There’s a word I keep coming back to: gameness.

It doesn’t sit comfortably in modern parlance, except in a few circles — the pigeon flyers, the dogmen, the horsemen, the old warriors who understand what it means to go past the point of pain and tap into something ancient and immovable.

Gameness isn’t bravery. It’s not aggression. It isn’t strength. It’s a spiritual refusal to quit.

The word itself comes from the gamecock — the fighting rooster that won’t back down even when mortally wounded. I’ve seen the same in birds, in dogs, in horses. I’ve also seen it in people. And it obsesses us because it’s rare — and because it shows us the very best and worast of what we are.

We breed it into birds, dogs and horses. We honour it in soldiers, mountaineers and mothers. This trait has a name and understanding it might tell us something uncomfortable about ourselves

We breed it into birds, dogs and horses. We honour it in soldiers, mountaineers and mothers. This trait has a name and understanding it might tell us something uncomfortable about ourselves

Take the racing pigeon. Not the fat, soft city bird, scrounging chips outside a takeaway. I’m talking about bred, tested, purpose-built flying machines — birds that cross 500 kilometres of burning sky, predator-ridden winds, and sheer exhaustion, just to get home.

Thirteen hours in the air. No food, no water, no rest. Just wings and........

© Dawn (Magazines)