Sometimes something happens to you and you just can’t bring yourself to write about it straight away. Survivors of earthquakes, tsunamis plus a host of other natural and non-natural disasters often put off speaking of the event until long afterwards, preferring instead to put it to the back of their minds whilst they can lest it become as clear in the daylight hours as it is during sleep.

This is how I feel about recounting the events of my school’s Sports Day.

As you may have realised from my past posts (and general demeanor, should you have had the questionable pleasure of my company), I am not a member of what you could describe as ‘the sporty set’ and have been actively avoiding extreme physical exertion relatively successfully for the last 12 years. Relatively successfully until coming to Korea, of course….here follows the woeful tale of my first foray into the world of physical education in the Land of the Morning Calm.

Last Wednesday, I was alerted of the fact that my Friday’s lessons would be cancelled owing to it being Sports Day at my Middle School. I was perfectly fine with this, always being a fan of cancelled classes so close to the weekend. I heard that the majority of the English faculty (the ones without homeroom classes to look after during the events) would be taking the day off but I knew better than to think myself one of these lucky masses, my school never having thus far missed an opportunity to show off the foreigner and showing no sign of change.

I’m beginning to notice a trend in my conversations with my co-teacher, where everything goes swimmingly until she casually drops in what I call the Ominous Korean Maybe (OKM), which has the horrible tendency of leaving a dark cloud over whatever we have been discussing. Examples I have encountered so far include my after school class (“maybe you will have 30 students?”), the examination period (“maybe you will write all of the exam questions and email them to me in an hour?”) and, spectacularly, my summer camp (“maybe you will write Macbeth for the first graders? Maybe it will rhyme?”). Sigh. Yes madam, maybe it will rhyme. And perhaps it won’t, Shakespeare knew not to always bother with that shit and so do I.

As I mentally prepared myself for a day of sitting in the sun watching 900+ students running around as I made awkward conversation with the other staff (not a terrible prospect, in and of itself), she dropped the OKM bomb: “maybe you will wear sports clothes for the running?”. I must say, I’m surprised that I didn’t forcibly propel a TKC (Terrible Korean Coffee) bomb onto her lap from my open mouth. With recently learned professionalism in the face of unusual demands I smiled and nodded, utilising the rehearsed “of course!” that I’ve been trotting out whenever I can’t think of anything actually positive to say. I couldn’t bring myself to say “sounds like fun!” because the prospect of lumbering 100m in the blistering sun alongside a pack of teeny tiny, hiking-lean Koreans in front of 900 teenage boys sounded more like a sentence than bloody fun.

Thursday, however, brought hope and relief as my co-teacher criticised my distinctly un-sporty Vans trainers and suggested that there was no way I should endanger myself to strains (sprains?) by hoofing around a sand track in inappropriate footwear. I thanked her, ostensibly for saving my health but actually for saving my pride.

The next day, I arrived at school to a host of unexpected treats and weirdness.I was immediately marched to a seat near the athletics track and was presented over the course of the next hour with delicious Korean snacks, watermelon and unfathomably sweet iced coffee. I watched class after class of face-painted, team t-shirt clad students scream “FIGHTING!!” then engage in a number of obscure activities without doubt prohibited by British Health and Safety laws. My favourite activity was a wonderfully risky version of the 3-legged race, in which 6 students found their legs bound together by a huge swimming pool float and were required to navigate a ramshackle obstacle course. A close second was the inter-class Tug ‘O’ War, adorably introduced as the “War of Tug”. I suspect that whoever designs the activities for ‘Takeshi’s Castle’ also had a hand in the design stage of a typical Korean Sports Day, and (seeing as I was prepared to observe a boring series of 800m runs and a ruddy shotput) I thank him wholeheartedly for it.

Team One (note the deely-bopper wearing cheerleader)…

…and Team Two. Biggest War of Tug ever.

