TIM BELFORD

What might have been

Canada may not have had the Olympics we would have liked to have seen but there's no doubt about one thing.

Watching those young people, doing their level best, win lose or draw, is an inspiring sight.

As role models for young Canadians, they're the tops.

It was ever so.

Back in the Dark Ages when I was a lad, I too dreamed of glory. There was only one problem.

My body.

You see, although I was, and I say this in all modesty, a bit of an athlete, I didn't have the physical make-up to really excel at anything Olympic. (Remember, they hadn't yet considered ballroom dancing.)

My legs, you see, are not long -- the inseam of my trousers are the shortest standard size produced.

This meant long-distance running, high jumping, long jumping, and the like wouldn't do.

Conversely, my body is of the longer sort. As a matter of fact, when I stand I'm only five foot nine and three quarters. Ah, but when I sit, I can pass for somewhat over six feet.

Nor did I have the leg structure of a sprinter.

Throwing things was never my strong suit. And, anyway, I quickly realized there were few if any one hundred and fifty-five pound shot putters.

The pool, unfortunately, actually required entering the water. And since I think of swimming not in recreational terms but more as a survival skill, I gave up the thought of being the Canadian Johnny Weismuller.

There was one thing though. Pole vaulting.

I reasoned that this would put to ideal use my larger upper body while turning my shorter, lighter, lower half into an asset.

Also, I would only have to run a couple hundred feet and had absolutely no fear of heights.

Pole vaulting in those days however, was not as it is today.

In athletic terms, the 1960s was the Jurassic age of vaulting.

Instead of a wonderful, whippy fiberglass or futuristic polymer pole that literally hurls the jumper upward, we made do with something resembling an eight foot piece of plumber's pipe.

It was tapered at one end and had all the flexibility of Revenue Canada.

The pit into which we fell, presuming we cleared the bar, was just that, a pit.

No soft layers of foam rubber, just some well-forked sand mixed with sawdust.

Nevertheless, I practiced rigorously and come the big day was prepared to soar skyward to glory.

Over the years I have taken great pride in displaying my second place ribbon all the while neglecting to point out I was one of only two entered in the event.

And I am sure I would done better if, on my second attempt at eight and half feet, I hadn't caught the end of my pole on the raised lip of the vaulting box.

Unfortunately, this caused the pole to stop abruptly while I hurtled forward head first into the sand and sawdust.

I also managed to catch my leg on the aforementioned piece of bent tin opening a twelve-inch gash that ran from ankle to knee.

It did afford me an honourable way out being declared unfit for further action by the school nurse.

But to this day, I wonder what might have been.