Squash Differentiators

I've noticed a few things about squash players that I wonder about. 

One is what players do with the squash racket in between games. A lot of players will leave their racket on the court as they go outside for a quick drink in between games. But quite a few will take the racket with them when they go get the drink or sit briefly down to regain their composure. In fact, the difference, as far as I can estimate, between these two camps is pretty much 50-50, although I think the percentage who leave the racket on the court is a bit higher. Personally, I leave the racket on the court, often dropping it unceremoniously at the moment the game has concluded and heading straight for the door. I don't know what this means: Are those who take their racket out with them more focused? Are those who leave the racket on court more driven? Not sure... I do know that if you watch matches on PSA TV you will discover many instances where one player leaves the racket, the other player doesn't, as if leaving two rackets on the court may initiate an unseemly squabble between the two rackets. Don't leave them alone, it might get ugly!

Another thing I've noticed is the headband-bandanna divide. Older players tend towards the headband, which explains why I wear one. Younger guys have gravitated towards the bandanna. There is definitely an age quotient in the calculus of whether or not to wear a bandanna. I have graciously accepted my elder status and am at peace with my headband. What I definitely am not at peace with is those occasional players who walk on the court with NEITHER a headband nor a bandanna. These people are one of two things: stupid, in that they apparently haven't thought ahead enough to realize it can get sweaty while playing squash, or extremely good, in that they are confident they will so quickly kick my ass that sweating will not be a part of their squash experience. 

I worry about those guys.... 

The Greatest Terminal in the World

Grand Central Terminal is the epicenter of the squash world right now, and so far the 'TOC' has been predictably fantastic. John Nimick and his Event Engine crew always do a great job, and this year is no different. 

But it might be worth pulling back a second and thinking a bit about the venue in which this tournament is taking place. 

Every morning I have the pleasure of commuting into this wonderful terminal, whose main hall includes a ceiling upon which is depicted the stars fully 13 stories above the Terminal's floor. (The stars, by the way, were placed in reverse, by accident. Few notice this, and no one seems to care.) 

Grand Central Terminal is the world's busiest and biggest terminal, but it is also a work of art in a city that more often than not doesn't necessarily slow down long enough to appreciate such things. On any given day you can go into the Terminal and see hardened New Yorkers, staring up at that magnificent ceiling, high enough to almost be part of the heavens itself. 

Here's a great piece on Grand Central, whose centennial birthday approaches.

The Competitiveness Gene

Many people have told me they are amused by my “coat of arms” and its heraldic saying: “Insufferable in victory, surly in defeat.” I’d like to take credit for that, but in fact it was my father who came up with it. 

  

My father was a tough competitor. He hated to lose, and rarely did. He grew up in a farm community in Northwest Ohio and, while very good at several sports, was even better intellectually. He told the story of how he was given scholarships at a multitude of schools, including Ohio State and Harvard. He wanted to go to Ohio State, because several of his friends were going there, but that’s when my grandfather stepped in and said, “Guess what? You, son, are going to Harvard.” This was back at a time when upper-crust families tended to get their smart kids into Harvard and smart middle- and lower-class kids would have to really stand out before they would let them in. The Ivy League schools were not as generous with aid back then….

But he did stand out, and then later he went on to Harvard Medical School—not that he wanted to…. The day after Pearl Harbor, he and many of his Harvard College classmates stormed down to the Boston recruiting office for the army and demanded to be let into the armed services immediately. Many were let in straightaway, but they first interviewed everybody, and when they asked my father what he was studying at that fancy college, he said he was a premedical student. “Forget it kid,” the interviewer said, “something tells me we’ll need you more as a doctor than a soldier.” So he trudged on back to Harvard, and then on to medical school. He eventually headed up the burn unit at Fort Sam Houston during the Korean War.

Once there was a strike at Harlem Hospital, where he briefly had admitting privileges (most of his patients were at Columbia Presbyterian) and where he had a very sick patient. That patient was getting worse, but the strike had turned ugly and there was a barricade of hospital workers surrounding the hospital, refusing to let anyone in. This pissed old dad off, in a big way. He went down to the door and started jaw-boning the head union guy and his minions, who in turn argued that the patient would be alright, there were other doctors inside, and he couldn’t go in. His response: “Oh realllllly?!” he yelled, and socked the union guy in the mouth. He then ran into the hospital and took care of his patient. The union members left him alone, figuring he was nuts.

