Twin Ambitions - My Autobiography (6 page)

Football was my passion. Athletics was fun, but for me, football was where it was at. My life was football, football, football. As soon as my collarbone had healed up I was back out in the fields every lunch-break, kicking a ball and running around with the other kids. I thought about nothing else. Football was more than just a sport: it was a way of making friends at school without having to deal with the whole language thing. But it also got me noticed. Alan later revealed that he used to watch me play football during lunch. According to him, even at that age, I had incredible stamina. Wherever the ball was, that’s where I’d be too. I was relentless. The ball would be down one end of the pitch, one of the kids would hoof it all the way to the other end, and I’d chase it down as hard as I could. Then someone else would collect the ball and launch it back in the opposite direction. Without pausing for breath, I’d turn around and sprint back the way I’d come. I must have bombed up and down that pitch a hundred times a day.

Our school athletics season was divided into winter and summer. During the summer months and early autumn, when the weather was sunny, we did track and field sports. In the winter and spring, we switched to cross country. That first year we did a month or so of track work. Then Alan had us doing cross country races. It was on the cross country course, rather than the cinder track, where I first started to come into my own as a runner. I quickly realized that I was faster than everyone else. Not just in my class, but in the school. I won the races easily. However, being the fastest kid in school could be a problem. At the start of each race Alan would explain the route for us to follow. I remember one occasion early on at Feltham when Alan pointed out the course we’d be running.

‘Right, then. To make the course longer,’ Alan explained, pointing to the school field, ‘you’ll cut across to the middle of the field, race back around the outside, go down and round some crooked ferns, and then head out onto that path you can see in the distance. That’s the course.’

All the kids nodded. I did too, although I didn’t have a clue what Alan had just said. ‘No problem,’ I thought. ‘I’ll just follow the other kids.’ The race began. I got off to a good start and swiftly broke away from the chasing pack. With no one to follow, I ran along what I thought was the route. A short distance further along, I glanced over my shoulder. Then I saw that every other runner had gone in completely the opposite direction.

I’d gone the wrong way.

From the corner of my eye I spotted Alan shouting at me, frantically gesturing for me to turn around and chase after the other kids. There were a few talented athletes at Feltham. One or two kids were bigger and physically more developed than me. I looked ahead, to the front of the pack. This much bigger kid was in the lead. I took a deep breath and charged back down the field, running as fast as my legs could carry me in a desperate attempt to catch up with the lead group. I managed to overtake most of the kids. But the lead runner kicked away from me as we drew near to the finish line. I wasn’t slow, I never lacked for speed, but back then my leg muscles weren’t strong enough to maintain my speed for a long stretch. I suffered a rare defeat. After that race, whenever I was running a course for the first time, I’d constantly look back across my shoulder to see where all the other runners were, just in case I ended up taking a wrong turn. No more playing catch-up.

Without a doubt, PE was my favourite lesson. It still lost out to football, but I enjoyed running in a competitive environment. Sport was my chance to shine. My English ability was never really an issue, even if I occasionally misunderstood some of Alan’s instructions. On the track, on the grass, all that truly mattered was how I performed. This was my chance to get involved. It made me feel that I was part of school life. I won almost every event at the annual school sports day.

Alan started to see potential in me as a runner. He was convinced that I needed further training, and asked me if I’d like to go along to the local athletics club.

‘Borough of Hounslow, it’s a great club,’ Alan said. ‘They’ve coached guys who’ve run for Great Britain. Why don’t you give it a try, Mo? If you don’t like it, you don’t have to go back. But you’re too good to be coached here. There are specialist running coaches at the club. They can give you the training you need to get better.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I like football.’

Alan persisted. He was good at that. ‘Look, Mo. You’re the best runner in the school – by a country mile. There’s nothing more for you to learn here. If you want to get better, you owe it to yourself to check out the local club.’

I nodded. ‘Okay, I’ll go.’

‘Great!’ Alan said. ‘Next Tuesday, that’s the next training session. See you then?’

Honestly, I wasn’t sure about going along to the club. I didn’t know what to expect. But I understood what Alan was saying. I was a decent runner. Training at an athletics club was the logical next step up from competing against the other kids at school. Looking at it from another point of view, Alan, Graham and the school stood to benefit from me training at Borough of Hounslow, since I’d be representing Feltham in the regional athletics championships, which in turn would benefit the profile of the school. I figured going along couldn’t do any harm.

