THERE are those of us who have lived a life of pain. We are the generation for whom corporal punishment was not only deemed suitable but mandatory.

The very existence of closes in the centre of Glasgow in the early sixties was attributable to their convenience in offering shelter for maws who wanted, indeed needed, to hammer a wean or two to break up the monotony of finding a shop that took a Provi cheque.

This exposure to physical punishment continued at school. There one was battered with a leather belt, chastised by PE teachers whose career path owed much to the ministrations of the Odessa group, and faced sporting activities that would have made a Spartan blanche.

It was thus to my immense satisfaction that I read Taxi for Farrell, a memoir by the eponymous Davie, as it has never been described in Dennistoun. In the manner of Jerry Maguire, Davie’s book is eloquent and discursive but it had me at red blaes. No, dear reader, I am not going to write about ash pitches. Well, not today. But the reminiscences of Farrell, Roy Keane, Tiger Woods and Tyler Hamilton have of late reminded me of a profound truth.

It is this: professional sportsmen and women are obviously much, much better than us at throwing a ball, hitting something with a stick or kicking a ball. They also have the sort of focus that would bring a pimple on the puss of that bloke in the John Lewis ad into stark relief from a basement in Carntyne.

But they have something else. They have set their threshold to pain at such a height that Red Rum could not jump over it. Hamilton, the US cyclist, broke his collarbone on the first day of the 2003 Tour de France. He then rode more than 2000 miles to finish fourth overall. He dealt with pain by grinding his teeth down to stumps, causing major capping work. One presumes, in passing, he received better treatment than that offered in the primary schools of the sixties where the dentist entered, put on a rubber apron, donned his welly boots and asked the nurse to get a mop before advising: “There may be some bleeding.” I digress.

Tiger Woods, of course, won the US Open with a broken leg. I do not know much about golf but presume this is more difficult than winning it with a five iron. Farrell and Keane played through injuries that would have felled an elephant with shinpads and a barrel of paracetamols.

Farrell’s book has many delights but the accounts of him struggling to make a Saturday would bring a tear to a Tory Chancellor’s eye. He ends up wearing more bandages than the supply stored at the Royal Alexandra Hospital for the aftermath of a Paisley wedding. He has more injections than the cast of Trainspotting. He stumbles on to the park like something out of Revenge of the Mummy (but, mercifully, not the one who hammered you in a close).

Keane had so much trouble with his hips that he could only at the end run in a straight line. This was all right when he was targeting opposition midfielders with all the compassion of a heat-seeking missile. It was a little more challenging when he sought to turn. He had to negotiate this with all the care of and speed of an oil tanker turning in Hogganfield Loch.

These athletes (yes, yes, you too Davie) were all displaying that most common yet unspoken trait of the modern sportsman. They were playing through the pain barrier with no real thought of tomorrow. Modern sportspeople do not like to mention injuries in case it encourages opponents, though Roger Federer does make an exception in defeat when he can list ailments that make it seem a miracle he is still alive never mind wielding a racket.

But athletes seem to accept that they are never 100% pain-free and use adrenalin as a mask to their discomfort. They also, of course, use cortisone, painkillers and sheer, stubborn defiance. This attitude to overcoming any physical issue is generally praised, though not by the medical profession.

Athletes pursue their own agenda on their own terms. They rarely listen to the screams coming from the body or even the nagging doubts in the mind that suggest ever so politely that, for example, cycling 2000 miles with a broken collar bone, up and down Alps, in 100 degree heat may not be quite what the doctor ordered.

This mindset, of course, gives them the chance to compete with other athletes who are similarly battling with broken bones, strained muscles and, perhaps, a vicious strain of a tropical disease. It is the perfect illustration of the difference between being fit and being healthy.

The price, of course, has to be paid later. The march to glory is followed by the limp into the horizon. There is a syndrome that can be best described as the ex-athlete’s gait. One does not have to be a doctor to watch a one-time superstar walk into the room and diagnose him or her with a bad back, dodgy hips or knees that squeak like a particularly whingeing mouse.

They may have achieved their aims but they have suffered. It is enough to make one sympathise until one recalls the Maw Massacre of 1962 en route to Goldbergs for school shoes for five weans. Now that was pain.