What a week!!

I don't really know what I'm thinking or where to start with this blog but I just feel like I need to write something.

This last week has been quite possibly one of the best weeks I've had in as long as I can remember. Training well recently brought me a 207kg squat. My max is 215kg but I haven't been able to hit anywhere near that basically since I got that lift due to a recurring groin injury. The best I've managed since then was around the 150kg mark. In the same session I also got a new max of 111.6kg for bench. (random numbers because the plates are all in pounds). I finished off the session with a massive PB for rack pull from 2 inches below the knee, taking my max up from 260kg to 311kg. My great friend Andy Rutland has been telling me for a while I could top 300kg and once again he was bang on the money. We worked our way up to 288kg. That flew up, felt so easy, so I thought yeah this is on. So we loaded up the bar. because we had pretty much hogged all the weight in the room there were only random plates left so it ended up being 311kg. Bit of a jump from 288kg but I addressed the bar, took my grip, set myself and go! It seemed to take an age to come up and my knees were shaking like a cold wet dog. But I got it to the top. Bang!! happy days. In this same session Andy smashed out a 147kg bench and I think it was a 240 or 250 squat. Andy's dad trains with him and at 63 he is inspirational. Tom has only been lifting a very short time and he can really shift some weight. I think his squat was up past the 160kg mark, for bench he hit I think it was 97kg (which is way over bodyweight) and he rack pulled something like 220kg. It was a cracking session, PB's all over the place, happy days. The plan is to work that rack pull to the ground. When I can deadlift that from the floor, shits gonna get real!!

311kg (686lb) Rack Pull

Tomorrow I have a tattoo appointment booked which is also a bit of a buzz as its been almost 3 years since my last one. I'm getting some script done on my right forearm. running up the back of my arm from the wrist to the elbow. It will read......

"Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure"

All of that is kind of taking a back seat to other events. I wont expand too much on them as its not my place to but a close and very good friend lost their mother this week. My thoughts are with them during what is a very tough time. I know they are strong and will most likely only get stronger but any loss is a sad and difficult thing. They have my deepest sympathy.

I was asked recently what I thought life meant, and I have thought a lot about this. Its actually something I have pondered many times. My conclusion is that life has no actual meaning. It is a journey made up of events each with their own significance, it involves people who all make worthwhile contributions. At the time their contribution may seem to be insignificant or negative but everything has a silver lining. My grandad once said to me. "Everyone brings happiness, some by arriving, some by leaving" so maybe those negative people are necessary to ensure you really do appreciate the positive ones. I guess everything is relative to something else. Perception is a major factor too. As a very crude example, consider loss. One man loses a golf ball, one man loses his wallet and one man loses a loved one. It doesn't take a genius to work out which one has suffered the greater loss. So in everything in life look at the bigger picture and things will often be better than at first they seem. Trust me it works.

The best way I could think of to rationalise lift is below. I dont see it as a set or random encounters or inconceivable events. Everything you do leads you to a given point at a given time. I dont believe there is a higher power at play, but I do have some faith in fate. whether we really are fated or whether we make our own way is not for me to say.

Things in life are not set in stone, they are fluid, they move like rivers. They twist and turn and never follow a direct course. You can steer yourself along the river and stop off to look around but you cant dictate where it will ultimately take you.

Connections.

We can never know what new connections we will make from day to day. Its the great unknown. What kind of connection it will be, with whom, on what basis, under what circumstances, whether it will be long term or short term, what will it lead to, will it lead to anything at all, what will we learn from it, what will we lose from it. So much potential and so many pitfalls from each connection.

The only certainty is that every connection changes you in some way, sometimes for the better sometimes for the worse (if you allow it). Every connection leaves its mark on you. It may be that it influences you, inspires you, motivates you, brings you comfort, even pain. What is important is that you embrace these connections and take what positives you can from them. Ill qualify this whole blog by saying that I use connection not necessarily to mean relationship in the partners sense. I mean friendships, relationships, all kinds of interactions.

Almost a year ago I made a connection with someone. It led to something I wasn't expecting. It started out positively enough, but ended almost as suddenly as it had begun post breakup, it dragged on for quite some time. It was painful at times and infuriating at others. The man I am today would not react the same way as the man I was yesterday. I'd no longer allow things to rumble on when no good can come from them.

They say that people come into your life either as a blessing or a lesson. I think that they can appear to be one then become the other. In fact Id go as far as to say that they are not mutually exclusive. If you can learn from something, that in itself is a blessing. I could bemoan how things turned out and feel low and down on life about it but why the fuck should I? I learned another valuable lesson. So in the end it was worth experiencing. What did I learn? I learned that some people will take take take. They are all about themselves. Now I'm all in favour of looking after number one, but its a fine line between that and treating other people like shit to achieve it. I also learned that its often not how much you give that makes any difference. You also have to accept your own part in any such interaction and how your part affects things.

I'm conscious that this could come across as a pretty bitter blog but that isn't my intention. In many ways I'm really glad I made that connection and experienced those things. There are many other positives to draw from this particular connection. Firstly it led to other connections, may of whom I remain friends with even after it was over. It showed me how strong I can actually be, and more importantly where I am weak.

I think what I'm trying to say is that throughout our lives and likely on a daily basis we will make a myriad connections with other people, whether it is via social media, or in person. We should welcome these connections (they are going to happen anyway) and take them for what they are. enjoy them, even the bad ones are good. Its just how you look at them.

Perspective!!

17 Part 2

Outside of Athletics, which if you hadn’t already gathered practically overtook my entire life. I was still hanging around with friends I’d made in college. I went to house parties, but I didn’t drink. I’ve never been a huge fan of alcohol, although when I have let loose, I can put it away with the best of them. I remember one particular party I was at. Helen Ford was the name of the girl who held it. There were around 40 of us all at her house. Many more than were actually invited. Everything was going pretty smoothly, everyone socialising quite happily but as the drink flowed some people were getting a bit boisterous. Some older lads turned up who weren’t invited and crashed the place. They were trying to sell drugs to people and generally being complete arseholes. Tempers were frayed, Helen was stressing, it really wasn’t very nice. Some girls who were friends with the gatecrashers turned up and next thing one of the girls was upstairs having sex with one of the lads in Helens bed. She freaked out. I got one of the other girls to calm her down while I took it on myself to throw out the uninvited. There ended up being a bit of a ruck outside and one of the windows at the front of the house got broken. I managed to get everyone back inside and chased away the gatecrashers. By this time Helen really was not happy. So I went round everyone still there and got them all to chip in a few quid, rang a local emergency glazer and got the window replaced, all before her parents got home. Job done, everything sorted. I don’t recall Helen ever hosting another houseparty and frankly I don’t blame her.

Work at the council was ok, Sunderland was elevated from being the largest town in Europe to become Britains Newest City. I made a bit of cash on that one. We heard before the announcement that it would be Sunderland so a few of us ran down to a couple of different local bookies and put a few quid on it. At lunchtime the announcement was made and I finished the day £200 the richer for it. Nice one!! As a result of the announcement I spent most of the day in a huge tent filling balloons with helium for the official unveiling. A few weeks later the Queen was to arrive to do the honours. I got to meet her. Shes tiny. I shook her hand and she said “Hello and what do you do” my reply......”as little as possible”. She quickly moved on to the next in line. I got a ticking off from the treasurer for that. But I maintain, I’m nothing if not honest.

