On your marks, ready, die

The biggest and most dangerous event in the school year, Japanese Junior High sports day, is terrifying and, if introduced to England, a law-suit waiting to happen.

On Wednesday, the school I teach at was all set for a day of carefree fun and games in the baking hot sun.

However during the course of the day two children were carried off in stretchers, one before the opening ceremony had even got going.

Japanese culture places emphasis on the team rather than individual, meaning there are no events singling contestants out.

First was a game where dozens of cardboard boxes are piled in the middle of the arena. On the whistle the children, in teams of five, compete to make the tallest tower, seeing students balancing precariously on each other’s shoulders as they jump up and down in attempt to throw more and more items on top of their growing stack.

Inevitably a handful of children end up at the accident and emergency tent, queuing to be attended to by the school nurse, after plummeting to the gravel all weather pitch from great heights, and with great force.

Next comes to human pyramid. A mismatch of young boys, of all shapes and sizes, clamour on top of each other to form three structures, each five-storeys high. At this point I am reassured by the safety mats that have been hauled onto the pitch, until I realize that this is to help give the pyramid topper that extra bit of bounce to launch himself half way up his stack of wobbling peers, making the ascent to the summit far less arduous.

In a grand finale, the entire male population of the school, summing up to a grand total of more than 70, creates one enormous pyramid, which is quite a spectacle to behold.

Incredibly, there are no falls and no visible injuries, but one child struggling to walk, is subsequently bound with ice-packs, most likely having suffered irreparable damage to his back.

Next is the adult’s tug of war, which I’m encouraged to join in. I love tug of wars so gladly take on the challenge. Sadly I don’t understand Japanese at the best of times, especially not an excited referee, rambling away so fast that his mouth is a blur.

So in the “get set” position, when the whistle goes I don’t stand up when everyone else does, resulting in the force of forty incredibly competitive grown men and women seeing the rope smack into my face, sending me airborne for a second or two before crashing to the floor. For fear of being bullied for the rest of the year, I stand up, pretending it doesn’t hurt, and grab hold of the rope. My incredible strength sees us win.

I spend the next 30 minutes with an ice pack firmly attached to my chin, where a delightfully black bruise has now formed, with the school nurse shouting “chin egg” and pointing and laughing.

Next is a diabolical four song dance act, dreamt up by a group of third year girls. Out of sync, unimaginative and distinctly lacking in enthusiasm. Even the 68-strong dance troupe look visibly pissed off at their peers' lack of choreographic skills, as they perform what looks very much like a geriatric aerobics class routine.

The final round, grab the hat off your opponent’s head, is a vicious tournament involving a child wearing a cap, sat on another’s shoulders, supported by a person on either side, sprinting around as quickly as possible and beating the crap out of each other in an attempt to get the caps of each other’s heads. While The Eye of the Tiger plays in the background.

As the final whistle blows, another girl is stretchered off and the remainder leave the battle field in a scene similar to the homecoming of surviving World War One soldiers

It was at this point that I had to vacate the nurse’s tent, surrendering my bag of ice.

Earlier in the week, in one of my primary schools, I had been enlisted to take part in gymnastics practice in the hall. Not having the greatest sense of balance, I fall over in a strong gust of wind.

So having a small fat child on my head, two obese kids yanking my arms on one side, and two skinny ones on the other to form a strange fan shape, it took every ounce of strength to remain upright. Before I knew it, another child was lunging towards me in a handstand position. The fat kid on my shoulders was supposed to catch her ankles, but it missed, instead two feet crashed into my face.

My entire future flashed before me, mainly comprising images of Japanese prison cells and daily molestations from sexually depraved murderers. Thankfully I didn’t kill anyone, the child got down from my shoulders unscathed and I remain a free woman.

Back to Junior High.

The teachers invited me to joint their post-sports day Enkai (party), and of course I gladly obliged.

Now it is scientifically proven that Japanese people cannot handle their alcohol anywhere near as well as us Brits. So after two pints of beer, pretty much everyone is legless and thinks it a great idea to re-enact sports day. We’re split into teams. Unluckily, and being the lightest, I am pressurised into climbing on top of a table, with a chair on top, to the top of the stack of inebriated teachers.

Fortunately I cannot stand as my head is already grazing the ceiling, much to the amusement of those sat safely on the carpet below.

Next a pile of noodle pots are put in the middle of the room to recreate the box stacking game. My team is the clear winner, partially due to the fact that the vice principle is sat cross-legged, like a toddler surrounded by building blocks, stacking the noodles randomly while rolling as many as possible under the tablecloth so that he can later hide them in his bag and take them home.

With breakages, cuts and bruises, sports day is dangerous, and a strain on the Japanese health care service.

Saying all that, it’s fucking good fun.