One more story to tell you how competitive and intense he was: My wife and I were visiting my parents in suburban New York many years ago, and that Saturday night we decided to play a game of Trivial Pursuit, that once very popular game in which arcane facts are answered, helping you move a game-piece around the board. Before the game, which pitted my parents vs my wife and me, my father warned that all answers had to be exactly correct, precisely as they appear on the game’s answer cards.

It wasn’t long before the level of precision was tested. We were asked a question whose answer was JESUS CHRIST. It was obvious, a slam-dunk, and I was already reaching for the dice to roll again. “Hold it!,” he said, a bit too loudly, “that’s wrong, it’s JESUS CHRIST OF NAZARETH.” I stared open-mouthed, but knew my father well enough to know the man was serious. My wife was beside herself, not being able to believe this was happening.

But later we got our revenge. My father rolled and was asked a question whose answer was the REVEREND MARTIN LUTHER KING. My father thought about this for a minute, because he remembered there was something tricky about King’s name…. What was it? Oh yes, he had a doctorate in philosophy and included that in his name. He answered “THE REVEREND DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING.”

I studied the answer card, pretending to read it carefully, all the while knowing what I was about to say would cause quite a big kerfuffle. “No! Close but not quite right. It’s THE REVEREND DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING JUNIOR!” At which my father got up, steaming, and marched out of the room. (This is where the “surly in defeat” part of the motto comes from.)

Ah, family…. The memories….

My father was actually a wonderful influence, and that extended to my interest in squash. As a family we would always play tennis, but my speed, which was never a problem, often seemed to outdo my stroke mechanics. I would be immediately on the ball and then naturally undercut it, since I had found through experience that in my verve I tended to overhit unless I undercut. When I was in my mid-teens I was about to go away to a school where squash was offered as a sport, and I remember my father strongly advising I should check squash out right away. “You’re a natural, trust me.” He had played it while at Harvard, and he was right; I loved it from the very first second, and love it still.

Later on in his life we would occasionally still get to play tennis when visiting on weekends. Despite being into his senior years, he was still pretty good, and always very wily. My full-time focus on squash had meant that my tennis game really amounted to squash shots played on a tennis court, so my father would regularly win these matches. Up to a point. But one day we were out there and I realized he had slowed, and that his shots weren’t coming so hard anymore, and that I would win. But towards the end of the set I started thinking that this competitive man would be truly aggrieved to lose, and it seemed almost unfair of me to go through with it. So I didn’t. A couple of theatrically placed shots that were just wide, some heart-breaking shots into the net, and a double-fault or two, and there it was, a victory for dad. 

I guess the competitiveness gene runs a little weaker in my DNA. I never ever let myself beat him in tennis.

My 9/11

The media is in a frenzy this weekend over remembrances of 9/11. My natural inclination is to not spend too much time and emotional energy looking backward; I like to keep my gaze straight ahead. But it is certainly appropriate to reflect at least a little on that dreadful day, but for me, a little is plenty. I will largely avoid the replaying of footage of the tragedy, because I personally don't want to go back and experience the whole awful thing all over again. But some reflection; yes, I will do that. 

My 9/11 a decade ago started early, getting to work at my office, a few miles from the World Trade Center, around 7 am. I was going to go out on the town that night with my wife and friends, leaving just about at 5 pm, so I wanted to get a full day's work in. I was in my office typing away on the computer when someone ambled by and said a plane had hit one of the towers. I thought it was probably an accident, or a suicide. I had no idea it was a full jet. I continued working. A little while later I got up to go to the copy room, and someone then told me excitedly that another plane had hit the other tower, and they had seen it live on TV. 

Uh oh. That was obviously no accident. 

We turned on the big TV in our conference room and, like just about everyone else in the world, watched the incredible images that just hours before would have seemed only possible in some big-budget Hollywood production.

I was antsy. What to do? We then started hearing that other planes were aloft and possibly part of this attack, and before I knew it confirmation came on the air that a plane had hit the Pentagon. I found out later that my nephew was in a meeting at the Pentagon and had only minutes before left that part of the building, which ended up being crushed in the crash. Some of the meeting attendees didn't make it out.

At some point someone suggested that we might be able to see the towers from the roof of our building, so I and a few others went up there. Sure enough, there they were. Again, the cinematic unreality of what I saw was striking. We weren't up there more than 5 minutes when the first tower fell. This huge structure didn't go down with a high-decibel crash; it let out the faintest of moans.

Clearly, any plans for the night were scratched, and I realized I had to get home to my family. But it turns out the authorities had decided to stop all trains leaving from Manhattan, so I was stuck in the city. Some time went by, and I either watched the news on TV or surfed on the internet trying to get the latest news. There was another plane that had crashed in Pennsylvania, they said. 