Next comp was the Scottish Champs at the Meadowbank Stadium in Edinburgh. We travelled up in the trusty old Micra, INXS, Kick was the music of choice. Got to the stadium early and spent the next hour or so kicking our heels waiting for time to warm up. I spent the time talking to Iain Park and Chris Edgar. It was all nice and chilled. Good friends all taking it easy. Then came time to get ready for the comp. Instantly we stopped talking and it was like 3 strangers in the same place. Its funny how things change so quickly. I guess that’s competition for you. The competition went pretty well and I finished 3^rd behind Chris in 1^st and Iain in 2^nd. Iain came back with us in the micra as he was staying at mine for a week or so. When we got home, it was a quick shower, change and out on the town. It was Iains first time out drinking in Sunderland. I’d briefed him on the standard route we would take. Roughly 20 bars to visit. His initial response “So we’ll be doing like a half in each bar” Erm, no mate that’s not how it works. It’s a pint in each bar. This is the North, we do it properly. So out we went. First stop The Ivy House, a notorious student haunt. Cracking bar really, the drinks were cheap and not tampered with. On the rare occasions I was out, I would have a bottle of Double Maxim. This was Sunderland’s beer. Brewed by the Vaux brewery on High Street. Sadly “Vauxies” as it was affectionately known is no more. It was purchased by the Swallow hotels group and immediately closed down, bringing to an end almost 170 years of brewing in Sunderland. I know I’m digressing a little here but I have very fond memories of walking through Sunderland city centre on a Saturday afternoon as a child and being able to smell the hops from the brewery, and seeing the enormous Vaux Dray horses stomping through the city centre, delivering kegs to the local pubs. Happily Double Maxim is being made again by the Double Maxim Brewery in Hendon so all is not lost. For those who don’t know, Double Maxim is a brown ale, less well known than Newcastle Brown ale, but in my view a vastly superior beer. So we were in the Ivy house, Iain was using his best lines on some of the local girls and they were lapping it up. One in particular, a blonde girl called Sigrid. They were getting on famously. Eventually it was time to break up the burgeoning romance and we headed off further into town to Fitzgeralds. The rest of the night went pretty much as standard for a Saturday night in Sunderland back then. In recent years the nightlife has completely died and I prefer a night in Durham if I’m totally honest. But back then it was a cracking night out. We downed our drinks, laughed, mucked about, smooth talked the ladies and had a great time. One thing Iain was amazed at was the way the girls up here dress, or more accurately the lack of attire. Its become a well known thing in recent years that girls in the North East will be out in flimsy tops and mini-skirts even when its minus degrees. The guys will wear t-shirts too. Its a standard joke now. No one in the north east owns a coat. As it got to the end of the night and we had pretty much completed the entire “circuit” we found ourselves in a club called Bourbon Street. Bit of a hovel really but Iain had arranged to bump into Sigrid there at the close of play. We went in got a drink and then immediately found ourselves confronted by a pretty big group of lads all wanting to have a go. Apparently we had spilled all of their drinks. No mean feat considering they were all at the back of the club and we had just walked in the door and not been within 30 feet of them. One thing I learned very early on when you’re out on the town. You NEVER back down. Neither of us are small lads either but I’ve found that makes no real difference. Seemingly, those with little man syndrome seem hell bent on trying to take out the biggest guy they can find. I don’t know if it’s a kudos thing, an ambitious thing or a suicidal thing, but whatever it is it usually just makes me chuckle. Im not one for solving things with violence, I never have been. The way I dealt with my bullies in earlier years is pretty much out of character for me. Id far rather talk things out, however some situations don’t allow for that kind of resolution. You can only try to be diplomatic for as long as the other guy is prepared to not be physical. Once they go for you, then you have to take action. And that’s what happened. One of the lads lunged at Iain and pretty much simultaneously we both hit him. One down. Then the rest of them basically rushed us. Im not a fighter but when a couple of big lads start windmilling, they’re bound to make some kind of impact. I don’t recall how many of them we stopped in their tracks but the next thing I remember was being hurled down the stairs by the doormen and out onto the street. Night over, time to go home. We really couldn’t be bothered to wait in the huge taxi queues so it was pizza then walk home. Only about 4 miles and it was a decent night (decent just means not raining up here). The next day we didn’t surface until well after lunchtime. The rest of the day was spent chilling out doing pretty much nothing at all. The highlight being my old man telling one of his usually cringeworthy jokes which Iain surprisingly found to be completely hilarious whilst mid mouthful of beer. He then managed to half choke on it, shoot it out of his nose and somehow defy the laws of physics and get it to go perfectly back through the ringpull hole and into the can from whence it came. Never seen anything like it and probably never will again.

June came around pretty quickly and it was time for the British Championships, held in Bedford. I travelled down in the trusty old Micra with Steve and a long jumper from Gateshead called Amy Logan came with us. It was a sunny day and all the usual suspects were there. I was feeling up for this one. Training was going really well, I felt strong and ready. I think being a first year junior I wasn’t really putting any great expectations on myself, I was just going to have fun and give it my best shot. The competition was a bit of a blur but with the results in, first place went to Malcolm Croad. A guy with an unbelievably relaxed and smooth technique but much faster than he appeared. Malcolm is also a really nice guy too. In second place was Karl Andrews. An absolute Giant of a man. His style looked very disjointed and strange but he was obscenely strong and possessing of so much speed. For all the world he reminded me of a young Dolph Lundgren. Taking the bronze medal was yours truly. Selection for the upcoming GB internationals would be made from this champs. The first 2 in each event being selected, so I knew I would miss out. There would be two internationals this season, the first in Poland. Malcolm and Karl were selected as anticipated. All the major comps of the season were now complete. The rest of the season would be league meetings and the odd local comp. All chances to improve distances, get new personal bests. 

I travelled to London a few times to compete for Belgrave in Junior league meetings. One news write-up that always sticks in my head, was from a meeting in Baisingstoke. The first junior meeting I did. The Belgrave junior club record stood at 34metres. That day I threw 56.98metres. The quote from the write-up that I remember clearly was this. “Newest team member, Hammer Thrower, Scott Thompson started the day off in style. With his first throw he smashed the long standing club record. The hammer was still climbing as it passed the previous mark of 34 metres before finally crashing down to earth at an impressive 56.98metres”. I won athlete of the match for that performance. I actually didn’t agree with that. Yes I had performed well and on any other day I would have taken the plaudits quite happily, but not today. There was a young lad there competing in the high jump. This lad was amazing. At 13 years of age, competing against 18 year olds he won with a jump of 2.03metres. If you’re not aware of how monumental this is. Consider that the Senior world record held by Javier Sotomayor of Cuba stands at 2.40metres. And this kid was only 13!! I found this incredible. So I pulled him to one side after he had competed and I presented him with the athlete of the match medal and told him he deserved it more than me. I don’t recall if that lad ever continued with the sport or made it in the big time but to me he deserved that award that day and I’ve always been one for giving credit where it’s due.

At the beginning of August, I was at work in Sunderland Civic Centre, a day pretty much like any other. I got a phone call from main reception desk telling me that my parents were there to see me. I was baffled. I had no idea why they would come to see me at work, they never had before. I was thinking all kinds of things, and not of the good variety. I walked down the ridiculously long corridor from my office to the reception and there they were both standing. They said nothing but mum handed me a letter. It came in an envelope with the British Athletics logo on it. Mum said “This looked important so we thought we should bring it straight down to you” I remember standing there staring at this envelope, shaking and not daring to open it. A bit like when I got my GCSE results. Slowly I peeled open the envelope and slid out the letter inside, unfolded it and read it aloud. I had been selected to represent Great Britain in the Hammer on 29^th August 1992 in a match against France and Spain. I remember welling up, hugging mam and dad and having to go back into work. I could see how proud they were and that meant more to me than being selected. I got back to the office and immediately phoned Steve to relay the news and was met with silence. Total silence, for what seemed an eternity before he congratulated me.

In no time at all the 29^th of August came around. I travelled down to London to meet up with the rest of the team. We were staying at the Europa Gatwick hotel, which reminded me of some kind of huge Spanish Villa. I’d gotten there early and was given my room which I would share with Malcolm Croad. Then it was off to see the kit-man to have our strips handed out. At the time the team was supplied by ViewFrom. The strip would have been better had it fit properly. They had allocated me size XXXXL. God only knows where they got that idea from. Luckily as I was one of the first ones there they were able to swap most of it to a more sensible XL size. The rest of the evening was spent chilling out in the bar area (not drinking) chatting with the other Throwers. Its funny how in those team settings, little groups form. Usually separated according to event type. The throwers stuck together, the sprinters formed a group, the middle distance runners, another, the jumpers the last group. I guess its a lot to do with what you have in common. I spent a lot of the night chatting mainly with Jamie Murphy and Malcolm. Jamie was one of the discus throwers. An absolute mountain of a guy, but so unassuming and pleasant. We talked about weight training, methodology, mental approach, and girls, there was always talk about girls. I know for a fact that a lot of sex went on that weekend. Its inevitable when you have 60 or so very fit, very bored, very horny young adults in a hotel together.

We got up the next morning and went for breakfast, then it was the coach ride to the track in Kings Lynn where we would be competing. It was a gloriously sunny day Everyone was milling about chatting and having a laugh, all very relaxed. Some of the more experienced athletes were chatting away to athletes from the visiting countries. Steve had travelled down to coach me during the competition. There was a nice little crowd gathered behind the cage which was unusual. Lots of athletes from all teams there supporting their fellow team-mates. The hammer is pretty much always the first event of the day. And so it was today. One of the French competitors was a guy called David Chaussinand. This fella was a bit of a legend already. In international competitions, juniors throw with the senior mans weight and this guy had thrown over 79 metres that season. That's almost 2 metres further than the British Senior record, and he was only 18 years old. The second French athlete was around the same standard as Malcolm, as was the lead Spanish thrower. All three around the mid 60metre mark. Then it was down to me and the second Spanish guy. I was determined not to be beaten by this lad. I wouldn’t finish last. As the comp unfolded, as predicted, Chaussinand was way out in front with a mid 79 metre throw. In second was Malcolm who had sneaked over the 66 metre line. I cant actually recall whether the French number 2 or the Spanish number 1 athlete was in third and who was in fourth. But the Spanish number 2 was in fifth and I was bringing up the rear. In the third round the positions remained unchanged and I somehow managed to tweak something in my back and was in absolute agony. I could hardly move let alone throw a hammer. I called over the referee and he got the team doctor to come across. I was asked what I wanted to do. Retire or try to throw on. I elected to throw on and the doc gave me the biggest ibuprofen tablet I’ve ever seen 1,200mg it was like a horse tablet. I took the pill and when my name was called for the fourth round I declined my attempt. By the fifth round I could feel the pain in my back easing off. I decided to throw. It was terrible. I stomped back to my kitbag, lay down and tried to keep stretching. I lay still for a while as this was the only way the pain went. Then when my name was called for the final round, I stood up, took off my tracksuit top, grabbed a hammer and marched into the cage. It was only as I was about to start the throw that I realised the pain was completely gone. Well that was it, the all too familiar “shit or bust” rang out and off I went. Bang, my best throw of the day. It was only around the 54 metre mark, but the main thing was that I had overtaken the Spanish competitor, and was no longer last. And that is how the competition finished. 

