The Scottish Coach and the South African Freedom Fighter

The Scottish Coach and the South African Freedom Fighter

By the mid-90s I had retired from competition and was focused fully on coaching. Back in 1992, my club — Edinburgh Southern Harriers — contacted me about a young 18-year-old called Ken Campbell who was looking for a hurdles coach. I reluctantly agreed, making it clear that I wasn’t accredited or qualified yet.

That didn’t last long. I threw myself into studying for the British Athletics Federation exams and earned my Senior award at a young age. Soon after, I was accepted into the Sports Coaching course at Heriot-Watt University.

Coaching Kenny was the beginning of something special.
Under my guidance he achieved:

Two National Records

First Scot ever to reach a major Games 110m Hurdles final

First Scot under 14 seconds

First hurdler to win the New Year Sprint (Gift)

Three-time Scottish Champion

First hurdler to win The New Year Sprint (Gift).

As the group grew, so did the reputation. Every athlete seemed to hit PBs year after year. I had two women 400m hurdlers running sub-61 seconds — Brigit Kreuchelse, a 25-year-old German medical student who finished 2nd at the UK Universities Championships, and Fiona McCaulay, a former British International who returned to the sport at 38 as a mother of three. She too ran sub-61 and nearly won the Scottish National title.

The truth is, Scotland should have had a new generation pushing these older athletes off the podium — but they didn’t, and our squad just kept outperforming expectations. Even Rod MacKay, a former international triple-jumper, was winning big pro gifts  at the age of 36. We were on a roll.

So when the position of National Hurdles Coach came up — even though it was only an honorarium — I believed I’d earned at least an interview. Instead, I was completely overlooked. Not even a conversation.

It hurt. Deeply. I’d given my heart, my time, my expertise, and my results spoke for themselves. But an honorarium, in my view, is asking a professional to do a professional job for poverty-level pay. Combined with the rejection, it became clear that my future probably lay elsewhere.

That sense of frustration made it easier to say yes when I crossed paths with Norrie Williamson, Edinburgh’s first Athletics Development Officer. A fellow Scot from Edinburgh, Norrie liked my CV and approach and soon brought me into his programmes. When his contract ended and he returned to South Africa, he invited me over several times to deliver sprints, hurdles, and rugby fitness coaching clinics to club and national-level athletes.

It was on a later visit to South Africa, based in Cape Town, that I experienced something I will never forget.

 

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Robben Island

I visited Table Mountain, then took the small ferry across to Robben Island — where Nelson Mandela spent 18 of his 27 years in prison. Scotland has always held Mandela close: Glasgow was the first European city to grant him the Freedom of the City while he was still imprisoned; Edinburgh named Mandela Square in his honour; the band Simple Minds released “Mandela Day.” We Scots felt connected to his struggle for justice.

The ferry took about 30 minutes and our group was small — ten or so visitors. Our guide was a softly spoken gentleman, articulate and warm. He led us through the quarry where prisoners laboured, and told us about the youngest inmate — only 15. He showed us the yard where they gathered, the wildlife on the island, even the penguins.

And then we entered Mandela’s cell. A two-metre-by-two-metre box. Arms outstretched, you could almost touch both walls. I stood there trying to imagine 18 years in a space like that, not knowing when or even if you would be released — and all for opposing segregation.

We learned about the “Robben Island University,” where prisoners studied for degrees and even helped prison staff gain qualifications. The strength of character, the humanity — it was overwhelming.

At the end of the tour we gathered in the dining area. A few visitors were chatting with our guide. I wandered off for a moment to take in the scenery, then returned and listened in. One of the visitors asked casually, “Where were you during all this time?”

His answer stopped the world.

“I was interned here with Mandela… for most of the time he was here.”

I felt the air go out of me. Everything I had heard, everything he had shown us, suddenly became heavier, deeper, painfully real. I was nearly in tears.

And then — a strange, uncomfortable emotion washed over me. Shame. Shame at being white, at belonging to a system that permitted such injustice, even from afar. It was a visceral, human reaction — not guilt for something I hadn’t done, but sorrow that such cruelty had existed at all.

Perhaps it comes from how I was brought up. In my entire schooling in Scotland, all I ever saw were wee pale Scottish faces — yet we Scots seem to have something in our DNA: a relaxed acceptance of outsiders, a respect for all. As we say:

We are all Jock Tamson’s bairns.

That day on Robben Island connected everything for me — the injustice, the resilience, the human spirit… and my own journey. From being overlooked in Scotland despite the work I’d done, to standing face-to-face with a man who’d endured unthinkable rejection, suffering, and still chose compassion.

It was, and remains, one of the most emotional experiences of my life.