The following Tuesday, Alan introduced me to the world of the athletics club.

F
ELTHAM
Arena was pretty run-down by the time I joined Borough of Hounslow Athletics Club. The track was badly in need of repairs. There was no grandstand; spectators watched from a grassy bank running along the side of the track, and the officials sat in a glorified Portakabin. In the middle of the track was a muddied football pitch. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous introduction to athletics.

At that first training session when I was eleven Alan introduced me to Alex McGee, the coach in charge of the junior runners. I had a look around the place, did a few runs around the track with Alex looking on. I exchanged a few words with some of the other runners I recognized from school, though they were not all in the same year as me. Everyone at the club seemed genuinely friendly and welcoming, but I was in two minds as to whether I wanted to go back for another session.

‘How did you find it, Mo?’ Alan asked as he drove me home after training.

I shrugged. ‘It was okay.’

In truth, I still preferred football.

I knew I was good at running. The fact I was winning every race going at school told me that I had something in my legs, for sure. But I didn’t know how good I was. In fact, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to pursue running, and certainly not as a career. I was more interested in playing football. At the weekends I played Sunday League, turning out at right-back for Bedfont Town in the Surrey Counties Intermediate League against the likes of Cranleigh, Chiddingfold and Farnborough North End. I could sprint up and down that pitch all day. My thing was to reach the by-line, put in a bad cross that some creaking old centre-back would inevitably head clear. Then I’d have to thunder all the way back up the field towards my goal before the opposition could launch a counter-attack. When I wasn’t playing football, I was watching it or thinking about it. Honestly, I never gave a career in athletics a moment’s thought. And if it came down to a choice between playing Sunday League or competing for Borough of Hounslow, there was going to be only one winner.

The following Tuesday Alan asked me the same question: did I want to go along to the athletics club? This time I hesitated to reply. I was due to play football with some mates on the same night. Instead of telling him the truth, I made up an excuse and muttered something about my family not wanting me to train at the club. ‘My aunt needs me to help out around the house, I can’t get out of it,’ something along those lines. I felt bad about lying to Alan, but my heart was in football.

Next week, Alan asked me the same question: ‘How about a run at the club, then, Mo?’ I came up with the same excuse about family pressures and went off to play football. For sure, there were times when I went along to train at Feltham Arena, mostly when I wasn’t playing football and didn’t have anything better to do. But my attendance was sporadic at best. Sometimes I went, other times I didn’t. Still, Alan kept on at me. Did I mention that he can be persistent? For weeks on end he tried to convince me that it was worth my time giving athletics a proper chance, that I should commit to regular sessions at the club.

Everything changed one Tuesday afternoon when I showed up at Alan’s office an hour before training was due to begin at the club. On the days that I trained with Hounslow, I’d leave school at 3.30 p.m., hurry home, grab some food, change into my running gear and head back to the school grounds for around 5–5.15 p.m. and wait to get a lift from Alan to the track. Alan was busy with paperwork and I was kicking my heels sitting on the bench outside his office, looking for something to do – when Alan suddenly chucked me a football and nodded at the hall.

‘I’ve got some more work to finish before we can leave,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you have a kick-around in the gym until I’m done, and then I’ll drive you to the club?’

Brilliant! I took the ball and raced into the gym. For the next thirty minutes I practised keep-uppys, one-twos against the wall, dribbling up and down the flanks. When the half-hour was up, Alan drove me to the club. And, hey, I did a good session on the track.

‘Here’s the deal,’ Alan told me on the drive home. ‘How about you show up early at my office before training each week at the club? While you’re waiting, you can play football. You can turn up half an hour early, or even an hour if you like. I’ll be doing work, so it’s no problem for me. Bring Mahad along too. What d’you say, Mo?’

I nodded. It sounded like a good idea. Winter was drawing near and the weather was turning cold and wet. It was getting dark earlier and earlier, we were running out of places to play football in the evenings, and there was nowhere around where I lived. Playing in a nice, warm gym was just the ticket.

‘But,’ Alan warned, ‘I’ll only let you and your mates play on one condition: when your time is up, you’ll promise to come with me to the athletics club for a running session. No ifs or buts.’