Not long after we had finished throwing I was sat in the stand a very attractive blonde girl came and sat next to me. She asked me what was wrong in what turned out to be a Swedish accent. I’ll be honest I really wasn’t in the mood for a conversation and told her as much but she persisted. After talking for a while she said goodbye and left. In the evening back at the hotel we attended a team dinner where various medals were handed out for exceptional performances. Clearly I was in line to receive precisely nothing. After dinner we were once again sat in our little cliques chatting away. The painkillers were still working their magic so I was able to relax. Then out of nowhere the attractive blonde girl turned up and sat down next to me. We got chatting again and this time I was in a better frame of mind. She was there competing as a guest in the Long Jump. We talked for a while then she got up to go to the bar and I was grabbed by the back of the neck and told very firmly to stop with the chit chat and get her back to my room because if I didn’t, someone else would. Well who was I to disagree? I jumped up went to the bar and suggested we take the drinks elsewhere. She agreed and off to my room we went. I won’t go into the sordid details of what happened but I will say is that they really do learn things differently in Sweden. The next morning we woke and despite the pain returning to my back I had an extra spring in my step. We went our separate ways and I went off to track down the team doctor again. He gave me two more of the horse tablets and told me to see my own doc as soon as I got home. That turned out to be a week later as I was staying down at Iains for the week.

The week at Iains flew by and I was back home, back to work and still with back pain. Steve told me to take a week or two off, which I did and it helped a lot. I returned in time to compete at the North East England School of Hammer annual championships at the Clairville stadium in Middlesbrough. I was total rubbish. Half of my throws were no throws and the ones which were legal I kind of wished had been no throws. The only plus point of the whole day was that I met a girl there called Samantha Burns-Salmond. She was from a little town called Caistor in Lincolnshire. It was one of those situations where you see someone and instantly think to yourself I want, I need, I have to have. We flirted quite a bit that day then it was time to head home.

Only one more comp remained for the season and that was the North West Hammer School championship in Wythinshawe, Manchester. This time there were 5 of us in the Micra and it was sitting so low it was ridiculous. As we were heading along the M62 I noticed a rabbit in the road, it was curled up into a ball in the centre of the lane. Now normally this wouldn’t have been a problem, a few other cars had gone over it with the rabbit remaining safely out of imminent danger. However, today, the extra low riding Micra was to prove to be the bunny rabbits nemesis. As we went over it at 70MPH there was an almighty thud and lots of brown fur was thrown up behind the car. The one consolation I guess was that I like to think the rabbit knew nothing about it. Well that’s what I tell myself so I can sleep easier. I don’t remember a great deal about the competition that day but I threw badly. It actually didn’t bother me at all. I think after getting my international vest that summer, everything else was an anti climax. I was still on a high from it and nothing much could bother me. I do know that my little brother smashed a few more records there. He was 10 years old at this point and improving almost daily. 

17 Part 1

October saw my second trip to the Hammer Circle Reunion. This was an altogether different experience to the first one. I was on friendly terms with many more of the lads there this time and for the first time female throwers attended. Travelling down on the Thursday night there were four of us in the car. Duncan (another great coach and former English Schools winner) was driving, Phil Donnelly, me and a girl I want to call Karen but I honestly can’t remember her name. We were hurtling down the M1 in Duncan’s Alpha Romeo. He liked to drive fast. It was raining pretty heavily after what had been a long dry spell. It was dark and all of a sudden there was a line of stationary cars in front of us. Duncan slammed on the brakes but we just started to slide. He released the brake and tried again with the same result. I remember him pumping the brake pedal furiously almost like human anti-lock brakes but it was really doing nothing towards slowing us. Then at the last second Duncan slammed the car into a lower gear and hit the throttle, accelerating into the back of the car in front of us. The car behind managed to stop in time but the 12 cars behind him didn’t. Duncan asked us if we were all ok and once we confirmed we were, he just burst out laughing. Later he explained that it was just relief as he genuinely thought we had cashed in our chips. The traffic police turned up and we got out and pushed the car over to the hard shoulder. We even helped to move some of the other dozen cars while we waited for the tow trucks to come and clear the road. The car we went into was a Volvo and whilst it had hardly any damage at all, the front of Duncans Alpha was about 3 feet shorter than when we set out on the trip. I asked Duncan why he accelerated into the back of the Volvo and he explained, the front of the Alpha was pretty low whilst the back of the Volvo was much higher. He accelerated at the last minute to lift the front of the Alpha so we didn’t go under the Volvo. Genius really and I’m amazed he had the presence of mind to make that call and then the ability to react fast enough to do it.

So we arrived by tow truck at Grendon hall and it was past midnight so off to bed we went. Next morning was spent catching up with familiar faces over breakfast before attending a talk on biomechanical analysis of throwing. I was always pretty interested in the technical stuff, even when I thought a lot of it was over-thinking things and trying to reinvent the wheel. After the seminar we headed out for a coaching session followed by competition number 1. For some reason things just seemed to click. I had found some extra speed from somewhere and the hammer felt light. I finished that first competition with 59.92m a new competition personal best. The elusive 60 metres was still being, well, elusive. I won that competition comfortably. So it was lunchtime before sitting through another seminar. I don’t remember anything about this second one, I spent most of the time running through my throws in my head trying to imagine where I could find that extra few centimetres. Visualisation is something I did a lot of and I’ve always found it to be helpful, whether it is to assist in “ingraining” a technique or analysing where things are going wrong. Maybe its not something that would help everyone but I know it helped me.

After the seminar we had some time to relax and socialise before it would be evening meal then off to the pub. Time passed quickly then we made our way up the hill to commence the drinking. It’s fair to say, hammer throwers can put it away with the best of them and I imagine that little country pub made enough to keep going for the year from the one weekend we were there. Out came the yard glass, various pub games and the merriment went on into the early hours. The whole night I was flirting outrageously with a girl called Sarah which resulted in a detour on the way back to the hall and some fun al fresco. When finally we arrived back at our digs, there was a fully fledged game of table sliding going on. The hall had this huge conference room with a highly polished oak table that was maybe 30 feet long. I had a few goes and did reasonably well making possibly 20-22 feet. Up steps Chris Edgar, a little run up, dive, and slide, and slide and slide and crash. He flew straight off the end of the table, head first into the wall. Taking out two of the large oak chairs in the process. If only there had been such things as camera phones and youtube. Sadly things like this are just memories of those present. That was our cue to scarper and head to bed. Next morning after breakfast it was more coaching then the second competition of the weekend. I really wasn’t expecting much after the previous nights events. The warm ups were ok, nothing special. First round 60.02m finally I’d cracked it. 2^nd round 60.18m, 3^rd round 60.02m (again. Wait for it though), 4^th round 60.64m, 5^th round 60.02m (unbelievable). 6^th round I went in there, really pumped up. Last chance to get something even bigger. I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths and steadied myself then started to swing it. The swings felt good, the entry, perfect, the turns smooth, fast, balanced and the delivery felt strong. Bang! The hammer flew and it just seemed to keep going and going. This was going for miles. When finally it did come back to earth my heart sank. It had landed two or three feet outside the sector lines making it a no throw. I was gutted. I don’t know why but I asked if they would still measure it as I wanted to know just how far it had gone. They agreed and looking back I rather wish I hadn’t asked. 65.42m! 65.42m! I couldn’t believe it. Where that throw had come from I have no idea. I guess everything just fell into place all at the same time. What was annoying is that hooking a hammer over to that side is something I never ever did. I can only assume that maybe it was travelling that bit faster than I was used to so my timing of release was a little off. That’s not an excuse, it’s just an analysis. But it didn’t matter. In many ways I was still more than happy with the 60.64m.

After the competition we had lunch then I spent an hour or two sitting talking with Dave Smith. This guy was a bit of a hero of mine. English record holder with over 77 metres, he competed in the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. A genuinely great guy who always has time for people. I was able to pick his brains and gain a good insight into the mindset and approach of a top level athlete. It was inspiring. We had the AGM and a light buffet and I received an award “Youth most likely to succeed” Another proud moment. Then we hung around waiting for the RAC truck to come and collect us and take us home. I slept most of the way back.