My club at the time was the Princeton Club, right near Grand Central Station. It sounds odd, I realize, but I thought that I might go over there and play a game of squash, since I was stuck, and there I could await the restarting of the train service in relative comfort, getting quickly to the station as soon as possible. But the thought came and went quickly. It was an old impulse -- I have free time, I should get a match in! But who the hell could concentrate on a game when all this was happening....


So a decade has gone by; a lot has happened, some not so pretty. One of the early reactions to the tragedy was to blame Muslims, which is ridiculous and untenable. We should blame religious zealots, that's who we should blame, and there are plenty to go around from all religions. There are Christian nuts and Jewish nuts and Muslim nuts and...., etc. Sadly, we still have a few thoughtless boobs out there whose bias against Muslims, formed 10 years ago, remains strong. 

With the exception of my personal physician, who is a Muslim, every other Muslim I've ever had more than a passing conversation with I've met on the squash court. I just played a Lebanese last night, as it happens, and like all the others I've met, he was smart, funny, and urbane. 


I was going out that 9/11 a decade ago because 9/11 happens to be my birthday. That birthday certainly sucked, but the rest have been good. And I think it is important to remember that no one has stolen a day off the calendar and declared that from now on it is to be a sorrowful day. It has that aspect to it, true, but there are also little babies being born all over the world, to the great joy of their families; people exulting in their private and public successes; engaging conversations crackling between interesting people; great ideas occurring to brilliant minds; sparkling art illuminating unusual viewpoints.... It's life out there, not death. That's what I celebrate on my 9/11.    



 

Footnotes From a Book Unknown

Ripped away from what was apparently a booklet about squash, your reporter found the following footnotes in the trash, which are offered verbatim:

1. The term 'nonmarking soles' is accurate, but it implies that there is no transfer of material from the shoe to the floor. That is not the case, as bits of gum rubber flake off under duress. Players have reported a burnt rubber smell, both from hot balls that have warmed up and from their feet after scratching across the floor at high speed. It was only discovered later, at a toxicology lab in Middlesex, that the aerosolated rubber from the balls was highly toxic and potentially carcinogenic, leading to the on-going squash ball scare.

2. There are of course many benefits to aerobic exercise. They include reduced cholesterol and blood pressure, reduced body fat, increased metabolism, improved endurance, and toned musculature. Aerobic activities strengthen the heart and lungs and make them more efficient. Aerobic exercise improves the strength of bones, and – barring injury – ligaments and tendons. Aerobic exercise burns away calories and trains your body to use fats and sugars more efficiently. Aerobic exercise reduces the risk of cardiovascular disease and diabetes, and reduces stress and alleviates depression. And, since squash is in fact one of only a few anaerobic sports, all the above is magnified.

3. The following quote was also attributed to the former number-one, but he disavowed it later, saying it was ‘equivocal’ and not really what he meant: 

“It’s summer, so it’s no wonder my balls are so hot. When you are playing on 90+-degree courts, you know these balls will get hot, and mine certainly are. This observation is certainly obvious, but it is worth repeating: I mean, they are almost too hot to touch, my balls, and because of that I try to avoid touching them. But they are hot, that’s for sure. I can avoid touching a ball for an entire match, it’s easy to do, but if you were so inclined, what the heck, touch them and see for yourself. I’m not dreaming this stuff up…. Well, it’s summer. Some people don’t play squash during the summer for this very reason, because their balls get too damn hot in the summer. But I don’t mind; they’re hot balls, big deal.”

4. There is one unique injury that squash players suffer that other athletes do not:

Elite players, after years of play, can develop hip arthritis in a degenerative pattern that is not found in any other sport, including other racket sports like tennis. There is global, as opposed to partial, cartilage loss caused by frequent lunging. Hip arthroplasty is often the end result.

5. So called ‘endurance squash’ was an idea that sprung up as a result of the change to point-a-rally best-of-5 matches. Many matches against unequal players were over in less than a half hour, some even under 20 minutes. The old warrior ethos of squash demanded endurance, but the new scoring system took that important element away in many matches. So… endurance squash, with its own set of tournaments and trophies, was born, adopting a best-of-9 format.

6. Squash was proposed for inclusion many times in the roster of Olympic sports, but apparently no one was ever brash enough to bribe the members of the Olympic committee. “It’s all about money for them,” laughed Tony Dunsmore, head of golf’s Olympic study group.

People Are Crazy All Over, Alas

This week we learned the terrible news that people are crazy all over, alas. The carnage in Norway is still hard to believe, but there it is, pictures of bombed out windows and shocked, crying children, and sensible people can only shake their heads in disbelief. 

