Llewellyn’s Chair

When I was young, about twenty-two or three,
feeling fit and powerful, there was no stopping me.
At school Phys-Ed teachers said, “You’re built to compete,”
said I had the body of a perfect athlete
and I must admit, I thought the world was at my feet.

Me and my best friend Llewellyn – we were just the same
(well, he wasn’t quite as good as me!)
but he’d be there in every game
competing energetically.

We trained and played, sweated guts and blood,
laughed and lost and wept and won.
I grinned with pride every time
I proved better than the rest.
Llewellyn merely smiled when he tried
his damnedest; did his best.
I complained and scowled on those days I didn’t win
Llewellyn was unhappy if he couldn’t make it training.

But then came the tragedy,
for Llewellyn that is; not for me.
On a training run in the Winter
of Nineteen seventy Three
a drunk at his wheel fell asleep
mounted the kerb, crashed in the street.
He stepped from the car with a cut on his face;
Llewellyn was numb from his toes to his waist.

This was Llewellyn, my friend; it wasn’t fair
How could he be so broken,
even prayers could not repair?
While I could stand vain,
athletic, strong and ripped
Llewellyn played dead in his hospital bed
and couldn’t even shit
without help from a nurse –
(who as it happens was also pretty fit!)

But Llewellyn it occurs
was now completely averse
to those young man dalliances.
Lustful, empty, arrogant romances
that just like a bubble, will float and burst.
Llewellyn looked and acted
as if waiting for his hearse,
while I was distracted from friendship
by my rock ‘n roll years,
putting strength and athleticism to the best of use.

I scored awesome goals (and girls!)
and racked up some cracking tries.
I breasted the winning tape,
hit knock-out blows and told myself lies
about the fact my brain was out of shape.

Chasing good times and glory,
winning titles, medals and kisses,
it was hard facing the reality
of Llewellyn’s paralysis.
So while my fuse burnt fiercely
I heard about Llewellyn occasionally
and from the depths of his melancholy
he began racing in his chair apparently.

Now I’ve never watched much of those Paralympics.
To be honest I’d always felt them slightly offensive.
I thought them patronising – another ‘P.C.’ trick
but I was strong and powerful and a pretty thoughtless prick!

As my sporting life unfolded to cheers,
applause and ovations
I was strong, but not quite strong enough
to fulfil my sporting ambitions…
Or was it, ‘Just not strong enough?
Not fast enough?
Or unlucky?’
There had been times
I should have trained
but I complained
I was feeling yucky
and didn’t go.
There were times I know
I could have won
had I prepared myself with care,
but I took my gifts with nonchalance
unlike Llewellyn in his chair.

He trained and raced and worked like a demon,
honed his muscles and his mind to perfection.
When we met I hardly recognised
This paragon of application
with a glint in his eyes
who didn’t know how to say
he could sense my dissatisfaction
as my sporting life lurched toward inaction.
Complaceny and laziness had by now conspired
to drain the body powerful
of athletic spark and fire.
Yet, deep behind Llewellyn’s eyes
there was no dullness or lack of spirit,
whatever it was that I never had,
Llewellyn was crackling with it.