During the next month I spent a lot of time reflecting on the season and working hard in college. Itching for winter training to start again. I made the most of the month off, going out with friends, house parties, nights on the town, generally living it up. My A-level studies were going well. I was doing Sports Studies, Psychology and Biology. Psychology being my favourite. I got my first tattoo this month too. It was the picture of the Pearl Jam album cover on my left upper arm. Its since been covered up but not because I stopped liking it. Just that I wanted a half sleeve and that one was easier to cover than the one on my right arm.

So winter training started again. Yet more circuit training, running, medicine ball work and weights. The first 6 weeks was always the most exhausting. I had started to fill out a bit and my strength was increasing a lot. My brother (10 years old now) had started throwing the year before. Steve letting him learn the techniques with a tennis ball on a string. This year he would move onto using light hammers. As far as Im aware, Ross still holds a couple of world records. At the time the WR for an under 10 year old with a 4kg hammer was around 18 metres. Ross threw almost 34 metres. The squad of athletes Steve coached had increased again. This year there were 9 of us. Me, Steve Dolan, Peter Dodsworth, Kimberley, Julie Lavender, David Robinson, David Shenton, Nick Maddison, and Ross. It was a good group of athletes, all really hard working, all supportive and we got on well (in the beginning). What was interesting was the differences in technique that everyone had. Considering we all had the same coach we all threw completely differently. By contrast you could always spot a thrower coached by Alan Bertram as they all had virtually identical swings and entry. I think Steve always regarded the technique as a basis and everyone had their own interpretation of it. I bought into this idea. This is where i thought many coaches overanalysed the technique. Fundamentally, the key to throwing the hammer a long way is trajectory and hammer speed. That’s all. It really doesn’t matter how you get the speed or the trajectory. As long as you get it, it will fly. The laws of physics aren’t very picky about that. So we worked to a basic model and tweaked it to what worked best for the individual. Simple really. Weights were progressing nicely.

January came and I was struck by the realisation that I had to make a difficult choice. Either I continued with my A-levels and couldn’t afford to continue athletics or I left college and got a job and carried on hammer throwing. In hindsight I don’t regret my decision although it wasn’t the best one. I left college and started working at the local council in the council tax department. It was February 1992 when I started. It was an admin job and my starting salary was £5,342 per annum. This didn’t bother me so much as in April it would rise to £7,200 and on my 18^th Birthday in September it would go to £9,500. I had moved into the Junior age group, this meant the hammer I used got heavier again. It went from a 5kg to a 6.75kg. This was a massive jump and by Christ you can feel the difference. My distances dropped, any weaknesses in my technique were once again exposed and had to be addressed. I worked hard in the gym and the sports hall all winter. We threw a lot of medicine balls and short hammers, overweight hammers, light hammers. My back squat was now up to 240kg, deadlift was 230kg, Snatch 102.5kg and clean and jerk 125kg I weighed in at 95kg. We started doing a thing called a Test Quadrathlon. This was a 4 event test designed to measure explosive power. The four events were 30m sprint, 2 foot standing long jump, 2 foot standing triple jump and overhead shotputt. Whatever your time or distance you scored points which gave you a total. I don’t remember my overall score or even the distances but I do remember my time over 30m. The fastest I managed was 3.79seconds. (not bad for a fat lad). I also got selected for the GB under 20 squad. This involved travelling down to Loughborough to train with the national coach and get to meet up with the whole of the GB u20 squad. We had a great time that weekend. It was nice to be part of something bigger. We did some training I hadn’t really tried before and the highlight of the weekend was managing to clear a 4ft bar with a 2 footed jump. Might not sound much, but give it a try. I took a couple of notable things from the get together. Firstly, that those in positions of power would never give any time to hammer throwing because as they said its not “Aesthetically pleasing” also its “a dangerous event” personally I disagree on both counts. Theres something beautiful about hammer throwing in my opinion. Aside from the fact that in my view it is comfortably THE most technically demanding event in track and field. The speed, balance, timing, technical ability, raw power needed to hurl what is in effect a 16lb canon ball through the air at upwards of 60mph to a distance only bettered by those throwing a spear which weighs less than 1/9^th the weight to see it come hurtling down and exploding the turf is something to behold. As for it being dangerous, yes there have been deaths and injuries as a result of hammers impacting with people, but no more than javelin.

Secondly, we had a great talk from David Hemmery, gold medallist in the 1960 mexico Olympic games at 400m hurdles. It was inspiring to hear him talk about the mental preparation side of training. He talked at length about how he won his gold medal despite being far from the fastest going into the final, due to his mental preparation. He was utterly convinced, not that he would win, but that he couldn’t lose. What was more interesting was that 4 years later when he was favourite to retain his title, he lost because he doubted his ability to win.

Lastly I was an unwitting witness to a then well known British athlete taking drugs. I walked in on them being administered and I was very quickly ushered out of the room. This disgusted me. I was, am and will always remain staunchly anti performance enhancing drugs. I despise their use and I have no respect or time for anyone who uses them. Whilst I can understand the desire or temptation to find that extra little bit that will mean the difference between being a gold medallist and being an also ran, I cannot bring myself to accept their argument. My view is that every achievement of someone using PED’s is no achievement at all, it doesn’t exist, it is not worth one single drop of my drug free sweat. I could finish dead last and I have still achieved more than a drug assisted gold medal. It’s cheating nothing more, nothing less. It’s taking a hand grenade to a playground punchup.

At the end of the previous season I had resigned from Sunderland Harriers and Joined Belgrave Harriers. One of the biggest teams in England and in the national premier league. I was head hunted by them the previous season as their number two hammer thrower had left and they needed someone to compete alongside Phil Spivey (commonwealth games finalist). It was strange turning out for them and finding myself in the same team as some very established GB international athletes. But it was a good learning curve.

The season started and I won the North Eastern Championships at U20 with a distance of around 55 metres. I was happy enough with that. This was with the 6.75kg hammer. My distances with the 7.26kg (senior mans hammer) were somewhat disappointing as they were just below 50 metres. But training was going well so I couldn’t be too despondent. The next main competition would be the North of England Championships in Hull. I always recall that the circle in the hull stadium was fantastic when it was dry, but when wet, it was an absolute ice rink. The condition of the circle can make an enormous difference. Circles are generally regarded as fast or slow. It all depends on the way the surface has been finished when the concrete was laid. Also the concrete composition. The circle at Hull had granite chips in the cement which were highly polished from years of use and this made it a fast circle but was problematic in the wet.

So no prizes for guessing the weather conditions in Hull on the day of the Northerns.  Yeah it was raining stair rods. Nice! So the competition got underway. After 2 rounds I was dead last having recorded 2 no throws. I was falling all over like a drunk at 2am. I couldn’t seem to get anything right. Steve was shouting at me from the stand to just swing the thing round my head and get a throw registered, so I could progress to a further 3 throws. There were, after all only 8 of us in the competition. However, that just isn’t how I’m made. That felt like it would be cheating. So I ignored Steve and went for it. Once again I was all over the place, I released the hammer after 3 decidedly dodgy turns and BANG! It hit the cage, looped up into the air and seemed to hover there for an age right above one of the sector lines, before finally coming back to earth and luckily about 2 inches inside the line. It was measured at 12.48 metres. I could shop putt it further, but I didn’t care. I would get a further 3 throws. Steve was furious with me but I couldn’t think too much about that. Somehow in the last round I managed to find a 56 metre throw and took the Bronze medal. I still can’t figure out how I did it but I don’t suppose it matters much. After the competition I got a right royal dressing down from my coach. I deserved it, but like a stupid kid I couldn’t stop sniggering which I think wound Steve up more.

Age 16

16

I turned 16 in 1990 shortly before the Hammer Circle Reunion. I was dating a girl called Diane. Her mother is South African (Jenny) a lovely woman, still says hi when I see her. Diane was a trampolinist and a pretty good one. The lads in my class at school all thought I was some kind of stud because Diane was at college and therefore “the older woman”. What I find amusing is that I met her at my cousins wedding. My cousin Esthers’ husband Russell’s mother worked with Diane, thats how she was at the wedding. That in itself isn’t particularly amusing but more the fact that Diane actually lived over the road from me but I’d never even seen her before. So we dated for about 6 months all told. I took a job as a glass collector in a pub called Scott’s in Sunderland town centre. It was a crap job and the wages were terrible but it helped to pay for my training. A lot of the barstaff there knew Diane from college and I got wound up a lot about being her boyfriend. It didn’t bother me though. It wasn’t long after my birthday that we split up. She was off to join the Navy of all things so it had to come to an end.

