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1 Playing cricket for local college, without the protection of a box. I reached 44 not out when, taking an extravagant swish at the ball to hit a certain four and therefore my first 50, the ball suddenly dipped into my unprotected area. I was carried off the pitch in the foetal position - and remained in that state for many hours.
2 Throwing a cricket ball a la Derek Randall at the stumps from square, hoping to destroy the wicket of a very good opposing batsman. Unfortunately, the throw was somewhat wild. The umpire ended up remembering the match as the one where he was taken to hospital to have four stitches in the side of his head.
3 Short par three 18th hole - deciding on a gentle nine iron, I hit the ball sweetly into the middle of a wedding which was going on in the church by the side of the club house. I never could get rid of my slice.
Nigel Smith
1 Winning second prize in a Ready Brek competition in 1970 (first prize was a bike, second a signed certificate from the Reg Varney's mate in 'On the Buses').
2 As a centre-half, getting a mention in the South Wales Argus for being "quite tall".
3 Winning my local Subbuteo League Cup in 1973 after beating Martin Haynes 2-0 in the final. (I still have the cup).
Andrew Strong
1 Coming second in the Handwriting and Calligraphy competition in Leominster villages Eistedfodd in 1981.
2 Getting a poem I wrote about Hair published in my school magazine in 1986.
3 I won a little blue bag of salt in a packet of crisps once...
Other than that not too many triumphs to report.
Debbie Stenner
1 I won a plastic 'Oscar' figurine at a Halloween fancy dress party last October, for my outstanding contribution to costume (I was a fab Miss Piggy).
2 When I was eight I won a medal for Irish dancing. I stopped mid-flow to pull up my white knee socks, which illustrates the calibre of the other 'contestants'.
3 In third year at school, I won an art competition and the prize was a Rolf Harris stylophone (I don't think you can still get these but I had hours of fun attempting to play hits of the 80s on this little electronic magic-pen-driven keyboard).
Helen Kane
1 Captaining the unheralded and deeply unfancied 1c7 to glory, in our year's 11-a-side tournament. All 10 classes entered teams into the prestigious event. Our team assembled unpromisingly on the morning of the big day. We had two fat lads at fullback, one of whom clutched his inhaler throughout (fortunately this was pre-drug testing); the problem left midfield role was filled by a loner, heavy metal fan sporting an Iron Maiden T-shirt; three others were in "Spall" branded sporting wear; and up front, the four of us who fancied ourselves as footballers battled for scoring opportunities in a rather cavalier 3-2-4 formation. I say 3-2-4 as our class of 15 boys had failed to deliver the requisite 11 men considered standard by the rest of the association football world.
We were in the final against pre-tournament favourites 1c4. A team packed full of "proper" footballers, with hair gel and new boots. They possessed not only 11 men but substitutes and the majority of the fanciable girls in the year group as a fan club. A dour 0-0 game ensued in which the ball rarely left the middle third and we shamelessly resorted to clearances that landed several pitches away. And so it came to penalties. I was to take our fifth and jogged nervously on the spot despite cramping limbs from a day of almost constant running. Fortunately our keeper was the hero of the hour, saving three of their kicks and meaning I wouldn't have to run the gauntlet of female booing after all. We had won - and with 10 men! As I sat in the bath at home that night, clutching the cheap wooden base with plastic figurine, surely purchased from the bargain bin at The Trophy Centre, it was as if it was the Jules Rimet itself.
(PS: The following year we lost the final on penalties due to me southgating the decisive effort straight at the keeper.)
2 The last word in comebacks. The event was a laser clay pigeon shoot at a holiday resort. The competition was fierce; age-old rivalries were resurrected: I was up against my Dad and my big brother. The early rounds were solo shooting at which I did appallingly; next it was two "pigeons" at a time - a similar performance from myself. I was now laughably off the pace and disappearing under a heap of cheap filial and parental barbs as we came to the last round: two pigeons fired in quick succession for all three of us to aim at. Just before we began, the old boy who was firing the luminous plastic targets, wanders past me and says bashfully "I think you've got the wrong eye closed". More insults followed. But from this crucible of abuse my aim was honed. I discarded the dross of my previous technique and armed myself with this precious nugget of knowledge - "left eye shut; right eye open". I hit all 20 pigeons before my detractors had flinched and claimed an unlikely top spot. Trying desperately not to 'Alpay' the situation with a few choice words as we walked home, I made do with a couple of metaphorical fingers in the face. For a brief moment I was Tom Cruise entering the danger zone. I was Top Gun.
3 There is a time and a place for giving up - this should have been one of them. A summer holiday with my soon-to-be in-laws in France was dampened by a couple of days of heavy rain. We eschewed the indoor delights of the local chateaux and opted for the ultimate cultural treat: a partially covered, astroturf crazy golf complex. My girlfriend, her sister and little brother soon tired as the holes passed by and their competitive spirits ebbed away. Not my mother-in-law though, who was fighting me putt for putt, tunnel for tunnel, windmill for windmill. As we approached the 36th hole, we had been thoroughly doused again, the course was deserted and the rest of the family group were by now totally bored. However, the two of us battled on, neck and neck in the fight for top spot. Calamity was upon me though as my tee shot spun eccentrically off the first set of logs in this wild west-themed classic final layout. It was advantage to my mother-in-law as she safely negotiated the saloon doors and lay a makeable 10ft off the hole. My second shot needed to be perfection itself. It was. I fired the ball 10 yards off a small but previously unseen gap in the stockade, bypassing the giant pistols that barred my way and watched with a frankly unhealthy delight as the ball ricocheted into the hole. As my mother-in-law dribbled her deciding putt wide of the cup I barely managed not to punch the air. She was gutted. The others were underwhelmed. Still, I'm sure my mother-in-law was secretly delighted her daughter would soon be marrying an over competitive pedant.
