From the Touchline

          The last time I was at the National Water Sports Centre, Nottingham – about 20 years ago – I was with a group of thrill-seeking geezers. We rode around aimlessly on those gyroscopically balanced ‘segways’, then had a go at white water rafting, where I was washed overboard and ignominiously hauled to safety. So, having ticked off those two activities, what am I doing back here again? Well, I’m pitched up on the adjacent campsite, a useful base from which to attend the week-long World Touch Cup which is taking place a few miles away at the university sports complex.
          Considering I spend as little of my short span of time on earth as is socially acceptable on sports of any kind, my presence here might seem anomalous. But a strand of my family has travelled from Australia to compete, so it’s an opportunity to spend time with them and, perhaps, get a glimpse into the lives of sporting types and whatever it is that motivates them. (I may be cynical about sport but not so much as the renowned New York wit Fran Lebovitz, who said “about the only thing I have in common with sports people is the right to trial by jury”.)  
          Nevertheless, I do feel as though I’m currently surrounded by an alien culture. Travelling to and from the Touch event I pass Trent Bridge, (where the West Indies are playing England at cricket), Nottingham Forest FC and several local tennis and rugby clubs. Two days ago I left home, where the TV was permanently showing either Wimbledon (where the British would-be women’s champion admitted to having no idea that the general election was about to happen) or the Euro football tournament which, according to the more emotionally inclined, broke the nation’s heart. Now there is championship golf in Scotland and the news feeds are filling up with preparations for the Paris Olympics. And back on the campsite, I’m surrounded by people with canoes and wetsuits. From this perspective, it seems as though our economy is based mainly on sports, in which case it should be simple for the new government to achieve its stated aim of growing GDP. They might even try conscripting reluctant participants, like me, for the greater good.
          So, I’ve watched my great nephew and several of his cousins play Touch for the Cook Islands (his father’s heritage qualifies him, despite his being Australian) and I now see that it’s a version of rugby/football that excludes physical contact, making it possible to play with mixed-sex teams. It’s fast and furious, while also being safe. Thirty nine countries are competing in the tournament, yet my nephew, who lives in Nottingham, told me he had seen no publicity for the event and that it would have passed him by but for the family callout. Perhaps the sport’s star is on the rise, though. The next competition will be held in New Zealand, which is inaccessible by campervan, I regret to say.
          My parents and siblings had no detectable interest in sports, so I can only speculate that our family caught the bug when one sister emigrated to Australia (I hear it’s rife there) in the company of a Portsmouth  FC fan and the other married into a family of Boston United supporters. These life-changing decisions enriched the bloodline. I say “enriched” in humble acknowledgement of the fact of human difference and because the benefits to the economy are palpable – especially to those who are successful. One news item today concerned a Morrisons delivery driver who won £180k in a golf tournament and has now embarked upon a career change.
          The Touch World Cup goes on till Sunday but I’m currently having a day off, recovering from a bout of touchline fatigue. My extended family is sympathetic, knowing as they do that my enthusiasm is limited and my enquiries into the game and its participants represent polite conversation rather than genuine interest. I have been careful, however, not to mention the fact that I sat and watched the England games during the Euros. They might suspect, as do I, that cracks are appearing in my immune system.