Winter training began at the start of November. The first 4-6 weeks involved a lot of circuit training, running and medicine ball work. It was exhausting. We also started learning to lift weights. We concentrated on the Olympic lifts and added Front squat, back squat, deadlift. We never really bothered with Bench Press as it was never regarded as being of much value to hammer throwers. Steve my coach made us practice the techniques repeatedly with a broom handle until he was happy we had a solid grasp of them before allowing us to enter the gym. We started with obscenely light weights. Much lighter than we could have lifted but this is where I learned that form over ego is vital when lifting. There are too many beach weight pricks out there who lift with sacrifice form to try and look good lifting heavy. It’s a nonsense. They actually look ridiculous. There was a small group of us training together now. Steve conducting the sessions, Myself, my sister Kimberley, Steve Dolan and Peter Dodsworth one of Steve’s mates who also threw for Sunderland. Steve would hire out a community hall at Doxford Park and we would train there. It was freezing in there but we didn’t care. If you were cold, you worked harder to get warm was Steve’s take on it. We all worked like demons that winter. After finishing second best to Steve Dolan I pushed myself a little harder at everything. I can honestly say that every session i gave 100% no matter how tired if was I gave it everything.

I came out of winter training in the best shape I had ever been. Slim and fit. I could run a mile and a half in a little over 10 minutes, I could squat 150kg, Deadlift 160kg, Clean and jerk 90kg and Snatch 80kg. Throwing felt good and at our seasons opening competiton in February I threw 56.22m I was happy. I was sports captain and house captain in school. Then I got my results back from my GCSE mock exams. I had pretty much flunked them all. I was devastated. Whilst I have never been an academic prodigy I have always been up towards the top of my classes. I had no idea what had happened. Looking back I think I had become so obsessed with training that I had basically let my studies slide further than I realised. I had to do something and quickly in order to get my grades up. I went to see my house master Mr Pauc and I proposed dropping I.T. and R.E. (which I was kicked out of most of the year anyway) and use that time to work on my other subjects. I wasn’t expecting him to agree, but agree he did. I should stress at this point that dropping I.T. was no big deal. When I was at school there was no internet, and none of the programmes available nowadays. I.T. consisted of using a very basic word processing programme, doing the odd spreadsheet and learning a bit of programming. As I had no interest in learning endless sequences of binary, it was no great loss to me. The extra training I was doing also meant I stopped going to Army Cadets. If I’m honest about it I didn’t really miss it. The only thing I missed was the curry batter bun on the way home. They were a strange but tasty culinary treat. A bread bun filled with fried batter and smothered with curry sauce. They cost 15p from Merrills chippy on Chester road. Totally unhealthy but bloody tasty. I didn’t miss the constantly having to polish my boots, and ironing my uniform a certain way. The dirty tricks being played on weekends away. Many of which I wouldn’t be able to attend due to training or competitions anyway.

My life this year pretty much revolved around hammer throwing and not a lot else. I resubmitted a lot of my school work for re-marking and my grades were getting back to normal standard. And along came the North Eastern Counties championships. It was held at Gateshead Stadium this year and the hammer was to be held on the Friday evening. It was great throwing under floodlights in a big stadium. Even though there wasn’t a lot of spectators there it still felt “big”. For those of you unfamiliar with the way a throwing event is held, here are the basics.

Once the thrower enters the circle and begins to throw they must remain in the circle until the implement has landed. The implement must land between the sector lines to be a valid throw. Once the implement has landed the athlete must leave the throwing circle by the rear. If any part of the body touches the ground outside the circle between starting the throw and the implement landing, its a no-throw. In a competition all athletes get 3 attempts. If there are more than 8 athletes the best 8 after 3 rounds will get a further 3 attempts. If an athlete gets 3 no-throws they are disqualified. (even if there are less than 8 athletes).

With my first three throws I managed mid 50metre range. There were only 4 of us in the competition so I knew we would have 6 throws. Steve Dolan was leading the competition going into the final round with around 56metres. I was less than a metre behind him. Steve had his final throw and didn’t extend his lead. I stepped into the circle and I remember my coach shouting “This is it, shit or bust”. I just went for it. Everything just fell into place, the hammer flew and I knew the moment it left my hand that I had won. You can genuinely just feel it. When a throw feels like you have put absolutlely zero effort into it, it is usually a great throw. This is where the problems started. Despite being an international stadium, they only had 50metre tapes. It hadn’t been an issue up to this point as no meeting records were under threat. My throw however was challenging the record which had stood since 1974 (my year of birth). Now a record has to be measured 3 times (or it did under the old rules. First one way, then you turn the tape and measure in the other direction, before measuring back the normal way. So they measured it 3 times then the field referee decided that despite it being measured at 59.84m they could only allow me to equal the old record of 59.12metres. My coach went apeshit. But despite this the field referee wasn’t budging. So I won in the final round with a record equalling mark and new personal best. I was happy with that but pissed at the incompetence of the officials.  We marked the hammer crater and the next day Steve measured it with a proper 100m tape and I had just crept over 60metres but obviously it didn’t count. Just had to put it to bed and move on.

For most of the rest of the season I was throwing around the 58-58metre mark. I won the Scottish championships, the Durham schools again and set a new schools record in the process. More importantly I was beating Steve Dolan week in week out. I was top dog again. The bus company my dad worked for sponsored me (well I say sponsored, they gave me a new tracksuit). In June I took my GCSE exams and left school. That summer I worked as a leisure centre attendant at the Seaburn Centre. during the summer holidays. I earned £2.20 per hour, but made a lot more fiddling the playpark ticketing system. It was a hot summer and a good summer. Steve’s endless harassment of the local council resulted in the erection of a new throwing cage for us. This helped immensely. It meant we didn’t have to travel to Gateshead to throw every time.

It was the first time I really recall getting into music. That summer I was listening to INXS, The rolling stones, The Charlatans, The Stone Roses. My love of indie rock was born. CD players were really just being born around that time but I had my Sony Walkman. I listened to U2 a lot too. I still think their stuff back then was their best work.

The English schools championships this year were in Stoke. Another wet weekend. This time our team stayed in an outdoor activity centre. Separate dorms for the boys and girls. We managed to figure out a way to bypass the alarm on the fire exit door and leave the dorm at night and meet up with some of the girls. Fun times. Come the day of the competition. There were two pools from which the final competitors would be. I qualified with the absolutely shocking distance of 54.82m. Way down on what I was throwing each week. But still I was in the final. A few hours of waiting around followed before final time. I wasn’t having a good day and only just scraped through in the top 8. Leading the competition was Glen Kerr from Bedford. He was my nemesis. A guy short in stature but ridiculously fast. He had gone over 60metres a couple of times that season. In second place was Alan Macnicholas also from Bedford, not as fast as Glen nor as technically gifted but strong as an ox. In third was Simon Bown from Essex. Long haired and defying all the conventions of good technique he somehow managed to be a good thrower. Mark Tully managed to pull one out of the bag from nowhere to sit in fourth place and in the final round I found a 57.98m throw to finish in fifth. I was gutted. I should have done so much better. But that’s life. You can’t dwell on the what if’s. The next big competition would be the AAA under 17’s champs at Crystal palace. I knuckled down and we revisited an earlier phase of training attempting to peak for that competition. So instead of the usual maintenance phase of training we were doing throughout the season, designed to maintain power speed and strength, we went back to a pure power phase. This would be turned to a speed phase in the last couple of weeks.

We travelled down to Crystal Palace on the Friday night. Myself, my coach Steve, Steve Dolan and a Javelin thrower we knew called Neil Elliott. Now just for a bit of perspective here, Steve’s car was a 1 litre Nissan Micra. At the time I weighed around 90kg, Steve Dolan much the same. Neil must have been at the 115-120 mark and my coach up at 125. Then all of our bags and hammers in the boot. The total payload must have been half a ton. How that Micra managed the trips it did is still a mystery. We were staying in the Finsbury Park hotel. A bigger shit-hole I can’t even describe. You know it’s not a fancy establishment when you peel the covers back on the bed and the cockroaches scramble for cover. Still the 280mile drive had taken it out of us. We went for a wander through Finsbury Park, side-stepped all the prostitutes that frequented every inch of pavement got some food then crashed out. 

The day of the competition was a beautiful sunny day. Hot but with a light and very welcome breeze. We arrived at Crystal Palace early so decided to have a look around. Its a pretty expansive site with facilities for many different sports. As we walked around we inevitably bumped into a lot of the other athletes and coaches. A lot of the athletes I had figured out by now and knew what made them tick. That can be pretty handy when you want to play mind games. There was Andy Irving, he always wanted to know how your training was going. I always followed the other athletes progress so I knew what he was throwing and I always just bullshit him and told him my distances, making them slightly further than his. His “Tell” was that he would frown. If I got that frown I knew that was him done for the day. You can win a hell of a lot of competitions before you even step into the circle if you do things right. Other methods I employed included telling some people nothing at all. Ian Hay always hated it when you told him nothing and got so wound up that was him finished. Some lads would like to take up a certain position relative to the cage with their bag and they would lie there in between throws. I would either steal their place or just empty a load of water onto the floor in that area so they couldn’t lie there. I know this probably all sounds very petty and childish but I was not the only one doing it and it was par for the course. Everyone trying to get that extra edge before the throwing started. After all, winning is EVERYTHING. Anyone who says it’s the taking part is full of shit. They probably never won anything in their lives. If winning wasn’t important then why did we all put ourselves through long hard winter training? Why did we travel the length and breadth of the country investing time, money and effort to compete? Yes I loved my sport but I loved it more when I won. My signature mind game was usually played out during the warmup. Normally each athlete would get maybe two practice throws before the comp started. Many of the athletes would bring their own hammer to use. I always thought of this as being a bit of a comfort blanket. Yes there can be differences between hammers but I think it’s largely negligible. However, personal preference can become a mental crutch. The thing with bringing your own hammer back then is that you had to allow other athletes to use it. They were all weighed in and measured to comply with the rules but they had to then be put into the pool of hammers available for everyone. I used to decide who I wanted to psych-out and take their hammer into the circle for a warmup. It was promptly thrown in such a way as to wrap it around one of the cage uprights rendering it useless. Harsh? Yes. Effective? Yes. Did I care what people thought about me doing it? No.

