Skipping across the court with the agility of a galloping gazelle, I stood in the aggression, ready to serve for game and match. A long looping vicious lob served its lethal path to an inevitable winner. But my opponent in a desperate lunge, dug out the spheroid from the back of the court boasting it crosscourt to the front. Sensing victory I faced my opponent but there was no response. Instead, I heard a muffled sound. Someone was in pain and my husband was clutching on to his belly where a nasty purple bruise had started to spread.
My squash fantasy ending with the arm flying had culminated into a bruising act and the malevolent look of my husband clearly reflected how he had summed up the situation. But we have to go back in time to establish the raison d’être of this midnight madness.
Once again it was a passing remark by my observant daughter about my expanding midriff that triggered a host of actions. Early morning exercises, late evening jobs and finally the local gym where the apparatus made the medieval rack look like the Meccano set. But all this brought no change to my physiognomy. Driven to distraction I sought advice from any and every one I knew. These were given with an abundance of understanding that already made me forget the asking.
My first visit to the courts: glass backed and gleaming, red stripes running down the sides and centre symbolising bloody encounters, accentuated by the harsh, stark, bright lights picking out the dangers lurking in the nooks and crannies; an arena where two gladiators locked themselves in combat pitting their physical strengths, strategies and tactics, struggling, fighting, twisting, turning, straining their bodies to the ultimate limits to emerge victorious. Oh, I could picture it all; this was the game for me.
With excitement reaching fever pitch I booked my first lesson with the coach. But my priorities had to be established. I had to be suitably dressed for the occasion. The sports shop salesman listened rather apprehensively whilst I debated with him on the choice of colours for my outfit. Pink was undoubtedly the season, but how could I ignore pale blue, my favourite? And then the knotty problems of matching the headbands, wristlets, socks and shoes. The racket towel-grip caused a problem coming only in yellow and a garish red. But eventually a harassed salesman thankfully deposited my parcels and me, with racket to my car.
My family, on the other hand, took the vacillation over my sports wardrobe with characteristic aplomb, (another of Mummy’s short-term crazes).But even they thought I was taking matters too far when I objected to playing with a ‘yellow-dot’ ball because I reiterated, the colour would clash!
Suitably attired with my racket as high strung as I was, I presented myself on the eventful day. The coach advised a few exercises to limber up. Ten deep swats later he had to prop me up against the wall gasping for oxygen. The next problem arose in trying to hit the ball. Inexplicably, racket and ball constantly failed to make contact. When they did, the ball struggled to the front wall, bounced and dropped down in abject misery. The coach of course made encouraging noises but in the space of 15 minutes I was reduced to a sorry state of blood, sweat and finally tears!
Lesson after lesson with patience and perseverance; the strokes, the shots, angles, reverse angles, volleys, nicks and drops and the art of calling for let, dominating the T, using the back wall and shadow play (not the Chinese variety), the falls, the bruises, the frustration and the joy of hitting the opponent, perspiring profusely, panting with exertion, skidding from corner to corner. All this plus more until the midriff vanished.
The family unanimously voted me back to favour but my fervour remained unabated. Squash bookings late at night, heated discussions on tactics and subterfuge. The house looked like the inside of a sports shop. And now, as a confirmed addict, the enthusiasm remains and my husband is subjected to the very occasional nocturnal swipes. He also occasionally trips over a pile of books left in the wrong place; they are on squash, of course!
So well written…a delight to read!