After a decade of judging athletes from the safety of the press box, it was my turn. Trying something new offered a potent dose of humility
![When a sportswriter tries competitive sport: a rush even if failure is all-but assured | Kieran Pender](https://i.guim.co.uk/img/media/0755db9b204e4f9dcb6eb6b189eb19198e71b10a/0_1_3631_2180/master/3631.jpg?width=1200&height=630&quality=85&auto=format&fit=crop&overlay-align=bottom%2Cleft&overlay-width=100p&overlay-base64=L2ltZy9zdGF0aWMvb3ZlcmxheXMvdGctb3BpbmlvbnMucG5n&enable=upscale&s=ca6d2ecb12e6c0a9070547f6a3d88c7f)
It was a moment I had observed a thousand times before. The moment of unrelenting pressure – the 85th minute of a
Football match with the scores level, the final kilometre of a gruelling road cycling stage, the last lap of a tight 400m swimming race. As a sports writer, it is my great privilege is to watch the world’s top athletes in the cauldron of intensity that is elite sport. These are moments of truth.
Suddenly it was my turn. On a sunny Sunday last month, I was in the waves at Malua Bay, New South Wales. Over the top of my wetsuit was a bright yellow rash-vest, distinguishing me from other competitors. Yellow, green, red, blue – blobs of colour for a beachside panel of judges to score as we battled it out in the two-metre chop.