Keith Mowat
I have been playing Real Tennis for about 16 years (I could never master the serve in lawn tennis) but have never exactly progressed in my level of skill. These are the three small victories that have made those 16 years slightly less painful.
1 Beating Sophie Wessex (when she was still Sophie Rhys-Jones). Back in 1998 I had actually managed to improve a bit, but was still no-where near the level of the future Mrs Wessex. However, I managed to pull off some cracking shots and Sophie, to be fair, had a bit of a nightmare. I left the court feeling that I had done my bit for republicanism.
2 - Beating Sophie Wessex ... again! Not long after our first match I was again drawn against the soon-to-be Royal. This time the poor girl had no excuses:I beat her roundly. Unfortunately I tried to lighten the tone in one of the breaks by asking if she had had a nice weekend (it was just after the August bank holiday, 1998). She replied that it had been ok, but that the weather hadn't been great up in Scotland, where, or so I thought, she had been visiting the future in-laws. My friends were quick to point out to me that she had been at the memorial service for the first anniversary of Diana's death. Strangely I was never drawn against her again.
3 The lift home. While staying in Australia I played at the Sydney court and was roundly beaten by the club treasurer, a man approximately three times my age and at least twice my weight. As I left the court and thought despairingly of the long, crowded, sweaty bus-ride back to town my opponent kindly offered me a lift which I accepted. When we reached the car park I realised that he was the treasurer for a reason as we walked towards his gleaming Rolls Royce. The memory of my defeat was eased slightly as I realised that I was certain to be the only traveller arriving in Bondi that day in the comfort of an air-conditioned Roller.
Ciarán Norris
1 Picking up the ball on the edge of my penalty area, I entered a place between this world and the next, often known as 'the zone'. I don't know how I got there or how to get back, but without the burden of having to construct thought I took the ball past four or five of their men, burst between two defenders and put the goalie on his backside before easing the ball over the line. I didn't even raise a cheer, I was free - and then, as I realised where I had just been, it was gone.
2 A particularly cultured hand of Texas Hold'em poker. I was holding an ace and a three and caught a second ace on the flop. I'd already decided to make my stand and had been betting aggressively from the word go. So now the thought was I might have been holding pocket rockets and had made three Aces. What I later found out was that my opponent had caught three queens, a pair of ladies in the hand and one on the board. I had no choice but to represent the ace and try to knock him off his hand. Again I raised, he countered with a reraise and I went all in - with nothing more than a pair of aces. He had me beat. We stared at each other across the table. Him trying to read my mind, me trying not to give away that I was standing on the edge of a precipice ...
3 Winning the blindfold egg and spoon race was of paramount importance to me, mostly to put that James Brown in his place (not the US funk singer). We were supposed to have a runner alongside to keep us in a straight line and to tell us when to stop. I never heard his voice and I assumed I had out-run him in my desire to burst the tape. I could hear the noise from the crowd and a gasp of astonishment when I connected with the drinks table. Then there was only pain and laughter (I wasn't laughing), but I had won, some way back.
Andy Kliman
1 I tried for three years to do the Seven Sisters marathon. On the fourth year I did it. I can still remember how great I felt.
2 On holiday at Butlins, there was a sprint of 200 yards to win a prize. I was goaded into entering and, much to my delight, came second.
3 I had an accident at work a couple of years back and find it difficult to get around. Last week I wanted a present for my partner and managed to get to the shops and back on my own. This doesn't sound like much of an achievement, but most days I have difficulty getting around the house - so to me this was far a bigger achievement than the other two.
Lesley Davis
1 I recently found a newspaper clipping of a match report for a game played 12 years ago. It was an Under-18 Cup Final, and we played a team who provided a steady stream of underage talent for Irish squads. Our team, in typical west of Ireland soccer tradition, arrived 10 minutes before kickoff, smoked at half time and rarely trained together, so we were regarded as complete no hopers. Anyway, we won the game 2-1, and as luck would have it I got the winner. Alas, the most memorable part of the clipping was the picture of me with an embarrassingly slight frame, topped with the most ridiculous grunge haircut ever.
2 In my first year in college, money was scarce. So at the end of every day in the run up to a grant payment, I and a few others would pool whatever meagre amount we had into a pot, and play cards for it. Winner got to eat a steak, losers were on toast. I won it three times in the space of a year. Those three steaks were the most enjoyable meals of my life.
3 When I was 12, I went to a schools' quiz night. An extra bonus was that there were girls' schools in attendance as well. It came to the raffle part of the night, and my ticket was drawn out for first prize. I walked up to the stage to collect my prize, trying to keep any notions of grandeur and smugness at bay. When the prize was presented, it made me the laughing stock of the parish hall. The prize was a salad spinner. I failed to see the benefit one would have for any 12 or 13-year-old.
Kevin Loftus
Didn't win?
Stop being such a skinflint - just buy the thing.
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