High Dive

Patrick Baily is preparing for the most momentous event of his life.
He stands in readiness for a twenty-metre high-dive that he hopes will
make everyone gasp. This is his big entrance, his one opportunity to
make people sit up and look.

He's twenty-four and from Stoke, a competitor we should all be rooting
for. No-one ever roots for the other teams, for the Yanks or the
Russians or the Germans or French. We always root for our own.

That thought is his strength as he stands taking deep, lingering
breaths. No-one's ever rooted for Patrick in his life. Surely someone
could have encouraged him at least once in his life, held onto him and
told him that he'd done something worthwhile at least once. I mean,
come on: everyone achieves something, don't they? But not Patrick, who
never could do anything right according to his father, whose mother ran
off with another man when he was five and never came back. He hasn't
spoken to his sister for eight years. So no-one is here to watch him
today, on this mighty occasion where, at last, he will actually do
something remarkable, something that people will remember. It is going
to be an emotional moment.

He sucks in air then blasts it out, a fierce and determined wind to
expel all of his anger. It's good for preparation, it let's all of the
rage out. It's what he'll do to build determination. And he closes his
eyes, listening. The ringing of blood in his ears fills his mind but he
can imagine the roar of an Olympic crowd urging him onward. Go on,
Patrick! Show Britain what you're made of!

It's almost time now. Feet tip-toe to the edge, curling over it to feel
that precipice and the infinite empty space it separates him from. He
can feel a breeze whistling through his hair. It's quite invigorating
and he's never felt so alive, or quite so important. Breath it in,
Patrick! Breath that air and with every breath, take in life!

This is it. Just time to mutter a little prayer, to wish that his lost
family could be here to see this, to see him actually succeed at
something. To wish that old friends, those who left without so much as
a goodbye, those who ignored him, could stare in amazement at this
stunning feat. Yet not to be. They will read about Patrick in the
newspapers and wish they had been there as history was written.

That's it, Patrick. You've got to go now. There is no time to waste or
you'll lose that crucial momentum, the preparation that has been key to
getting this far. Stand still, hold your nerve and make your dive.
That's it. Swing your arms Patrick, and off you go. Quick now, before
you have a second thought. That's it.

Take to the air like a bird. But it's not quite as you expected, is it
Patrick? Not the elegant high-dive that you had recorded and played
back in your mind so many times. No. Instead, your arms are flailing in
all directions and you kick like a struggling wild animal. And that
noise you make, Patrick - it's not going to win you any extra marks, is
it?

It doesn't matter, though. There's no turning around now and what's
done is done. Not beautiful or poetic at all, but don't worry Patrick:
this time there's no-one here to laugh at you, smashed on the rocks
like red fruit pulp.