Dear Boris and Dave or Tony and Ken and dear Lord Sebastian – all of you men – oh yes Tessa as well. And my dad and my mum and the guy at the gym and, well, everyone who helped me to practice and battle and train: the lifting, the stretching, the running, the pain The months and the years of hard preparation the things I gave up for the sake of my nation: early mornings and nights; no parties for me as I struggled to gain a place in Team GB – and I did. Alongside names well-known in the press: Bradley, Sir Chris, Mo, Victoria and Jess and all those who’d come first or second or third. But think of the ones whose names you never heard who, just like their team-mates ran, jumped, swam or pedalled and came fourth or nineteenth, for which there are no medals: achievement dismissed, effort not celebrated Paid lip-service perhaps, we were not denigrated; just politely ignored. None remember the faces Of those who don’t make first, second or third places. Spare a thought while you celebrate Britain’s Games glory For four hundred and more who've a different story: Who went silently back to the Village alone And packed up their bags, said farewell and went home.
But now I conclude I could not have done better. I just wanted to put all of this in a letter Written in my home town to which I have returned where there was no reception, not like those who earned a handshake, a bus ride, TV interview where they showed off their medals – and quite rightly too I’m not bitter, I really applaud their success. But I want you to know that I too did my best. You won’t know my name, but at least there’s a hope that you’ll read what I’m putting in this envelope and addressing to you who brought us the Games. At the top, on the right, just above all your names is an ordinary stamp, one bearing the queen’s head, which I’ll place in a post box that's still painted red. |