The Champion and I                                                       Andrew Hargrave

Prologue

It was around seven o’clock in the evening: Monday, February 1st 1993. I am in the imposing new Congress centre in Budapest, Hungary, waiting in the wings. I am led on to the brilliantly lit stage, TV cameras clicking, flashlights popping, a sound of fanfare, thunderous applause by 500 or so guests. They include the president of the republic, Mr Árpád Góncz, Government Ministers, leaders as well as stars of sports, sitting at dinner tables in the vast auditorium.

Already on the stage are two famous veterans of Hungarian sport: the 1936 (Berlin) olympic champion in the women’s high jump, Ibolya Csák, and the pivot of the legendary Hungarian soccer team of the 1950’s, Nándor Hidegkuti. I am invited to step into the space between them.

As I look down from the stage, I remind myself that I am Andrew Hargrave, a journalist from Glasgow, Scotland, a citizen of the United Kingdom and a champion of nothing. The fanfare, the jubilation, the media interest belong to the man whose name is engraved on the silver trophy handed to me by the president of the Hungarian Olympic Committee: my long dead father Alfréd Hajós, Hungary’s first (double) olympic championin swimming at the first modern olympic games in Athens in 1896.

He is being admitted to Hungary’s recently founded “Club of Immortals”, the only one of 18 no longer alive. 

As I stand on that stage, I am assailed by a mixture of pride and doubt: pride in his achievements not only as an all round sportsman (for he also pioneered soccer in Hungary) but as an architect note: yet feeling a fraud, basking in his reflected glory. As I’m being interviewed on TV, radio and by the newspapers, I constantly have the feeling of belonging to the “other side”, those asking the questions rather than the one answering them. I had been invited to represent my late father at the ceremony by the Hungarian Olympic Committee barely five years after my existence in Scotland had been “discovered”. (Not quite true. In 1978, 15 years before, I was approached as a “living relative, and the son of the great Alfred Hajos”, by International Hall of Fame Inc., of Fort Lauderdale, Florida, informing me of father being one of the first honorees in that Hall of Fame.)

It had all started early in 1988 with a tentative inquiry from Budapest by 13 year-old schoolboy (who got my Glasgow address from a cousin in Budapest) in a general school*, whether I was in some way related to the famous Alfred Hajos whose name the school had decided to adopt.

Although I had been in Hungary many times since the war, visiting my parents while they were alive, as well as writing about the politics, the economy and, generally, life in Hungary, I never used my father’s name or fame for any special treatment. On the contrary, I had spent much of my life trying to escape my father’s shadow while acquiring my own identity. After many years I believe I have succeeded - living in a different country, the UK, writing in a different language, English, neither as a sportsman nor as an architect, but as a journalist.

Had it been for Father, I should, of course, have succeeded him as an architect. However, I saw writing as my profession from early childhood: hence this conflict of objectives which caused him much heartache and me many wasted years, frustration and anguish. It led to recriminations, misunderstandings and, finally the parting of the ways, both in spirit and in physical distance.

All these sentiments flashed through my mind at the ceremony and the interviews that followed. Yet the fact that the interviewing journalists seemed to be interested not only in the “immortal” Alfred Hajos, but his elderly living son with a (for them) difficult name to pronounce, gave me some satisfaction. I felt that at last I was being recognised as a person in his own right, in the country of his birth - someone who had finally emerged from his (father’s) shadow. At the same time, I had to admit that it was his “intervention beyond the grave” that secured my presence in that hall, starting with that schoolboy’s inquiry.

This memoir is mainly my story: how through circumstances often beyond my control, I got deflected from my own, then hazy aims and ambitions, and eventually managed to shake off that shadow, partly imagined but strongly felt, to become- as said- “a person in his own right”.

*A “general school” is part of an education system not uncommon in Central Europe: four primary and four secondary classes, after which pupils may choose either an academic course (four years, ending with matriculation and possibly going on to university), or a technical one, depending on the type of trade chosen.