Another thing I was not prepared for was the presence of the students mothers. Back in England, Sports Day after Primary School is a bit of a non-event for parents, largely because most people work during the day and so can’t take time off to observe their children hating every minute of a 800m slog against a girl who races cross country for Cheshire and has won before the bloody gun goes off. Here, however, you’d think they were given it as a national holiday. If I haven’t mentioned a typical Korean mother before, rest assured that I will do soon…all you need to know for now is that they are practically interchangeable (at least those on the PTA), all sporting full body hiking gear, a tight perm and a steely, competitive grimace. Somewhere around 12 o’clock I found my elbow in the iron grip of the group commander, who practically carried me to the lunchroom and watched without blinking as I tackled the world’s boniest sea creature with a pair of chopsticks. Half an hour and about six near death experiences later I was released, bloated and shaking to receive threatening word from the Vice Principal: “Carrie, you’d better run”.

Holy. Shit. For a moment I genuinely thought that he was giving me a headstart before releasing the hounds, but at my panicked expression my translator quickly added “but run safely!”, pointing at the non-sporty trainers I had fortunately decided to wear again. I busted out the now well-worn “of course!” with considerably less gusto than usual (in my defense I had just thought that I was going to be hunted for sport, so I think this understandable) and mulled over the potential horrors of my Korean sporting debut. I steeled myself for the inevitable and told myself that everyone loves a joiner, even if she is sweaty, panting, unable to complete a short race and vomiting fish bones.

I took myself off to the bathroom during the inter-class football competition, to tie my shoelaces and vaguely attempt to stretch before the ritual humiliation began. Upon my return I realised that the Principal, Vice Principal and entire Humanities faculty had joined in and were running around in their shiny three-piece suits, tackling students and staff alike and generally competing in the world’s most surreal football game. I watched with increasing incredulity as the crowd got more and more involved with the game, ravenous with disbelief that the Principal himself had lowered himself from his Korean middle school version of Mount Olympus to engage in the beautiful game. As the game drew to the most dramatic of closes, the commentator (read: PE teacher) went momentarily mental, barking a lengthy Korean order that made my co-teachers turn to me in an instantly recognisable combination of disbelief and apprehension.

Apparently (at a moment’s notice and without any prior warning or training) we were to play a game of football, in front of the entire faculty, students and parents. Within five minutes I was staring blankly at my co-teacher and the rest of my hastily put-together Teacher’s Team, wondering why they seemed to be looking toward me for encouragement or wise words. I had none, obviously, so without any pep talk beyond a quick “FIGHTING!” we began what would be an epic, bloody battle against a vicious, unrelenting team of Mothers. Or not, considering none of us had ever put foot to ball before…which, it turns out, is an integral part of it all.

The game began with our goalkeeper (the 60+ cleaning lady, who often speaks to me in jabbering Korean whilst knowing full well that I don’t speak it) tying a wet flannel around her head, donning a pair of marigold gloves and marching steadfastly toward the opposition’s goal, which she intended to defend. After some explanation (and charades) we managed to shepherd her back into the correct position, upon which she promptly scored an own goal…which turned out to be the only goal of the game. There really is nothing else I can say about it as I was trying so hard to ignore out the shouts of 900 students that I accidentally blocked out the entire experience. Hey ho. I left the pitch/sand pit dejected but elated that the ordeal was over; never again would I feel quite so uncomfortable, awkward and unable in public. It was a good feeling.

Shortly after the game, I was approached by a fellow co-teacher, who told me in no uncertain terms that her homeroom class were very disappointed in me. I asked her why, only to be told that “all English people are good at football!”, meaning that my lack of ability offended them in some way I had not foreseen. I explained that girls didn’t play football whilst I was at school, but it made no difference, I was doomed to live on as Carrie the Disappointment Machine – England’s Most Pathetic Sporting Offering.

Since the event I have been approached by almost all of the staff, each expressing their individual feelings toward my footballing prowess with varying degrees of disappointment and disgust. During the next week of teaching, every single classroom I entered (22, to be precise) immediately rang with cries of “teacher, why are you so bad at sports?”, simultaneously bringing back painful memories of my own high school years and making me feel like a dumpy, awkward lump of neon tabbard wearing crap. Of course this wasn’t an issue for the Korean teachers who were also useless at playing…they aren’t English after all, what are they supposed to know about football?

It’s not all doom and gloom though, I’ve already begun to dream about next year…

With any luck we’ll all be forced to play baseball, during which I can stick my fingers in my ears and sing the Macarena whilst my fellow staff are expected to score 17 home runs a second using a worn out colander as a bat.