 I was trying out a new method of swing and entry. I suppose I should explain that the hammer is divided into 4 distinct parts. The swing, the entry, the turns and the delivery. If the swings are bad the entry will be bad making the turns bad and the delivery bad. So basically the swings are vital. They set up the whole throw. Everyone does it differently too. Heinz Weiss (one of the great German throwers) used to perform 8-10 slow lazy swings before a step in and entry. Yuriy Sedykh (The greatest thrower of all time and world record holder 86.74m) did 2 or 3 fast swings and had a very whipped entry. Its preference. I’d changed form a very static torso swing to one whereby I rotated to catch the swing earlier. This set up my radius much better and gave me a more consistent entry. Sorry to bore you with this but I will anyway.

The competition started and after 3 rounds I was sitting in 5^th place having recorded a little over 58metres. Glen Kerr was winning with Alan Macnicholas in second. I wasn’t worried, I knew I had a big throw in there waiting to happen and that I was a bit of a final round specialist by now. As per usual all the coaches and athletes families (normally the only people who watch the hammer) were assembled in the stand behind the cage cheering on their respective athlete. I seemed to have gained my own little cheering section away over in the main stand. Ron and Margaret (whose surnames I fail to remember) the team managers from Middlesbrough and Cleveland Harriers, leading the way with shouts of “Come on Scott” which was followed by cheers from the stand. I think it’s impossible to describe how good that kind of support makes someone feel. So the final round arrived. I had been relegated to 6^th place. As I stepped into the circle amid the cheers I heard my coach shouting “Shit or bust” as per normal. I set myself and started the swings. Then strangely for the first time I remember I stopped thinking and just let it happen. Next thing I knew the hammer was flying. It landed at 59.12m. Exactly the distance I had been given in Gateshead earlier in the year. I hadn’t won, but I had moved into bronze medal position where I finished. I was happy. 3^rd in the British championships. I was less than a metre behind Glen in first and finally felt like I had done myself justice. 

The rest of the day was spent lazing around and chatting to other athletes I knew and cheering them on. I loved everything about athletics. The camaraderie, the support, the sense of achievement.

Finally it came time to head home. If only things were so simple. We got to the carpark only to find that some idiot had parked across the back of the Micra meaning we couldn’t get out of our parking space. After much pondering, it was decided we would have to move it by hand. This was where having 4 big lads in a car together was handy. Each one of us grabbed a wheel arch and bounced it down the carpark and up onto a grass verge. Not a bad effort considering it was a Range Rover. That obstacle removed, we jumped in the car and were homeward bound.

August came and it was time to get my GCSE results. When they came through it was one of the only times in my life I can genuinely say I was scared to look. I opened them slowly (like that would make a difference) and the relief was obvious when I saw I had passed them all. 1-A 1-B and 6-C’s. Not results to set the world alight but I’d passed and that was all that mattered to me. I could now go to college in September to do my A-levels. This literally meant moving buildings in terms of geography, but meant meeting new people, new teachers, new timetable, new challenges.

When you throw hammer you have to wear a leather glove on one hand otherwise the handle will literally rip your hand to shreds. I’d had an idea earlier in the season after watching Igor Nikulin (one of the top Russian Hammer throwers) using tapes on his fingers instead of a glove. I approached a guy who was starting out making hammer gloves and gave him my design for a glove that was basically 4 tubes of leather for the fingers attached to a Velcro wrist band via leather straps on the back of the hand. He made a couple of them for me and they were amazing. Much more comfortable than a standard glove and they didn’t slip like a glove did. I started using this instead of a glove straight away and the condition of my hands improved massively. Well until breaktimes in college started and we would play cards with the losers getting “raps” this involved the winner taking the pack of cards and smashing them repeatedly over the back of the hand of the loser. Blood was often drawn and bruises were extensive. Why did we do this? Who knows, but do it we did. The stupidity of youth. When I started college I started dating more. I was never a big one for going out on the town like some of my mates. I was too dedicated to training. That was my choice. It annoys me when athletes talk about sacrificing things to succeed. No that’s not true. It’s not a sacrifice. It’s a choice you make. You decide what you want to do and what you need to do to achieve that. If giving something up or missing out on something meant enough to you then you would choose to do it anyway. To my mind, a sacrifice is giving up something you love to do something you have little choice but to do. Giving up something you love to do something you love or want, is therefore not a sacrifice. Well not in my opinion anyway. So the dating was in the main with girls I met via athletics or college. Jennifer Marsden, Joanne Yarrow, Nicola Clarke, to name but a few. None of them were serious, the longest only lasting a few months really.  

14 and 15

14 and 15

14 was a pretty big year for me. Not just in sport but in other ways too.

In sport I won the North Eastern counties Hammer, Discus and shot putt titles, I was first in the Durham Schools champs, won the north eastern indoor shot putt title and set a few records at Sunderland Harriers.

Winning the Durham Schools meant I had qualified to compete at the English schools championships. This was a big deal. In terms of athlete numbers it is second only to the Olympic games for the number of athletes competing in track and field at one meeting. Its massive. The Durham team only has around 35 athletes so is not one of the larger teams. We travelled down to Wigan together on the Thursday night and the way this thing is organised, athletes are roomed with local families over 2 nights, with competition taking place on the Friday and Saturday. Myself and Steve Dolan were roomed with a nice family who’s two kids were bloody annoying. We had to sleep in bunk beds that were blatantly too small for hammer throwers but such is life. One thing that sticks in my mind about that weekend was that we had torrential rain the whole time. Constantly cold and wet which wasn’t the best conditions for hammer throwing. Normally they will have a couple of pool competitions to qualify for the final, but because of the conditions they made it a straight final. I wasn’t having a great competition but from nowhere I managed to pull out a new personal best of 46.26metres in the third round. That was an improvement of over 4 metres on my previous best and I finished 6^th. I was as happy as the proverbial pig in shit. My first really big competition and I had given a good account of myself. I made some good friends on that trip and we all had a great laugh. I met a guy there from Manchester called Chris Edgar. One of the funniest blokes I’ve ever met. He was an amazing hammer thrower, two years older than me and about a foot shorter. He was seriously only around 5ft tall but Christ he was fast. Sadly I have no idea where he is today or what he is up to. He stopped throwing about 6 years after the first time I met him and kind of disappeared off the radar. I hope he is well. The guy who won the competition that year in my age group was a lad named Mark Tully from Stoke. He had a very relaxed almost lazy looking technique but it was effective. I became pretty good friends with him. It was funny that his middle name was Ross (my brothers’ name) he had a brother called Scott and a dog called Kim (my sister is called Kimberley). I found this amusing. I also remember that dad hired a car so the rest of the clan could travel down to watch. It was a Nissan Bluebird. Brand spanking new at the time. We didn’t actually own a car then.

I was training maybe 4 times a week at this point and was in pretty good shape. The other spare time thing I was doing at this time was that I was a member of the Army Cadets. The branch I was in was the Artillery. We had some good laughs going away on weekends and playing war games, heading off to the artillery ranges at Otterburn in Northumberland and firing the 105mm field guns. The shells were a ton weight and there was a big stink of ammonia from the Cordite charges. It was hard work too, setting up the gun, carrying and loading the shells and packing away at the end of the day. On the night time in camp or barracks it was always a bit of a scary time. You never knew what dirty tricks someone had up their sleeves. Whether it was emptying a full can of Ralgex into your pants while you were in the shower, or putting toothpaste on your eyelids while you slept so you would rub it in when you woke. (this stings like hell by the way so don’t try it). I think the worst one was spooning. Now Im not talking about the nice type of spooning where you get to cuddle in behind someone special in bed. What I’m talking about was pure evil. Basically it involved being held down while someone heated up a spoon with a lighter then they repeatedly and quite hard tapped it against one of your nipples. Now each hit on its own wasn’t much to write home about but after about 40 or 50 hits it is absolute purgatory. Pain I can’t describe. But these were all accepted things and getting to shoot real guns and the banter with the lads far outweighed them. I vaguely recall at one annual camp we were on the shooting range and some numpty had failed to discharge his weapon and as he was climbing out of one of the pits you stood in to shoot from his weapon went off, and off went 3 of his toes with it. Nice!! An instant lesson in doing things right, from someone who got hurt doing things wrong.

