It's a Dad's Life:Last Friday was my first school sports day as a non-competitor writes Adam Brophy.

I wasn't exactly heavily involved, popping in for a half hour mid-morning to watch the Elder place respectably in the egg-and-spoon, be robbed in the sack race as competitors ruthlessly cut corners while she stayed honest, and romp to victory in the mini-beanbag-balanced-on-head, 25-yard dash. They don't give out medals to junior infants (which is fortunate as I would have insisted on a steward's inquiry into the sack-race fiasco). Instead everyone goes home with a certificate of participation. Apparently, it's the taking part that counts.

That's until first class, when suddenly winning is important. From then until sixth class there are medals, trophies and plaques scrabbled over in all manner of competitions. My favourite was the team obstacle course event, which I didn't get to see - but it fills me with joy that my child will be prepared for the Army assault course when she leaves the halls of St Mary's.

You see, I don't know if a sense of competition is natural or learned. As we were leaving the school I asked the Elder if she had enjoyed herself and she replied in the affirmative. She seemed a little deflated, so I told her I had seen her win her beanbag dash and that she had done very well. "Did I win, Dad? Really?" She had no idea, and she cared not an iota until it became obvious that I thought it was important. Then suddenly she seemed to cast her mind back over the different events she had been in during the day and, for the first time, give some conscious thought to her being up against other kids in those events, as opposed to just completing a task set for herself.

Things have obviously changed, because I clearly remember my first sports day, and it was all about winning. Being freakishly large even then, I felt I had an edge in the race. As the years passed my size soon became more cumbersome than advantageous, but at five, being literally twice the height of the competition was a positive. There was, of course, a rival. His name was Eanna and he was notoriously nippy. The sportswags at lunch were even making him something of a favourite as they sipped down their MiWadis. I was the lolloping Ray Flynn to his Eamon Coughlan. "Ray who?" you ask. Exactly.

The day of the event was much like any other. I ate a high-fibre breakfast after carbo-loading the night before and had my personal trainer rub me down to get the muscles loose. From there it was a blur, until I found myself at the starting line. The teacher mouthed, "Go!" and I was away before she reached "Oh".

Within seconds I'm clear. The finishing line beckons, with it glory and riches, but I turn to look over my shoulder at the vanquished. And trip.

Back then it was customary for the victors to wear their medals to school on the following days. It smacked of triumphalism and young Eanna was lucky not to be strangled by his dangling gold. But in the 30 years since, I have never, ever looked around me before hearing a final whistle or crossing the line; the horror of losing with victory so close is burned on to my psyche.

The Elder must get her competitive apathy from her mother (whose desire to avoid competition is Olympian in itself) because it seems genuine as opposed to the feigned indifference I attempt to wear. If she can maintain this ability to enjoy the event as opposed to the result, then life will be so much sweeter. As a man who has spent his life following the fortunes of Everton FC, the Dublin footballers, the Galway hurlers and the Irish rugby team, I should know.