David Smith: Two sporting moments this week have made me feel lifted

The National

2 days ago

The pain from my fractured ribs has begun to ease, but I'm still grounded, no gym, no golf, no freedom of movement.
Just one walk a day. And even that, in a city like London, can feel like a mountain.
Pushing through the noise, the crowds, the curbs, the stares. These daily walks feel like their own kind of endurance event, slow, necessary, and humbling.
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So I've leaned even more into the world of sport. Watching it. Studying it. Letting it carry me when my own body won't. And what a week it's been.
Up in the Scottish Borders, Kelso's very own Oscar Onley continues to climb the rankings in the Tour de France.
There's something powerful about watching someone from your own part of the world mixing it with the very best on one of the hardest stages in all of sport.
The Tour is brutal physically, mentally, emotionally. And yet there's Oscar, holding his own, reminding every young kid watching that we can go toe-to-toe with the elite if we dare to dream, train hard, and suffer well.
And while we're on the name Oscar, another young athlete caught my attention this week. Teen swimmer Oscar Black, whose recent record-breaking swim has reverberated beyond just poolside circles.
He didn't just win; he demonstrated something far deeper, flexibility, focus, discipline, and grit. As I watched his swim, it resonated with my mindset regarding my own path.
It wasn't just about speed. It was about presence. The kind of emotional and physical grounding that you can't fake.
Stuck in my flat this week, apart from the single sanctioned walk and that MRI appointment, I felt like I was falling behind.
Not in sport, but in life. There's a unique loneliness to this kind of waiting the in-between space where you know the scan is done, but the results haven't yet arrived.
You're not sick or well, you're just… suspended. And while the rest of the world moves, I am still.
But then I watched Oscar Black's post-swim interviews, and something about his poise and humility struck me.
He's still so young, yet he speaks like someone who's trained his inner world just as much as his outer. And in that moment, he became more than a swimmer to me, he became a teacher.
He reminded me that endurance isn't always fast or loud. Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes it's sitting still with the pain, both physical and emotional. Sometimes it's the discipline to keep showing up for that one walk a day, even when every part of your body screams no.
Endurance is flexibility not just in the body, but in how you adapt to what life throws your way.
These past few weeks, if I'm honest, have been in a dark place mentally. The broken ribs were one thing, but it's the stillness and the waiting that has nearly broken me. I'm used to battling paralysis, surgeries, setbacks. But this kind of enforced pause is its own unique trial.
And yet, sport keeps showing up for me. Keeps giving me stories that break through the heaviness. Oscar Onley in the Alps, grinding up slopes that look impossible.
Oscar Black, slicing through water with purpose and calm. Each of them reminding me that the body has limits, but the human spirit often doesn't.
There's a gift in watching others do what you currently cannot. Not out of envy, but out of reverence. Out of the hope that one day, maybe soon, I will be able to move like that again. Or even just move a little more than I could yesterday.
I'm in the 'wait zone' now. That weird feeling where you try to keep busy but everything feels like it's happening in the shadow of those pending results. But this week, sport gave me just enough light to get through.
We often celebrate the podium moments, the medals, the wins, the world records. But sometimes it's the unseen struggles, the off camera grit, that speak loudest. And sometimes, even watching from a sofa, in pain, in waiting, you can feel lifted.
So I end this week not with answers, but with a mix of gratitude and frustration. I try to manage these emotions and push a little more but the sharp pain in my ribs hits hard to remind me to stop.