Outside of the sporting arena or the firing range, another event I remember from around this time was my baby Brother Ross sitting in dads Minibus pretending to drive it. I remember standing in the kitchen getting a glass of water while mam was making tea. All of a sudden the bus started to roll down the street with Ross smiling and waving. I just stood there shocked. Mam shouted for dad and he took off out the front door hurdled the wall and flew down the street. He managed to catch up with the bus, open the door and grab the frame and stop it. How he managed that is beyond me as it had a fair bit of momentum by the time he caught up with it. That was the last time Ross was allowed to pretend to be a bus-driver. Its interesting that in those days there really weren’t many cars in our street. Not many people owned cars round our way then. The one guy a couple of doors down who did was strangely out for the day (he never usually went anywhere). If he had been at home, his car would have been history. Thankfully he was out and no harm was done.

The other monumental thing that happened when I was 14 was that I lost my virginity. At 14 I had stopped growing. I was a shade under 6ft 1 tall and I was shaving 3 or 4 times a week. I guess I was pretty developed. The girl in question was much older than me (32), in fact she was married. I didn’t know this at the time but found it out later. Had I known, I most likely wouldn’t have gotten involved. But I was young and daft so maybe I still would. I won’t go into too many details about this except to say that it wasn’t a shit first time like so many people seem to experience. She taught me a lot. Yes I can hear people say its child abuse or she was some kind of sexual predator. That would be absolute horseshit. It wasn’t like that at all. For a start she believed I was older than I was. I did nothing to convince her otherwise. I knew exactly what was going on and I was more than happy to be involved. It only lasted a few months. But it’s something I don’t regret nor would choose to change if I had the option. I did a lot of growing up during this time, particularly regarding my outlook on things. I’m not going to say it made me a man of the world but I certainly gained new perspective.

So moving on to my 15^th year. I moved up an age-group in athletics terms I was now a 1^st year youth. This meant moving up to using a 5kg hammer. I have to admit I struggled with the change. You wouldn’t think that an increase of only 1kg would make much difference but I found it hard. This season Steve Dolan caught me and it was a case of trading 1^st and 2^nd with him all season. I was 2^nd in the North Easterns behind a guy called Phil Donnelly from Middlesbrough & Cleveland Harriers. This was a lad my sister had a huge crush on. He was a pretty good thrower until he was struck with Glandular fever and lost about 30kilos in weight and was never the same thrower after that. I finished 3^rd in the North of England champs, won the Durham Schools and got another trip to the English Schools this time in Derby. I had an appalling performance in that schools which was won by a lad called Malcolm Croad. He was a great thrower, fast, smooth, technically very good. Apart from that, all I really remember was the weather. By complete contrast to Wigan the year before, it was absolutely scorching all weekend. Every day it was well over 100F with no breeze. It was uncomfortably hot. Once again the Thompson clan had made the trip to watch but this time I remember feeling that I had disappointed them. I know that’s not the case and I had only really disappointed myself but I didn’t like how that felt.

I competed in the Scottish champs for the first time this year and that is where I met one of my best friends. Iain Park. We were sat in the warm-up area and just got talking. Iain started the conversation off asking how far I was throwing in training, what my personal best was etc etc. Whatever I told him, his was more. It was the first time I think I’d come across psychological warfare in sport. It was very basic but used against the right sort of person it can be very effective. In later years I went on to employ all manner of schemes and such like, when I competed. The thing I have always found to be amusing about Iain is that he was as proud as punch declaring himself to be Scottish. He is the least Scottish sounding guy you will meet. Raised in Middlesex to Scottish parents he had what I always call a cockney accent. I know he isn’t a true cockney (born within the sound of the Bowe bells) but he’s from London way so that’s good enough for me. Iain won the competition that day and I believe I was 4^th behind Chris Edgar and Steve Dolan. Not a great comp for me really, although I did get a new PB. As the season came to a close I attended my first annual Hammer Circle Reunion. This is a gathering of coaches and athletes of the Hammer throwing world, basically for a weekend of seminars, competition, meeting of friends and general pissupery. It used to be held at Grendon Hall which is an old stately home in the village of Grendon, Northampton. It’s a lovely place and perfect for such a congregation. In the village there are two pubs. Traditionally the coaches frequented the one nearest the hall, whilst the athletes gave patronage to the one at the top of the hill. That first year was pretty tame as I remember it. Just a lot of getting pissed really. But I did set a seasons best in one of the comps. 54.92metres still behind Steve Dolan who finished on 55.12metres. I cannot begin to explain how much that pissed me off. I had finished the previous season fully 4 metres ahead of him and now I was second best. I resolved to put that right the following year. After the Reunion (held in October) we always had our 1 month of holiday from training before winter training started again. I had just turned 16 and this winter we would be starting weight training for the first time. My training would increase to 5 times a week too. I set myself goals had a long talk with Steve my coach about it and we drew up a plan to get me there.

The school football team made massive progress this year and I had been moved from Centre Half back to my beloved goalkeeping role. This came about from a friendly match where our keeper was down injured so I took up position on the line and managed to pull off a pretty spectacular double save I had no business doing. Obviously I was red carded and gave away a penalty but Mr Emmerson had seen enough and I was given the number 1 shirt for the new season. Well we had a cracking season. Played 20 won 19 drawn 1 lost 0 in the league, we won the town and the county cups and kept 15 clean sheets. We played in horrible blue strips that were mostly too small and made of some unknown material that made you itch. I think maybe that was the secret. You had to concentrate on the game to distract you from the itching. Despite winning everything by a country mile that season, not a single one of our players was selected to play for Sunderland boys. It was all a bit political. 8 of the Sunderland boys team were from St Aidans (who we beat 5-0 and 4-0 that season). It wasn’t a big surprise seeing as the Sunderland boys coach was the father of St Aidans team captain. The other players came from Thornhill, Southmoor and Monkwearmouth. Maybe none of our players were actually good enough but it was just that we gelled together perfectly as a team. Who knows. All I know is we battered everyone that season, so I’m happy with that.

This was also the year I was kicked out of Religious Education class. As I mentioned in the beginning, I’m an atheist; Have been for as long as I remember. Now whilst I have no issue with people having faith and belief in whichever god or religious system they choose, my own personal beliefs are of equal weight and my decision not to believe in a divine being/entity should not be derided or belittled. This was what Miss Maxwell did at every opportunity. She was a staunchly religious woman and a bit of a dictator if the truth be known. Even the slightest opinion contrary to her own, were shot down in flames. I remember being called a heathen on more than one occasion. It really didn’t matter how well your argument was constructed. She refused point blank to accept even the possibility that religion may be wrong. That it could potentially all be the fabrication of man, a device by which to control and subjugate the masses, a form of moral dictatorship. But then again she could be right, it could all be true. Until such time as it is proven one way or the other, Im on the side of science on the basis that they have provided more evidence to support their findings than religion ever has. In my view religion has only ever sought to discredit science or use scientific discovery to support their argument rather than provide any substantive evidence of anything they preach. Added to that, religion has been behind more wars, genocide and ill treatment of people than any other concept or belief in the history of this planet. Granted it has been mans interpretation of religion that is the driving force in this but as I believe religion is a man made mechanism religion is therefore at the root of it.

11, 12 & 13

11, 12 and 13

So this is where things really start to happen I guess. And it started with a pretty devastating event. At 11 years old on Christmas day my maternal Grandmother died. Us kids were blissfully unaware. My mum and dad decided not to tell us until after boxing day because they didn’t want to ruin our Christmas. Now if that doesn’t demonstrate a parents love for their children, I really do not know what does.

I loved my “nana” loads, she was a stereotypical grandma. Grey hair with her curlers in or wearing a headscarf, glasses, always had a big smile and a hug for the grandkids. Some of the things I remember about her was that she loved table water biscuits spread with butter. She could peel an orange in her pocket with one hand so you only knew she was eating one when you got a whiff of the orange. Another little quirk she had was that when she made a phone-call to anyone, she would remember halfway through the call that she had made the call and just hang up to save money. She was funny like that. Her and granddad had been together from being kids really. Over 40 years together. It makes me sad that at the age I am now I won’t live long enough to be with someone that length of time and have that kind of enduring relationship. I cried for days when nana went.

Losing nana was my first real experience of a major loss. The only other one I can remember from so young was the death of my dog Timmy. He was a miniature Yorkshire terrier. Lovely, friendly little dog who got hit by a car. I remember my dad on the verge of a fight with the driver because anyone who knows Telford Road on the Thorney Close housing estate will know that it’s about 400 yards of perfectly flat and unobstructed road with a 30mph limit and that driver was doing well over the limit and made no attempt to stop. He was driving a white Opel Manta. Well if you could call it driving. I thought dad was going to lynch him.