One of the understandable thoughts that kept coming up by numerous commentators was disbelief that that could happen in a place like Norway. We are used to carnage in the United States, because we have absolutely inane gun-control laws that allow pistols of all types, automatic or not, which can be concealed or slung on your hip like a desperado from the wild west. Since our country is so stupid about gun control it is no wonder that from time to time someone goes nuts and blasts a few innocent people in anger. In fact, it happened just when we were hearing about the atrocities in Norway: some well-armed nutjob killed 6 people at a roller rink down south. In this country, that's not terribly unusual or even all that interesting. The story came and went in a day. 

Norway has more stingent gun control laws but, apparently, even there they can fall into the wrong hands. People are crazy, alas. 

People are nuts in Washington, DC, too. In fact, in their case, it might be better if they WERE all armed. It would get messy quick, but then some sensible people might come in after the gunfire and clean the place up. While the world awaits a resolution to the debt-ceiling debacle, the politicians there are still intent on playing their games. Real leadership seems to be as rare as gun control legislation in that town. 

And I too am nuts, i'm afraid. 

Or at least I was last week. I played two matches last week in the midst of boiling temperatures in New York City. When you walked outside your office building you were hit by a wall of 100-degree heat and monstrous humidity. In this record-breaking heatwave I kept my appointments to play these matches, but I had a feeling I was in trouble when I walked on the court. It didn't seem to be much cooler than the outside temperature. Certainly, within about 5 minutes, the court's air temperature was in the 90s and the ball was hopping around like one of those dense rubber super-balls. 

I got hot, and quickly. I think I developed the world's first case of squash-induced thermocephalia. My brain got mushy, my thought processes -- always with me a dicey notion -- degenerated into what I can only describe as a gloppy bowl of mashed potatoes. I did stupid things, crazy things. I lost both matches, and the proof of my pathetic physical condition was the fact that I really didn't care. I was happy to be alive.

I am desperately sorry about the events in Norway, I'm getting more and more angry about the events in Washington, and I'm looking forward to a better outing on the squash court this week. The latter is insubstantial compared to the first two items, I know. I'm not that crazy....

Strange Night in Suburbia

Last night was odd.

About three times a week I get up super-early -- specifically, 4:40 AM -- to be able to catch the early train into the city in time to change and be ready on court to play squash at 6:30. It's crazy, I know, but I never promised anybody normality in this blog, now did I?

The timing works better for me, and I've gotten used to it.

So last night, about 10:30 PM or so, I laid my weary head down to rest on my soft pillow and prepared to slumber 6 hours or so before the next day would start with my alarm clock's annoying caterwauling. And restful sleep I did have ... until 1:10.

At about 1:10, somewhere down the block where I live, a dog decided to announce its presence to the world with a mournful howl. This wasn't terribly interesting to my sleeping ears, but to my dog this was very interesting indeed, so he let out a series of full-throated, amply decibelled masculine barks to let the other dog know that he was there and he felt his pain.

I woke up and looked at the clock: 1:10 AM.

Oh shit. There are nights when my brain will unnecessarily switch on and I can't get the darn thing to shut off again. I briefly thought about all the work that is piling up in my office, but quickly got on to a much more interesting topic, and that was the match I would play later in the morning. In a few short hours, in fact.

My opponent has been giving me a hard time. He's not significantly better, but he has a few nice shots that have been troublesome to me, so I go over things I should do to avoid putting him in position to pull those shots on me. And then I go through a variety of ways that I might recover from trouble should I find myself subjected to these annoying shots of his. This occupies my mind, even while in the back of it, somewhere just to the left of the occipital lobe, I am telling myself that I have to shut my brain up and go back to sleep.

I toss. I turn. I notice that my nice soft pillow is beginning to bug me. Is it too damned soft? or maybe I could use a little more cottony bounce to it? Is this the pillow that I like that we got from LL Bean last year, or did my wife steal it again?

I replay an interesting point from the other day when an attacking boast caught me off-guard and I was barely able to move a muscle it happened so quickly. I told myself I have to bend down more and split-step for every shot, not just the ones I think may prove troublesome. I can't get lazy, I say to myself, no sir. And look, dammit, always.

I turn to stare at the clock. It's big digital face announces that it is now 2:20.

What?! 2:20 already? I've been up for more than an hour! All because of that damned dog outside.... That dog should be inside someone's house, like my two dogs are. My dogs are so coddled that they even go to a daytime doggie fun-park where other spoiled 4-footed big-nosed terrors get to run around and have a gas all day long. I briefly envision such a concept, but for humans, where adults could go and chase one another around in circles and play tag games and run for balls and things. God what fun we would have, why is that sort of thing limited to dogs and kids, anyway?

