Chris Hoy: The Autobiography. Chris Hoy

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ teacher how I might join the school chess club. I had been introduced to the game at the age of four by my uncle Derek, who had what was then an unbelievably modern piece of kit – an electronic chess board. I think I was fascinated both by the game and the novelty of the technology, and played my dad all the time; he let me win initially, before his competitive instincts kicked in. Sadly, my chess playing became a casualty of my all-consuming interest in more physical pursuits. But I’m really not sure I was Grandmaster material.

      There’s a story which has been told quite a few times now about how I was inspired to take up BMXing after seeing the bike chase scene in E.T., when it came out in 1984, and I was an impressionable seven-year-old. In fact, it has now appeared in the media so often that I’m sure many people’s instinctive reaction would be to assume that it isn’t true – or am I betraying my relatively newfound cynicism?

      It comes as a relief to be able set the record straight at last. It’s true. I was inspired by E.T. to take up BMXing. So thank you Elliott, thank you Steven Spielberg … though I suspect my love affair with cycling would probably have blossomed anyway, sooner or later.

      Whether it would have started without BMXs is another question. I really don’t know. All I know is that – thanks originally to what I saw in E.T. – BMXs looked like great fun. What’s more, they were the epitome of cool for a seven-year-old kid.

      It wasn’t just the bikes – though they were pretty cool. The padded outfits, complete with motorcycle-style helmets, were cool too, and the tracks were magical places, even the rudimentary ones, of which there were a few in Edinburgh. Not too far from my parents’ home, in Murrayfield, there were cinder tracks at Lochend and Danderhall. Lochend had been virtually destroyed, and Danderhall didn’t have a proper gate, but they were still great fun to tear around on our bikes. The nearest track with a proper start gate was in Livingston, a new town about 15 miles west of Edinburgh, and six or seven of us would travel out there midweek, usually on a Wednesday evening, to do gate practice – the start was critical in a BMX race, and it was my killer weapon.

      My mum got me my first bike, for a fiver from a church jumble sale, and my dad went to work upgrading it – pimping my ride, you could say. As a youngster my dad, David, had been quite into bikes himself, or, more accurately, into taking them apart and reassembling them. He built himself a bike out of old parts, which he used for his paper round in Edinburgh (he grew up there too), and when I became interested in bikes he was delighted, because it allowed him to indulge his passion. As I got better and better bikes – having broken the original one doing jumps on a home-made ramp in the garden – my dad’s role as mechanic became even more important. Once a week he’d strip the bike down, clean all the parts, and put it back together, often using the kitchen table as his workbench. My mum, Carol, was remarkably understanding … most of the time.

      But at that time the BMX was vying with football for my attention and affection. George Watson’s, a mixed-sex independent school, both primary and secondary, owed much of its reputation to its illustrious rugby-playing former pupils – the Hastings brothers, Gavin and Scott, foremost among them. I played football, which was, if not frowned upon, then not exactly a core part of the curriculum. But we were allowed to play for one year, before being introduced to rugby, and when I was eight I was part of the school team.

      We were unusual – ahead of our time, perhaps – in that we had a female coach, even if Miss Paton probably assumed the position by default. I don’t think any other teachers were particularly interested in football, so I think it fell to her to run the team. And yes, we had the mickey taken out of us by other teams for having a female coach in those unenlightened times, but she was clearly a fan of the beautiful game.

      As were we too, but that didn’t stop us from being rubbish. I cringe now in recalling some of the beatings we suffered at the hands of other schools. We weren’t just beaten; we were usually – to use a good Scottish word – gubbed. A seven-nil defeat by Juniper Green sticks in my mind for some reason, but I don’t know why, because that wasn’t too unusual. There was only one team in the whole of Edinburgh that we seemed to be able to beat: poor, hapless Bonaly.

      Despite all that, I loved football. I played midfield, though positions were fairly arbitrary. We played on these big old pitches, with no nets in the goal. It was ridiculous, no concession being made to the fact that we were about four feet tall, with tiny little legs. On the full-sized pitches we looked like the Lilliputians from Gulliver’s Travels, and games would consist of the ludicrous spectacle of 20 eight-year-olds chasing the ball, like bees swarming around honey. It didn’t matter what position you were supposed to play in, there was only one place to be – as close to the ball as possible. It was like one of those medieval games of street football, involving hundreds of people, a free-for-all with no organization. As for passing – forget it. Poor Miss Paton, who could often be seen enjoying a cigarette on the touchline, wasn’t really able to impart any tactical instructions, or strategy – though I suppose you could say that we were allowed to express ourselves!

      As well as playing myself, after a fashion, I became absolutely obsessed with Heart of Midlothian, the team that played about half a mile from my house, at Tynecastle Stadium. ‘H-E-A … R-T-S, if you cannae spell it, then here’s what it says … Hearts, Hearts, glorious Hearts,’ as the club song goes. I was a committed Jambo – Jambo being an abbreviation of ‘Jam Tarts’, the team’s other name – and occasionally went to games with the son of our local butcher, Bob the butcher. I didn’t go with my dad, because he was a supporter of Hibs, or Hibernian, the other Edinburgh club. When I didn’t go to games I’d listen on the radio, or watch the results coming in on the BBC’s teleprinter at 4.45 in the afternoon. The Hearts score that spewed out of that machine could make or break my Saturday evening. Not that, as a seven-year-old, I had particularly exciting plans most Saturday evenings.

      The worst season was 1985/86, and it had a profound effect on me. I was nine going on ten, and at the zenith of my Hearts obsession. Now, anyone who knows anything at all about Scottish football, and especially Hearts, will not need to be told about the 1985/86 season. But for a nine-going-onten-year-old it was traumatic, to say the least.

      The players, scores and games are burnt into my memory, engraved on my consciousness. To this day, I can still name the 1985/86 team: Henry Smith, Walter Kidd, Sandy Jardine, Craig Levein, Brian Whittaker, Gary Mackay, Neil Berry, Kenny Black, John Colquhoun, Sandy Clark, John Robertson.

      These players, whom I wouldn’t hesitate to call my boyhood idols – with John ‘Robbo’ Robertson, Gary Mackay and John Colquhoun particular favourites – took Hearts to the top of the Scottish Premier Division, and within one game of winning the league title for the first time in 26 years. There was no better time to be a Jambo. And, ultimately, no worse time. On the final day of the season Hearts were leading Celtic by two points. All they needed was a draw against midtable Dundee. All they needed to do, most of us imagined, was to turn up.

      In those days, it was two points, rather than three, for a win. Going into that final day, Hearts also had a goal-difference advantage on Celtic – they were on plus-28, with Celtic on plus-24. So if, in the worst-case scenario, Hearts lost and Celtic won their game against St Mirren, the Glasgow club would have to do so by at least three goals, unless Hearts lost by more than one. Got that?

      On the day, Celtic won 5–0. And Hearts lost 2–0. The impossible, in other words, happened. And thousands of scarves and T-shirts, already emblazoned with ‘Heart of Midlothian, League Champions 1985–86’, had to be discarded. Talk about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. And don’t even get me started on the conspiracy theories …

      I was crushed – and if I hadn’t been, then I would be a few days later, when Hearts faced Aberdeen in the Scottish Cup Final, only to lose 3–0. It was bordering on cruelty. And, to be honest, I don’t know if I ever really rediscovered my passion for football. These days, I couldn’t name a single player in the СКАЧАТЬ