Speaking of dad lynching someone. I vividly remember a time when all the lads in the street were playing football with my posh Mitre Delta V3000 “casey” football. It was a birthday present and I loved that ball it was what Sunderland used in “proper” footie matches. We were playing a game of gates. Where each lad was posted on a gate in the street and you had to defend your gate. It was a one on one game and because you had to leave your gate to attack you were always vulnerable. Anyway, this day one of the lads (I can’t remember who) had booted the ball into the back garden of one of the houses on the street. I went to knock on the door to ask for it back and the guy who lived there opened the door with my ball and promptly put a screwdriver into it. I was mortified. I ran over the road and straight into the house crying holding my now deflated casey and between sobs explained what had happened. Well that was it, dad stormed across the road and banged on the door. A row ensued with dad demanding the money to replace the ball and the guy who lived there being pretty abusive about the whole incident. A bit of a crowd had formed at the front wall to watch this public show and I can’t remember the exact course of the conversation but what I do remember is the guy taking a swing at my old man and ending up being grabbed and thrown over the hedge and into the front garden, quickly followed by my dad where a full on scrap ensued. The end result being that I got a new ball and the guy never burst it if it ever went into his garden again.

Another loss I experienced when I was 11 was watching Sunderland lose the Milk cup. Was a decent game against Norwich. Clive Walker missed a penalty, other chances were spurned and Norwich got a goal out of nothing. David Corner was attempting to shepherd the ball out of play when it was promptly nicked off him played into the box before being laid back to Asa Harford who smacked a shot and bloody Gordon Chisholm stuck his gut out and wrong footed Chris Turner who could only watch it sail past him into the net. Now Gordon Chisholm was never going to set the world alight as a player but he was decent. The problem was I remember him having this amazing knack of having the ball booted at him and into his own goal. Maybe it was bad luck, maybe it was a conspiracy, who knows. All I know is that David Corner (the man who lost the ball down at the corner flag) saw his professional career nosedive after that. I don’t think any of the fans could forgive him. And that was how we lost the Milk cup final.

Me aged 12

The following year I started senior school. Bede Secondary. I was part of the last intake. When I left it became Wearside College. Consequently each year with no new intake numbers dwindled and most of the good teachers left meaning we were left to do our GCSE’s with supply teachers taking lessons. I had some great times at Bede and I can honestly say I loved my time there. In many ways I can be a bit of a geek and have a thirst for knowledge. In other ways I’m aware that I’m a thinker rather than a doer. As with any start in a new school there is the inevitable jockeying for position. The unspoken hierarchy amongst the kids there. I think I came up somewhere in the middle if I’m honest. I was this big fat kid, not cool, a little awed really. Being bullied throughout junior school hadn’t done my confidence the world of good and as a result the bullying continued during this first year. Different bully’s but the methods and end result were pretty much the same. This time it was older kids so I was even more intimidated. I did my best to ignore it but it can easily get on top of you. I concentrated on my school work. I wasn’t in any great shape and P.E. lessons were often cross country running which I hated with a passion. It was easy to pick on the fat slow kid at the back of the group. I remember thinking this was my lot. That I was always going to be bullied, always going to be this worthless fat lump that no one gave any positive attention or time to. It was absolute nonsense of course as I had good friends and my family all of whom were great but thats how being bullied drags you down and at the time it was difficult to appreciate the good things because the bad was pretty overwhelming.

At the end of that first year I’d somehow managed to be top of the class in pretty much every subject. I have no idea how I managed that to be honest but I did. The summer holidays were more than just a summer break, it was a break from the bullying. I really needed that. I never really told anyone about the bullying as it was my problem. I had to deal with it, or so it felt. That summer I spent most days with the lads in the street playing football, cricket, British Bulldog, murderball and a thousand other games. This activity meant I lost a fair bit of weight and I also had a massive growing bout. I went back to school in the September a totally different Scott to the one who had finished the previous year. I had resolved to put an end to the taunts and feeling worthless. I followed advice I had been given years earlier. I had decided not to catch each one on their own, but rather just to single out the main culprit, the leader if you like. I had no idea how I was going to do it as he always had his little band of hangers on around him but it kind of happened by chance. I remember going to the toilets one break time and there he was taking a piss. I walked over, said his name and as he turned his head, I just hit him. I threw everything I had into that punch. I was shaking as much with rage as with fear. I think if I hadn’t just done it I would have likely talked myself out of it. Well it worked. There he was cowered in the corner bloody nose and covered in his own piss. I only said two more words to him before I walked out. “No more”. After that the bullying stopped. I instantly became a little bit more popular in school and I felt about a foot taller. Im not claiming to be invincible. I’m not an aggressive man, yes I do like a challenge and I can be hard headed at times but I’m no hardman. I am possessed of that great English quality whereby we can be pushed and pushed without reaction but when we are finally stirred to act, its decisive. That is how empires are forged. Well that and cups of tea. Never go into battle without a good cuppa. Granted I don’t have an empire (yet) but I do have a good cuppa.

Another big turning point in my life happened when I was 13. Practicing for school sports day I discovered I was a bit of a dab hand at the shot putt. The school record at the time for my year was around the 8 metre mark. Well come sports day I launched the little canon ball to 10m 16cm. I can’t explain how good that felt. I liked that feeling and I didn’t want to have to wait until the next sports day to feel it again. My English teacher at the time (Mary Ellis) was also a high jump coach at Sunderland Harriers Athletics Club. She invited me to go along there to train. I went and there were literally hundreds of kids doing all manner of events. I met a guy called Jerry Young who was the field events coach. He took me under his wing and so my athletics career was born. I competed firstly in indoor athletics meetings at Gateshead Stadium. I was winning medals left right and centre. I got fitter, stronger and my confidence was growing practically by the day. It didn’t just stop at shot putt. I tried out for the school football team too and weirdly was picked to play centre half. Somehow I had managed to become a little more coordinated with my feet. Our team was pretty average to be fair but we won more than we lost so it was no disaster.

Me aged 13 Throwing Shot putt (changed a bit from being 12)

I spent the summer competing for Sunderland Harriers in the then Girobank athletics league, more often than not winning the shot, and getting good points in the discus too. I began to enjoy the discus more. It was the fact it flew further and if you caught it right it looked amazing. Sometimes I would do the triple jump or high jump just for extra points. It was all about the competition for me. All about participating. Then one day we were competing at Cleckheaton in a league match and I saw this guy in the cage spinning like a top faster faster faster then boom, he launched this ball on a wire into the air and it went for miles. I was gobsmacked. I remember thinking “That, Im going to do that” I had never seen anyone throw a hammer before I had no idea who would be able to coach me or if I could even do it but I knew I was going to do it. There was a guy called Selwyn Towers used to throw it for Sunderland and he agreed to help me out. He didn’t train down at the track much so i only got to practice with him maybe once a fortnight but it wasn’t long before I entered my first competition. I couldn’t turn with it but only swing it around my head and throw but I managed 27metres. Selwyn managed to teach me one turn which saw my distance increase beyond the 30metre barrier. I was hooked completely. At 13 I was competing for the senior mens team and holding my own too. At Lightfoot (Newcastle) I was competing and Selwyn’s older brother Steve was throwing for Elswick harriers. I’d never met Steve, didn’t know who he was even but he went into the cage and did 4 turns and threw around the 46 metre mark. Full of my new found confidence, after the competition I approached him and asked him if he would coach me. I remember him looking a little shocked and speechless, but eventually he took my details and said he would get in touch with me when he had given it some thought. I must have waited a couple of weeks before he rang me and agreed to coach me. I was over the moon. And so began the 4 times weekly trips on the train then metro to Gateshead Stadium, getting funny looks from people who didn’t know what these strange looking metal balls on wire were that I was carrying around with me. Steve was an excellent coach. I was the first athlete he coached but I was keen and I listened which maybe made his job easier. Within a couple of years he had built a little squad of throwers he coached and had a lot of success with. Shortly after I started being coached by Steve he had gained another athlete. A lad called Steve Dolan. Who incidentally was in my class at school. Steve was a good lad and worked hard in training. We developed a very good rivalry over the coming years and I think that spurred us both on to be better. My sister also started throwing and training with us, she was a pretty good discus thrower and one of the first women in England to take up hammer throwing at a time when it was still not fully recognised as an event in the womens side of athletics.

It was through athletics and around this time I met my good mate Andy Rutland. He started at Sunderland Harriers as a Discus thrower. He was coached by his dad Tom who is a lovely bloke and his mum Jeri who was one of the chattiest women I’ve ever met (in a great way) was always there to support him too. Andy has always been a bit shorter than me but he is from the same mould. Fiercely competitive and always gives 100%. Like me he is also left-handed. The only difference being that he throws left handed whilst I throw right handed for some strange reason. Anyone who has ever competed in athletics will know that runners are generally one clique whereas field eventers fall into the other. So naturally we became mates. Apart from a few years where we lost touch later down the road, we are now back in contact and Andy is now my powerlifting coach, mentor and great friend.