…And in Last Place…

For every winner there must be a loser. Even at those ridiculous sports events where every child receives a medal or trophy for ‘participating’, everybody knows who came first and who came last. Proponents of this ‘participatory’ system argue that it is in the best interest of the child to instill a sense of pride in taking part, that playing by the rules is key, that the game itself is bigger than being winner or loser. We can try to sterilise our children from the realities of the world, but when it comes time for college applications it seems the winners attend prestigious universities and the losers enjoy a life in the fast food service industry. Unfortunately not all are created equal, there are winners and losers, the best and the worst. It is believed that in ancient Sparta newborns were left on a hillside overnight. If they survived they were deemed worthy of receiving training to become a member of Spartan society, if not…well, they died. Talk about taking this idea of ‘participation’ to new heights.

I suppose the real problem is the amount of emphasis we put on these winners. I know that at the 1936 Olympics Jesse Owens blasted his way to a gold medal, and shattered Nazi Aryan pride, in the 100 metres sprint. I have no idea who came last. Michael Phelps won his seventh gold medal, setting himself up for an eighth, in the 100 metre butterfly finals of the Beijing Olympics. Who came last? No clue. In 1954 Roger Barrister ran the first sub-4-minute mile, and in last place of that race was…don’t know. We immortalise the winners, and the last of the losers fade into history with their names not recalled and their deeds unremembered. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that it must be pretty easy if you are Jesse Owens, Michael Phelps or Roger Barrister to be a winner. Things were obviously on their side, and by things I mean the opportunities, God given genetics, and psychological profile. Whoever came last was obviously not as blessed.

Personally, I get irritated when people speak of an athlete’s great courage, inner strength and bravery to win gold. I am much more impressed by number eight, or twelve, or whatever the dead last number of a particular race was. Those who usually obtain the position of stone last are not even considered the outside bet, the underdog. They have no chance of winning, and usually finish up when the cheers for the victor are already dying out. If you want to talk about bravery, guts, and a can-do attitude, there it is. I mean why not just have Phelps, or whoever, and the silver and bronze contenders race it out. It is usually predictable who is going to win based on preparation, previous form and current conditions. No, that would be boring. Why? Simple, the real heart and spirit of a sport is not with the winners but rather with the losers.

Sport is not the only arena such failure should be admired. Somewhere, out there, is the world’s worst doctor. They just managed to get through medical school and only through the grace of a higher power did they complete their internship. They are one surgery, one diagnosis, or one prescription away from having it all come tumbling down on their heads, yet they persevere. Now I can get behind, and admire, that. The world’s worst politician. In some twisted democracy there are two contenders, and only two. The winner receives one hundred percent of the votes, and the loser not a single one. Not even the losers mother voted for them as they thought them to be a complete incompetent. Then the winner, during his victory speech, keels over and dies. The loser, completely unelected, is now in line to take the position, and they do. Something like that takes more than courage, it takes an iron will to fly in the face of such opposition and rise to the challenge. What about the world’s worst soldier. They may have just finished training, and are preparing for deployment to a battle zone. Everyone in their squad knows this worst will catch a bullet the minute boots touch down on hostile soil. The soldier knows this, but they will be the first out and naturally the first to die. If that isn’t deserving of a medal I don’t know what is.

The musician Beck wrote a song named, ‘Loser’. Unfortunately it was a great hit, making Beck a winner. I say unfortunately because if it had been a flop, number one hundred out of the top one hundred, it could have become an anthem for those who find glory in taking last place, for being the worst at what they do but still struggle to see it through. None of us want to be the worst. We all strive to be better, and there is nothing wrong with that. Still that doesn’t mean we should take away from those who have achieved their own greatness through being the worst, through being a loser. I will cheer for the world’s worst serial killing who trips and stabs themself to death on their first outing, I will cheer for the world’s worst driver who writes their car off in their own driveway, I will cheer for the olympic swimmer who still has to swim their final lap as the crowd cheers for the finished winner, I will cheer for the fat kid at the school athletics day who will come last in every single running event. If doing so makes me a loser, well then all I can do is quote Beck, “in the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey,” and be proud of it.