Ah can tell ya, everyone else thought so. Went so far as to call ‘im a trait’r. Gave ‘im a right dousin’ in th’ press. The Olympic Committee gave ‘im a spot on th’ 400-metre, but it would be a miracle if ‘e even grasped th’ podium. Ah dunno how ‘e showed ‘is face in Paris. Man o’ courage, that were clear, ‘owever ill-timed ‘is convictions.

Keep yer shirt on, lad, Ah’m settin’ th’ stage. Ya wouldn’a want to start at th’ crack o’ th’pistol without knowin’ who were in th’ lanes, would ya? Now, where were Ah? Oh, yes, th’400. ‘Twere ‘otter than Satan’s bedroom – pard’n me, miss – that day. Britain’s tarnished trophy didn’a do so badly, ‘eld on, ‘e did, through th’ semi-final, secured a place.

It were th’blasted Highlanders that gave ‘im th’ speed, it were. Don’ judge me: Ah love a good ‘pipe – if i’tis a prop’r, melodious, Welsh one. Those donkey brays th’ Scots call pipes, they’d be enough t’ give wings to any man’s feet, if only t’ get clear of ‘em. But bein’ Scot, ‘imself, this runner, well, Ah s’pose that aire must have ‘it a chord, if ya get me drift.

Anyway, this Scot, ‘e an’ all th’others who trialed earlier ‘ad to leg it fer a second time that day fer th’ final. Th’American were th’ fav’rite – set a new record, ‘e did, jus’ that day in th’ semi-finals. When th’ lanes were drawn, it were bad luck fer this son o’ Scotland. Far lane ‘e drew – no chance t’see ‘is competition, to pace ‘imself properly. Already ‘e were winded, an’ not even ‘is favored race to run. Shame, ‘twere. He put ‘is God first, an’ now, what would ‘e have to show fer it?

When Ah close me eyes, Ah can still ‘ear it – th’crack o’ that startin’ gun. Ah can see ‘em, all of ‘em, leapin’ into th’ lanes. But ‘im, Ah see ‘im th’ clearest. That Scot, ‘e took a mighty leap ahead of’all th’others, led ‘em like a child pullin’ beads on a string all th’way to th’ 200-metre mark. It were somethin’ t’see, Ah can tell you that. He were givin’ it all, ‘e were. Y’never seen a heart played out on th’field like ‘is. Ah knew ‘e couldn’a keep it up, an’ Ah thought ‘bout lookin’ ‘way, before ‘e were trounced by th’others.

But Ah couldn’a take me eyes off ‘im. Fer right when ‘e should’a slacked, ‘e threw ‘is ‘ead back. “Did’ya ever see th’ like?” Ah said to th’man to me right. “Laddie, ya ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” ‘e clapped me arm an’ shouted, “Hold on to yer ‘at, laddie, ‘is head is back!” Me ‘at, nothin’ – ‘t’were me breath Ah fergot to mind. This Scot, this Eric Liddell fellow, ‘e were pullin’ farth’r ‘n farth’r ahead’ve all of ‘em. No one could catch ‘im. Stride fer stride, ‘e held th’ lead an’ pulled through th’ tape like an arrow through th’ voices o’ doubt. First! Gold! Th’man to me right were shakin’ me arm so ‘ard, an’ shoutin’ somethin’, Ah couldn’a hear th’ official statistics.

Ah found out later ‘twere a new record ‘e set that day. Mr. Eric Liddell were asked ‘ow ‘e did it – ‘ow ‘e trained, what were ‘is strategy, to come from such an unfavored place an’ win th’ gold medal an’ set a record, besides. ‘e jus’ told ‘em, “Ah run th’ first 200 metres as ‘ard as Ah can. Then, fer th’ second 200 metres, with God’s ‘elp, Ah run ‘arder.”

Ah will never ferget the Olympics in Paris, ‘24. Th’ throb o’ me heart, th’ thunder o’ th’ cheerin’, th’ magnificent man that were Eric Liddell. Bloody heat, blasted predictions be damned – pardon me, agi’n, miss – not a drop o' it mattered in that moment. As th’ cheerin’ crashed through th’ stands like waves o’ th’ mighty sea, Ah knew Ah'd never ferget that day, that race, an’ th'man who ran fer th'prize greater than gold.