Upur 13

Chapter 13: Sports

Although academics took centre stage in Class X because of the looming Board examinations, sports still occupied a special corner in school life. Most of us treated the games period as a welcome break from studies, but in our class there were two boys for whom sports was not merely recreation—it was a way of life. They were Vohra and Raina.

Vohra was nothing short of a legend in our school. A National Champion among Kendriya Vidyalayas in both shot put and javelin throw, he had earned a reputation that extended far beyond Udhampur. His achievements were so exceptional that the school often overlooked his academic shortcomings and promoted him with generous support from the teachers. Raina, too, was a talented sportsman who regularly represented the school at State-level competitions.

While these stars spent their games periods training seriously, the rest of us participated more out of compulsion than passion. In those days, Kendriya Vidyalayas largely encouraged games requiring minimal equipment, such as Kho-Kho and Kabaddi. Unfortunately, neither appealed to me. I preferred racket sports like badminton and tennis.

As a result, during most games periods, we reluctantly played a few rounds of Kho-Kho before retreating under the sprawling banyan tree to gossip. Nearby, the girls busied themselves with hopscotch and occasionally basketball when the weather permitted. Kabaddi, besides being rough, invariably left our uniforms covered in dust, giving us yet another excuse to avoid it.

On one occasion, a few of us attempted shot put under Vohra's guidance. The experience was humbling. Our throws scarcely travelled half the distance that his did. We laughed at our pathetic attempts while Vohra effortlessly hurled the heavy iron ball across the field.

His javelin throws were even more astonishing. I still remember our PT teacher, Mr Dabang Singh, prudently positioning himself at what he believed would be the farthest point of the throw with a measuring tape in hand. Each time, Vohra's javelin sailed far beyond his estimate, forcing him to unroll the entire tape in disbelief. No other student in the school came remotely close to matching those distances.

We had two PT teachers. Mr Dabang Singh was a giant of a man—strict, reserved and somewhat intimidating. His own shot put throws landed only a few feet behind Vohra's. His assistant, Mr Rajeev, was the complete opposite. Young, approachable and soft-spoken, he connected effortlessly with students.

Mr Rajeev would patiently demonstrate how to shoot a basketball, explaining the finer points of balance, timing and body movement. His enthusiasm made sports enjoyable. Sadly, such personal attention was reserved mostly for promising athletes. The average student was generally left to fend for himself.

This, I felt, was one area where government schools lagged behind many public and convent schools. True sports culture is not merely about producing champions; it is about instilling sporting spirit in every child.

Most often, a football would simply be handed over to us and the teachers would quietly disappear. The game would begin without coaching, strategy or even proper teams. We chased the ball from one end of the field to the other with boundless energy but very little skill.

Our football ground bordered a small river. Occasionally, an overenthusiastic kick would send the ball tumbling down the slope into the water below. Retrieving it became an adventure in itself. Several natural springs dotted the hillside, and many of us preferred resting beside these cool streams rather than returning to the game. Some would sit with their feet immersed in the crystal-clear water, lazily kicking the recovered ball back into the field while the others continued playing.

When time was short, we often played a fascinating game called 'Dog and Bone'. A handkerchief placed in the centre served as the 'bone', while two players circled cautiously around it, waiting for the slightest opportunity to snatch it and race back to safety before being caught. The game was simple, fast and immensely entertaining.

Looking back, sports in many government schools suffered not because of lack of funds but because of lack of initiative. Much depended on a student's own interest. Those who were genuinely motivated learned and improved; the rest merely passed time.

Indian society during those days attached far greater importance to academics than sports. Parents firmly believed that studies ensured livelihood, whereas sports remained an uncertain pursuit. Consequently, sporting achievements often came at the cost of academic performance.

To compensate, schools sometimes awarded generous marks to star athletes. Though well-intentioned, this practice merely created false confidence. A far better approach would have been to provide extra academic support so that talented sportspersons could excel in both fields.

At home, I regularly played badminton and occasionally tennis. On the way to the swimming pool lay an Army tennis court where officers usually played. There I often saw Jasjot Kaur, a senior from our school.

She was an outstanding tennis player. Agile, athletic and fiercely competitive, she moved across the court with remarkable speed and power, often troubling even experienced male players. Watching her play was itself an education in determination and skill.

Every year, the school also conducted the National Physical Efficiency Drive (NPED) tests. Students were awarded one-star, two-star or the coveted three-star ratings based on their physical performance in events such as sprinting, long jump, high jump and endurance runs.

Only a handful of students in the entire school earned three stars, making them celebrities of sorts. The badges they wore proudly on their blazers commanded admiration and respect. These certificates also carried considerable value during admissions to professional institutions.

Sports tours were another source of excitement. Selected students travelled to places like Jammu and Delhi to participate in tournaments organised by the School Games Federation of India (SGFI). Raina would return from such trips with endless stories, each retelling becoming more colourful and entertaining than the last.

Travelling without parents at such a young age taught valuable lessons in independence, responsibility and teamwork. Living together, sharing resources and facing unfamiliar situations strengthened friendships and fostered maturity.

Interacting with players from other schools also broadened one's horizons. A student who considered himself unbeatable within the school quickly realised the vastness of competition outside. Such exposure shattered complacency and inspired improvement.

Yet, sports tours also highlighted another reality. Adolescence is a vulnerable age, and proper guidance from teachers becomes essential. Unfortunately, some teachers appeared more interested in winning trophies than in nurturing character and values.

Despite these shortcomings, whenever we travelled outside, all internal rivalries vanished. House loyalties disappeared, and we represented the school as one united team. Friendships deepened, grudges ended and bonds strengthened.

Ironically, Kendriya Vidyalayas never lacked funds for sports equipment. What they often lacked was efficient management. I had earlier studied in Don Bosco (St Anthony's School) Shillong, where every child received sports equipment freely against a simple identity card. Bats, pads, stumps—everything was readily available.

Government schools presented a different picture. Students seeking equipment were frequently met with excuses: "The storekeeper is absent," "Come later," or "The items are unavailable." Eventually, many simply gave up.

I once witnessed something deeply disturbing in another Kendriya Vidyalaya. Before an inspection, our PT teacher summoned a few of us to the sports store after school. Brand-new footballs, volleyballs and cricket pads, still wrapped in polythene, were deliberately cut and damaged to make them appear worn out and regularly used.

I watched in disbelief as perfectly good equipment, which students had long been denied, was destroyed merely to satisfy paperwork and audit requirements.

That incident left a lasting impression on me. If resources meant for children could be wasted so casually, how could sports truly flourish?

Yet, despite all these shortcomings, schools still produced outstanding sportspersons like Vohra and Raina. Their success was a testimony not to the system, but to individual determination.

Perhaps that is why the line painted on the back of a truck travelling from Jammu to Srinagar has remained etched in my memory:

"Sau mein se nabbe beimaan, phir bhi mera Bharat mahaan."

As adolescence progressed, however, our interests gradually began shifting beyond classrooms and playgrounds. Sports remained important, but new emotions, friendships and distractions were quietly entering our lives—ushering us into yet another unforgettable phase of growing up.

The final paragraph creates a natural bridge to a subsequent chapter on friendships, teenage attractions, social life, or other experiences of adolescence.