They say “Jump”, you say “How High?”

On Saturday, I was lucky enough to be present at the last night of athletics at the Paralympics Games. After a summer spent glued to my TV and laptop, dipping in and out of the UEFA European Football Championships, Wimbledon, then the Olympics and Paralympics, I was pretty excited to be in the thick of it: 80,000 people all around me, shouting, whistling, clapping, flag waving, Mexican waving – all of us, looking forward to an evening of sporting spectacle.

There was definitely a hint of disappointment at the lack of British interest – with every new event that flashed up on the big screen, our eyes scoured the competitors list for those three magical letters, but instead met the likes of RUS, AUS, CHN, BRA, MEX, TUN…. But it didn’t matter. We came in the spirit of the Games: to celebrate and enjoy sporting excellence. Whichever nation, whichever category, whether on foot, or blades, or wheels; whether sitting, standing, jumping or leaping, we just wanted to see something extraordinary. And most of all, we really wanted the athletes to do well.

A brilliant example of this, for me, was the Men’s High Jump – F46 final, which happened to be the event closest to where I was sitting in the stadium. Now, I don’t recall the last time I ever watched the high jump. I’m not sure I ever have. In fact, the closest I’ve come in recent years to being a spectator of men launching themselves over poles was in Vang Vieng earlier this year, where the men in question were extremely drunk, and the pole was on fire… so hardly a spectacle of sporting excellence.

I don’t know how many of the people around me happened to be high jump enthusiasts or aficionados; I suspect that, like me, they had hitherto taken little interest in it. But that didn’t matter. Regardless of what may have been happening in other parts of the arena, my section of the stands were quick to display our loyalty to what we felt was ‘our’ event. Given our proximity to the action, I think a lot of us felt it was, firstly, only polite to give the competitors as much of our attention as possible, and secondly, our duty to egg them on. And so, with every competitor who limbered up and took his place to start his running jump, we showed our support. As they stood there, some shifting their weight from side to side, others with hands resolutely on hips, silently surveying the pole in front of them, we put our hands together – slowly at first, a sort of gentle nudge, a "Go ON, son!", then gradually building, picking up pace once they started their approach, evolving into a frenzied multitude of claps, an approximation of the kind of actual applause we desperately wanted to give them once they cleared that bar, as if with our hands alone we could will them to victory. It didn't always work, of course. Sometimes, our claps were woefully mistimed – in our eagerness, we peaked before the poor man had even started moving, almost comically out of step with his own efforts, which could only have been off-putting. And sometimes, he just didn't quite make it – a stray foot grazed the bar and brought it toppling down, and a collective gasp or groan rippled across the stands.

But as more and more bars toppled, and more competitors dropped out of the running, something became clear. We seemed to be making a difference. The athletes could hear us down there, and they began to show us their appreciation. One man in particular, Maciej Lepiato from Poland, seemed to relish the attention. Every jump he made seemed effortless, cleared with inches to spare. Soon, when he stepped up to take his next jump, he turned to us first and raised his hands above his head, bringing them together. The gesture was clear – a request. It said: “Now”. And willingly, we obeyed. Through my binoculars I could see him nodding his head, jumping up and down on the spot, perhaps having a few words with himself to get himself going, as we began our thunderous crescendo. Then, he propelled himself once more towards the bar, and over it, to rapturous applause. 

That night, Maciej Lepiato not only jumped his way to gold, and to the title of Paralympic champion, he also broke the world record, and we cheered ourselves hoarse watching him do it. Even the commentators noticed. “Just listen to that,” they said, with a warm, incredulous laugh, as the cheers spread from one end to the rest of the stadium, “I don’t think any of these athletes have ever done a high jump in front of 80,000 people.”

There were many special moments that night. Just being there in the heart of the Olympic Park, on the last night of sport of what has been one of the best Olympic and Paralympic games ever, was pretty incredible. And then, inside the stadium, so many records and personal bests were surpassed and remade, with the entire evening’s displays of athleticism, talent and skill coming to a fitting end as Oscar Pistorius stormed to victory in the Men’s 400m – T44 Final. But I think cheering on Maciej Lepiato to victory was my favourite, because I felt like, in some small way, I had contributed to his success.

Part of me thinks that’s silly, but then you only have to look at how many athletes have thanked the crowds for their overwhelming support and acknowledged the part that’s had to play in their own personal success to think otherwise. When you have 80,000 people cheering you on and willing you to succeed, how can that possibly not have an effect?

One of the reasons sport is so addictive is because you have big themes writ large. I think truly successful people succeed because they have a certain level of innate talent, but even if they don’t, they make up for that through sheer commitment, dedication and hard work. But they also need self-belief.  They have to push through countless false starts and failures and setbacks and just keep going. They succeed where countless others simply gave up. (Just look at Andy Murray!) And the abiding lesson I think I’m going to take from these Games is that, when you have all of that, AND the belief of others, there’s no limit to what you can achieve.