Of all the decisions I’ve had to make in my life, this was an easy one. I’d get to play football
and
go running at the club. It took me about a second to make up my mind.

‘Deal!’ I said.

Thanks to Alan, I settled into a good routine after that. Each week I’d show up at his office before training to kick a ball around the gym for half an hour or so, often with cousin Mahad and sometimes a few friends in tow. Sometimes Alan would join in too. Mahad loved football, although it’s fair to say he had his limits when it came to the unforgiving English winter. Once, we were playing football during PE in the freezing cold, participating in these little three-a-side games, the idea being that we’d keep moving and keep warm. Much as Mahad loved football, he hated having to run around in the cold, so when the whistle blew, he lashed the ball into the corner of the goal with almost his first kick of the game and promptly wheeled away to celebrate, running all the way back to the changing room to escape the cold. If it had been me, I would’ve kept on playing. Nothing stopped me from a game of footy. But the two of us enjoyed those kick-abouts in the gym.

At 6 p.m. Alan would call time and drive me across town to Feltham Arena, where I’d join in training with the other kids at Hounslow.

Training at the club was twice weekly, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings after school. Borough of Hounslow AC had a good reputation for distance running, and by the time I joined, there was a solid core of international competitors based at the club. I was soon making friends. One of the first guys I got to know at Hounslow was Abdi Ali. He also came from Somalia. We’d hang out away from the track too. The two of us would go into town, jump on the buses and ride around Hanworth and Hounslow, not doing anything, just chilling really, the way kids do. Abdi had potential on the track, but he proved that little bit elusive. From time to time he’d suddenly stop coming to the club. No reason. He just wouldn’t feel like running any more. I wouldn’t see him at the track for ages, then one evening he’d appear out of the blue, grinning at me and taking the mick, like he’d never been away. He once asked Alan Watkinson, ‘Why am I not as fast as Mo? We’re both from the same country!’

Another early friend at Hounslow was Mohamed Osman. Mohamed was such a talented athlete it was almost ridiculous. He had enormous raw potential. Sadly, he fell in with a bad crowd and never fulfilled his early promise on the track. This is a story I’ve heard more than once – kids I knew growing up who got involved with the wrong type of people. At Feltham there were kids from my year who ended up in gangs, taking drugs, that sort of thing. I wasn’t close to these guys personally, but living in the area, you’d hear the stories from time to time. So-and-so’s in trouble. This person is in prison. I’d hear these stories and think, that could’ve been me slipping between the cracks. Easily. If it hadn’t been for running, who knows where I would’ve ended up? Not somewhere good, I can tell you. Life is tough in Hounslow. Things happen.

Later on, I’d get to know the senior runners more – the guys who were running for their country, who were being talked about as future hopes on the big stage. But to begin with, I hung out with the likes of Mohamed and Abdi and the other juniors being coached by Alex McGee.

Alan Watkinson has sometimes mistakenly been referred to as my coach; that’s not true. Alan has been many things to me – mentor, friend, best man at my wedding – but he would be the first to admit that he never actually coached me. My first coach was Alex McGee. He was good to me during my early years at the club – he really looked out for me. I remember meeting him for the first time. He spoke in this slight Scottish accent that I’d never heard before. ‘Where is that accent from?’ I asked myself.

As a junior coach, Alex took a longer-term view of training. Rather than trying to push us too hard to get the wins and recognition at national level, Alex was more interested in developing us into athletes capable of competing in the senior ranks. Training as a junior is a delicate balancing act. You’re young, you’re still developing physically, and if you put too much pressure on your body too soon, you run the risk of over-training and potentially giving yourself problems when you try to make the step up from the juniors to the senior ranks. If you look at junior athletics records, there’s plenty of kids who’ve won English Schools titles at Under-15 level and then failed to make the grade in the professional ranks. Equally, there are a number of kids whose development is slower and who don’t shine at junior level. Paula Radcliffe, for example, placed 299th when she competed in her first English Schools cross country race. Physically, I was a lot smaller than many of the runners in my age category, and in Alex I was fortunate to have a coach who resisted the temptation to overcook my training programme. He recognized my talent from day one and knew that I needed to be nurtured. Again, it was a case of right time, right place.