David Flatman Column: The day I came second best to Sachin Tendulkar

This column appears in the current edition of Sport magazine., and follow on Twitter 

I was once lying in a north London hospital awaiting surgery on an injured shoulder. I had gone on ignoring it for as long as I could but, eventually, the physios had seen through my lies and observed the grimace that accompanied every collision.

They sent me to the top dog who, by that time, I knew disconcertingly well, and it took him all of three minutes to call through to his glamorous assistant, asking her to book me in for reconstruction number four.

The key to post-op wellness is all to do with the time of day the surgery takes place. If you get an afternoon slot, you are knackered. This will mean that no food or drink will have passed your lips for almost a whole day. So I requested the red eye slot. “7.30am it is, mate,” said Doc, “you’ll be hammering the cheese and pickles by lunchtime.” He knew me so well.

Then I got bumped. The lovely lady who had conducted my evening bed bath (not strictly necessary, but I always like to push for the whole experience while staying away) came in and told me that I had been moved to the mid-morning chop slot. Not happy and knowing that hunger induced stomach cramps were now guaranteed, I asked what on earth the reasoning was.

 She perhaps shouldn’t have told me but, again, we knew one another by now and she knew she could trust me not break secrecy protocol (so keep this to yourself, yeah?). “Sachin Tendulkar’s just arrived,” she whispered, “and he kind of takes precedence.” My scowl disappeared and my shoulders shrugged: “That’s the food chain, I guess,” I said, “Yep, he’s the boss.”

Hierarchies in sport are an interesting subject. In rugby we hear of young footballers cleaning the boots of the top pros, and we can’t quite believe that ever happened. This disbelief is primarily to do with jealously, by the way, nothing more; I would have loved one of the young bucks to sort mine out for me as an old dog, but that was always deemed inappropriate in our game. Of course, in an age of aggressive correctness, a hierarchy has to achieve its goal without offending anyone’s mum.

In rugby, the youngsters are encouraged to act respectfully. By this, I mean they should hold the odd door for a senior pro, they should wait until the big boys have eaten before they begin to graze, and they should park at the far end of the car park to allow me the shortest walk possible. Cars have been known to move and end up in bushes with no explanation…

But it is all done with humour, and the older guys’ part of the bargain is that the rookies are made to feel welcome and part of the family. Never mind all this old school ‘ignore them for a month’ crap; those days are gone. If someone really steps out of line, he will find himself in trouble come the next pitch session, where his gumshield will prove invaluable. ‘Twas ever thus.

So I got unceremoniously bumped by Sachin, and it was a privilege.