True Brits - Shin Kicking



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SHIN KICKING
EXCERPT FROM TRUE BRITS ©JR DAESCHNER

For the sake of authenticity, I've mustered up the stupidity to compete in shin kicking.

Last year, I'd chickened out after concluding that my flimsy rubber-soled shoes were no match for the champion's heavy work boots. This time, I've come with my own shin kicking footwear (unfortunately, without steel tips).

Trudging up to the games that evening, through the green fields speckled with sheep, towards the sun setting on the hilltop, I brace myself mentally.
I've come up with what seems like a sure-fire strategy: I'll go on the offensive with my strongest leg, kicking and sweeping with the right, so that I can defend my left shin and throw my opponent.
As I pause to catch my breath halfway up the hill-surely I'm not that out of shape!- Campden glows honey-coloured below.
My secret hope is that I'll get thrown, and thrown quickly; my main concern-aside from making a fool of myself-is that I might win.

Victory has to be the worst possible outcome: you have to keep getting your shins kicked until somebody beats you. In shin kicking, the only real loser is the winner.
Eight contestants have volunteered for the event, twice as many as last year. Apart from the champion, Stuart Webb, there's Nigel Smith, his erstwhile partner from the previous year, and Joe the landlord, who's doubling as referee.

Several wildcards from the audience have also decided to have a go, including an aging heavy metal fan with a black T-shirt, beer can in hand, and straggly hair flowing from the very top of his head. The survival of shin kicking will depend on a steady flow of volunteers like him, itinerant lunatics looking for new sadomasochistic pastimes.

The rules of shin kicking are simple: kickers who topple their opponents two out of three times go through to the next round. In the event that both men fall-often the case, thanks to the sheep droppings studding the grass-the last one to hit the ground wins.
Competitors can pad their legs with as much straw as possible. The smartest wear tracksuits, so they can stuff hay down their legs rather than struggle to pack it up the narrow ankles of jeans or trousers. One guy has Popeye ankles; he must have a whole hay bale down there. Try as I may, I manage only half that amount. In my hubristic stupidity, I've been hoping to square off against Stuart in the first round. That way I'll no doubt quickly lose but still be able to say I fought the champ.

Instead, I end up fighting a tall, spindly guy with puppy-dog eyes and an exotic surname. I met Eric Fabricius last night down at the Seagrave Arms, when he was quizzing the landlord about shin-kicking techniques.
Despite his fabulous pro-wrestling-style surname (his dad was a German POW who stayed in Britain), he isn't quite what I'm looking for in an opponent.
At six foot three, he's an inch shorter than me, so I've probably got a longer reach; at 160 pounds, he's also a good deal lighter. What's more, he's injured, having cracked a rib after colliding with a competitor during the team events earlier.

I begin to worry that I might actually win.

READ THE FULL STORY IN TRUE BRITS!

FOR SHIN KICKING TRIVIA, click here.