write story of Derek Redmond?
Answers
From Derek's view:
When I took my place on the starting blocks I felt good.
For once I had no injuries, despite eight operations in four years, and I’d won the first two rounds without breaking sweat – including posting the fastest time in the first round heats. I was confident and when the gun went off I got off to a good start.
I got into my stride running round the first turn and I was feeling comfortable. Then I heard a popping sound. I kept on running for another two or three strides then I felt the pain. I thought I’d been shot, but then I recognized the agony.
I’d pulled my hamstring before and the pain is excruciating: like someone shoving a hot knife into the back of your knee and twisting it. I grabbed the back of my leg, uttered a few expletives and hit the deck.
I couldn’t believe this was happening after all the training I’d put in. I looked around to see where the rest of the field were, and they had only 100m to go. I remember thinking if I got up I could still catch them and qualify.
The pain was intense. I hobbled about 50m until I was at the 200m mark. Then I realized it was all over. I looked round and saw that everyone else had crossed the finishing line. But I don’t like to give up at anything – not even an argument, as my wife will tell you – and I decided I was going to finish that race if it was the last race I ever did.
All these doctors and officials were coming onto the track, trying to get me to stop but I was having none of it. Then, with about 100m to go, I became aware of someone else on the track. I didn’t realize it was my dad, Jim, at first. He said, “Derek, it’s me, you don’t need to do this.”
I just said, “Dad, I want to finish, get me back in the semi-final.” He said, “OK. We started this thing together and now we’ll finish it together.”
He managed to get me to stop trying to run and just walk and he kept repeating, “You’re a champion, you’ve got nothing to prove.”
Today I don’t feel anger, just frustration. The footage has since been used in adverts by Visa, Nike and the International Olympic Committee – I don’t go out of my way to watch it, but it isn’t painful any more
We hobbled over the finishing line with our arms round each other, just me and my dad, the man I’m really close to, who’s supported my athletics career since I was seven years old. I’ve since been told there was a standing ovation by the 65,000 crowd, but nothing registered at the time. I was in tears and went off to the medical room to be looked at, then I took the bus back to the Olympic village.
My dream was over. In Seoul, four years earlier, I didn’t even get to the start line because of an Achilles injury and had “DNS” – Did Not Start – next to my name. I didn’t want them to write “DNF” – Did Not Finish – in Barcelona.
When I saw my doctor, he told me I’d never represent my country again. I felt like there’d been a death. I never raced again and I was angry for two years.
Then one day I just thought: There are worse things than pulling a muscle in a race, and I just decided to get on with my life.
Today I don’t feel anger, just frustration. The footage has since been used in adverts by Visa, Nike and the International Olympic Committee – I don’t go out of my way to watch it, but it isn’t painful any more and I have the Visa ad on my iPad.
If I hadn’t pulled a hamstring that day I could have been an Olympic medallist, but I love the life I have now. I might not have been a motivational speaker or competed for my country at basketball, as I went on to do. And my dad wouldn’t have been asked to carry the Olympic torch this year, which was a huge honor for him.
MARK AS BRAINLIEST
Explanation:
- I was nine. Summer of 1992. Barcelona Olympics.
- Men’s 400m semi-finals. It happens around 150 meters into the race: British sprinter Derek Redmond’s hamstring tears apart.
- The camera lingers over the wreckage for a few seconds, then jumps ahead to the finish line as the race ends.
- But it doesn’t.
- Today, we all know the iconic ending: first Redmond restarts his run with an agonizing one-legged skip, then his dad brusquely pushes aside staff, and physically supports his sobbing son across the finish line.
- This moment is still the saddest thing I’ve seen in sports, yet is also—in many ways—the most mysterious.
- I cried when I was nine. Two decades later, I felt deep sadness when a student reminded me of the moment during one of my research and writing classes.
- Then I almost cried again watching the video.
- As a kid, my sadness was triggered by an awareness that the Olympics is the summation of unimaginable labor for these athletes; that is, the games are a four year marker of one’s toil, which means that the 1992 400m mens semi-finals undid four years of brutal and largely anonymous labor for Redmond.
- And the undoing seems so unfair: the athlete is here betrayed by his own body—at the worst of all possible moments.
- As the oldest of (eventually) 11 kids, undone labor made me sick in the