Memoirs of a Prep School Headmaster: What is it about sport?

Illustration by Tim Bulmer

To ease you into the Easter holidays, we've been given another exclusive, hilarious extract from the as-yet-unpublished memoirs of a top prep school head, 'Little to Offer'. Our lips are sealed...

‘Headmaster, this is outrageous, why is my son in the B team?’ an angst-ridden father said one morning.

‘Because there isn’t a C team,’ was the reply.

I believe that this comment, slightly apocryphal, was thought to have been said by a prep school head after he became exasperated by the continual stress caused by team selection.

Why is sport so emotive? Why could it cause so much angst among some parents, and yet for others, complete calm? Why did I hear from so many directors of sport that they spent an inordinate amount of time trying to justify their actions when it concerned team selection?

For me, as long as there was a competitive edge, expert coaching, lots of opportunities and it was fun, then all should be well in a school environment.

At my school, I was pleased that we were known for ‘fighting above our weight.’ We were always reasonably successful. In my third year, numbers were particularly low and we only had thirteen pupils in the top two year groups. On the bright side, it enabled us to tick the box for inclusivity as everyone made it into the 1st team, irrespective of ability.

There was one fantastic moment, which sums up why I love sport, and this was when the 1st XI played a cricket match against a local prep school. What added to the drama of the day was that a number of players on the opposition team had moved their children the year before during the on-going crisis that ensued following [our] introduction of co-education, cessation of Saturday school and the lack of confidence in the new headmaster.

The first XI was chosen from the thirteen players available in year 7 and 8; one was ill and one was happy to score. The opposition had over fifty boys to choose from - game on.

Our coach, with the eleven players plus the scorer, arrived at the main entrance and then drove through the sweeping grounds. There was a vast array of cricket squares overlooked by the ‘country house’ that was our opposition school. It was impressive.

We looked immaculate in our whites. There was some joshing between players as a lot of them knew each other - as only the previous year, they had been in the same classes. The parents were trying to be polite and welcoming but, underneath, those who had left the perceived sinking ship of my school wanted to win to vindicate their decision as having been the right one. And those who stayed were keen to make a point for the opposition’s lack of support and loyalty to a small prep school.

The scene was set with the impeccably mown outfield, beautiful new cricket square that had recently been ‘dropped in’ and a newly donated pavilion. Parents and spectators were scattered around the boundary on their folding deck chairs surrounded by oversized cricket bags belonging to their pampered children and a few dogs on leads ready to watch proceedings. An afternoon of leather on willow and a time to forget the frustrations of life.

The captains made their way to the middle to toss the coin. The home team won the toss and decided to bowl.

There was a sense of expectation between the players and the parents. It was going to be a long afternoon, match tea due in a few hours, time to soak up the sun and relax amidst the laughter and quiet chatter of parental gossip.

Ten minutes later, we had been bowled out for fifteen runs!

Oh, the delight from the opposition players and the quiet smiles on their parents’ faces; it was the right decision to have moved their darlings. A runner was sent forth to the kitchens as match tea was going to have to be sooner than expected. My coach was already keen to get home and start looking for another job.

The boys, although very disappointed, did not let this score line allow them to apportion blame. They took it on the chin.

The home players had now become a little full of themselves; to be fair, they were only twelve years old and not helped by their self-satisfied parents.

We took to the field. The opposition openers, full of smiles, swaggered out of the pavilion, took their guard and then walked back in two minutes later. Suddenly, there was some excitement, some tension, and the home parents were looking slightly tense and nervous.

Eight minutes later, the home side had been bowled out for twelve runs. Prep school cricket - you can’t beat it!

Whoops and cheers, congratulations, smiles, there was a God! Oh, how sweet the smell of victory. Match tea was even better. One or two of the parents could see the funny side and what it meant to their old school, and they had the humility to raise a proverbial glass. The others just looked pissed off, as did their dogs who were now being dragged back to the cars.

Our rusty old minibus wended its way home through the back lanes of Berkshire with singing children and one happy coach. What a joy.

About the author:
George Bailey is the pseudonym of a prep-school headmaster who has, for the past 20 years, led an extraordinary life in the world of independent-school education. The obvious allusion to the main character in the film It’s a Wonderful Life hopefully highlights that, in the end, all we are trying to do is do our best. This book is for all those heads who continue to laugh and cry whilst trying to ensure that their pupils, staff and parents experience a fantastic education.

Note:
This book is a memoir. The events described here are based on memories of my experiences as a headmaster. The identifying features of people and places have been changed in order to protect the privacy of individuals and descriptions of certain situations have been merged to further protect identities. Any similarities are purely coincidental. I have used the names of Charles Dickens’ characters, on occasion, to add some flavour to my memoir.

Memoirs of a Prep School Headmaster: What is it about sport?

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