The proudest mum of all
Mail writer FRANCES HARDY thought Commonwealth medal winning athletes were from another planet – then something amazing happened
Amother’s hug there’s so much invested in it: pride, delight, relief and euphoria.
All these emotions were encompassed in the embrace I gave my daughter, Amy, at the pitchside of a sports stadium in Australia last week.
I know a little of what she felt, too. she told me she had given so much to reach this point — both emotionally and physically — that it was a release to spot me beaming from the crowd and throw her arms round me.
she was battered, limp with exhaustion; wrung out and ecstatic.
No words needed to be said. In our hug, a thousand unspoken thoughts, and all the pent-up emotion of the past three fraught, frenetic days spilled out in joyous, salty tears.
In the cauldron heat of a packed stadium in Queensland, 26-year - old Amy had just become a small part of sporting history.
she is a member of the england Women’s rugby sevens’ squad, the first to compete in the Commonwealth Games, held this year on the Gold Coast, and the first to bring home a medal.
I was in the 27,000- strong crowd, my voice hoarse with cheering and whis - tling, willing our girls on through the preliminary rounds.
And when the england squad, cap - tained by Abbie Brown, made it to the final hurdle to score three first half tries and, finally, secure a 24-19 victory over Canada, I thought my galloping heart would burst.
Canada are our old adversaries. At the rio olympics two years ago, they beat us in the bronze -medal match. then, Amy — bruised and disconso - late — wept on my shoulder tears of bitter disappointment. But this time, victory brought its reward and there was huge celebration.
Thereis often a hair’s breadth between defeat and triumph — in rugby sevens particularly so — and the tension for players and spectators is nerve-shredding.
In the 15 years since Amy began playing rugby, I have followed her progress in tournaments all over the world, but never has the mix of apprehension and anxiety felt so acute as it did last sunday in the broiling 31c heat.
I could barely muster the energy to slog up the steps to my seat in the stands, yet our girls were running, sure-footed, jinking lines through opposition defenders, flooring them in crunching tackles and sprinting till their lungs burned.
rugby sevens is a faster more furious version of the 15-a- side game. It demands the stamina of an ox, herculean strength, deft footwork, the speed of a cheetah, and impeccable hand-eye co-ordination. Watching it is both terrifying and utterly compelling.
Unaccountably, Amy adores playing it, and four years ago she was picked for england’s debut professional squad, becoming one of the first women in the UK to be paid to play the game.
As full-time athletes, she and her teammates train relentlessly . their ‘office’ is the National sports Centre at Bisham Abbey in Buckinghamshire; their job a vocation that consumes their lives. self - sacrifice and commitment are key. they must be fiercely competitive. they have to shed every ounce of surplus fat, and lift implausibly heavy weights until their muscles turn to iron.
they must be abrasive and evasive, and hone the art of side - stepping opponents to avoid being crunched to the ground in a tackle. they must be fearless and adroit. they must run like the wind. It all takes guts. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine my Amy would become a rugby player. Unlike her , I don ’t have a sporty gene in my body.
At school, I fumbled every shot at tennis, didn ’t even make the third team in netball and would trail in last at every sports day.
so when my little girl won trophies for fastest runner at school and excelled at ball sports, I began to wonder if she was really mine, or a changeling, swapped at birth by mischievous fairies.
When she announced, aged 11, that she was off to a ‘taster’ session at our local rugby club, however, I felt a pang of concern. r ugby is a rough game (I knew this even though I had never watched it), but I agreed she could go, figuring it would be a five-minute wonder.
But 15 years on, Amy is still playing; still amazing me with her tenacity, grit and resolve.
through her teens, rugby consumed her. she rose through the ranks playing for sussex County, then the south- east region, and then, aged 14, won her place in the england Development squad.
so, to my unending incredulity, I have become a rugby mum, standing on touchlines, cheering lustily, although still understanding little of the arcane rules of the game.
And while playing rugby at the top level, Amy has won a degree in engineering from Bath University, studying for her finals while flying round the world competing in tournaments from Japan to russia, south America to the U.s., writing her final-year dissertation on long-haul flights, squeezing in lectures on the one day a week when she was not training.
When I think about the pace of Amy’s life — the punishing gym sessions, the ice baths, the self - denial — I feel quite faint, but I also know it has made her resourceful, reliable and brave.
Shehas learned to savour the thrill of victory , and endure with stoicism the disappointment of defeat. she knows that adversity must be overcome; that mistakes must be turned into lessons; that the ache of losing must be borne but not become a burden.
her working life is a succession of soaring highs and devastating lows, and, as her mum, I go through them with her.
Last week there was just jubila - tion. We posse of parents, waving our england flags, looked on with tears in our eyes as our girls stood on the podium to receive their bronze medals.
they were bone tired but exult - ant, bruised but victorious; buoyed up on a tide of adrenaline.
And we could not contain our joy and pride.