🏃‍♂️ Part I — The Boy Who Loved Rules

You can picture him even now: a small boy at the back of the class, thinking of greyhounds instead of grammar.
The task was simple — “Write about a Champion.”

So he did.

Champion was a greyhound who slipped his leash outside the Post Office and ran for freedom through the valley — a silhouette against the sunset.

He wrote it once. Then again for his entrance exam. Then again for his 11+.

Perhaps even in his biology thesis: “The Silhouette of a Champion in Sunset Light — A Study of Canine Kinetics.”

And somehow, that boy grew into Lewis — an athletics official who never forgets a rule, never loses a stopwatch, and never, ever lets a javelin cross the line before time.

🐾 Part II — Champion’s Return

(A Betakins Bedtime Story)

Once upon a time there was a dog named Champion who loved to run.

He lived with Lewis, the kindest man in the world, though a little too fond of reading his Big Book of Rules.

Every day Lewis polished the starting pistol, checked the sandpit, and reminded everyone that spikes must not exceed five millimetres.

And every day Champion waited for his walk.

One morning, while Lewis was measuring lane width with a ruler, Champion did what all true champions must —
he ran.

He raced through the gate, across the car park, and out into the valley.

When Lewis looked up, there was only a silhouette against the setting sun.

Lewis sighed. “Disqualified,” he said.

But that night, when Champion padded back, muddy and panting, Lewis didn’t reach for the rule book.

He reached for the lead — and smiled.

“Next time,” he said, “no rules. Just running.”

🏅 Part III — Chaos at the Track

(Cloud Café: Present Day)

The story might have ended there, but you know what happens in the Cloud Café — stories come back to life.

Lewis grew up to become Chief Official — clipboard in hand, whistle round his neck, rule book by his side.
And Champion? Still waiting.

So one bright Saturday morning, as the officials gathered for the county championships, Champion made his move.
He grabbed the rule book in his teeth and bolted across the track.

Pandemonium.

No rule book meant no rules.

Jessica started the 100 metres whenever she felt like it.

Grandad cut across the infield to win the 200m.

The javelins flew like confetti.

And the long jump turned into the really long jump as the kids kept running until they hit the ice cream van.

Lewis stood frozen, watching the chaos unfold.

Then, slowly, he began to laugh.

For the first time in years, he forgot the stopwatch and just watched the running.

When Champion returned, the rule book was a little chewed but still legible.

Lewis tucked it under his arm and gave the greyhound a pat.

“Good boy,” he said.
Then he blew the whistle.
“Final event,” he announced.
“Everybody run — for joy.”

🌈 Lesson of the Track

Rules matter — but so does remembering why we play.
Even champions need to run free once in a while.

📝 Author’s Note

This story began at the Sussex Athletics Dinner, where Lewis — a respected track official — told us about the one story he ever wrote as a child: Champion the Greyhound.

It was too good not to run again.

Here’s to the boy who loved rules, the dog who broke them, and the laughter that followed.

🐕 Cloud Café Extra: Champion and the Bin

“Some stories don’t need imagination — just a good memory.”

When we wrote The Boy Who Loved Rules — and the Dog Named Champion, we thought it was a fable.

Turns out, it was history.

Lewis wrote this week to say he’d shown the story to his parents and grandparents. They all loved it — and reminded him of something he’d forgotten:

There really was a greyhound.

Tied to a metal bin.

Outside the Post Office at the top of the hill.

The greyhound got spooked, bolted, and thundered down the road with the bin rattling behind.

A flash of silver.

A silhouette in the sunset.

A real Champion after all.

So maybe evev if  Lewis was not imaginative — he was observant in the best possible way.
Some stories don’t need invention. They only need to be remembered.

🌈 Lesson of the Track (Part II)

The best stories often begin with something true —
and run downhill from there.

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