I replump my pillow and think of the match I'll be playing soon. I have to remember to bring a new knee strap as my usual one is getting frayed. I also must buy new squash shoes soon as the current ones are getting old and shoes that slip can be dangerous. We don't want to suffer a tear of the ACL just because we got cheap with the shoes, now do we? I think perhaps I could suggest we play with the pro ball I have, you know, the white one. It's hard to see on a normal court and that might give me an edge... Hmmm, only problem with that is it might also completely screw me up; better not.

I look at the time. WHAT?! 3:30? That can't be, please god say it isn't so, I can't freakin' believe this! This has got to stop! Please, please, stop all the pig-slop in your head and get the hell to sleeeeeeep!

Oddly, out there in the neighborhood, I smell the odoriferous remains of a skunk having protected its turf by wielding the one weapon god in his wisdom decreed to it. The smell is gentle, so the skunk must have done his thing farther off. Maybe he nailed that howling dog from earlier, I think. I ponder the skunk smell a bit and realize it's really not so bad at this intensity; kinda smells like summer. Hmmmm.....

Eventually I must have dozed off. For the next thing I know the clock is caterwauling at me and it says it is 4:40 am. Wakey-wakey time in suburbia. I struggle up from the horizontal and prepare an extra-strong thermos of coffee.

I don't know why I looked at the clock last night at 1:10, then 2:20, then 3:30 and then 4:40. It was a little trick that was played on me I guess; a strange night.

I actually didn't play too badly, either, oddly enough. Although that aggressive boast of his still won him the match.

Tics, Anyone?

As I've noted before in this blog, it sure is something to listen to the professional women tennis players at Wimbledon grunting catharticallly after every stroke. The men either don't do it or do it only occasionally, and at reduced volume. Somehow or another, the high-decibel grunt has become part of the culture of women's tennis, kind of like human vuvuzelas trumpeting their presence to the assembled throng. 


I've also noted the manic pre-point dance that the women do. It's called 'happy feet,' and the idea is to keep those feet moving at all times so that no inertia sets in.


There is no more manic happy-feet dancer than Marion Bartoli, a Frenchwoman whose obvious hyperactivity disorder is apparently mixed in with a strong obsessive-compulsive streak, since her pre-point dance involves wild flailing of the arms following ritualized movements. You have to see it to believe it.


All of which got me thinking about movements made by athletes when they are not actually playing the point. What if we were to take some of these actions and put them on the squash court, what would we have?


Well, in the case of Bartoli, her spastic pre-point dance on a squash court might actually put her opponent at risk, since she violently swings her racket on the forehand and backhand side as she is pogo-ing around the court. Her opponent might very likely run off the court, terrified.


Another stylized tic that tennis players have is to reach behind them and grab a towel to wipe off their face. Apparently it is uncool to wear a headband or bandanna in pro tennis. The reality is that they are using the 15-20 seconds it takes to do this to catch their breath, so you'll see a lot of face-wiping in the latter stages of a tennis match. But could you imagine that on a squash court?


Even a mild motion would just not work in squash. Derek Jeter, the Yankees' fading shortstop, always walks into the batter's box and puts his rear hand up, signalling to the umpire that he is not yet ready and to hold the game until he is. It's a totally unnecessary thing for him to do, but he's been doing it anyway his entire career. If a squash player were to hold up his hand as he prepared to receive a serve, his opponent and everyone watching would view him as a madman.

There is something about being in the same room with your opponent that cuts down on the crap. In squash, its two bats and a ball in a box. There's no room in there for bull.

Oh Squash God, Hear My Plea ...

Oh squash god! Hear my plea!

Fix forthwith my bum right knee.

With much sacrosanct piety,

And corporeal anxiety.

My knee, o lord, and thanks from me.

Knee cartilage wears down with the years,

My stomach grows larger with the beers,

Yet I still must beat my squashist peers,

But my balky knee adds to my fears.

Please squash god!

I swear I’ll return once more to church,

No more leaving god in the lurch,

Hell, I’ll feed Him some rainbow perch,

I’ll even fund sacerdotal research!

But please, seriously squash god….

I don’t mean to bug, protest or prod,

But I need that speed, not be a clod.

Hammies are good, plus left and right quad,

It’s just the right knee that needs fixing god.

Please?

Honesty in Naming

If things were named honestly, that would be an improvement, yes? Take the West Side Highway, New York City’s major north-south roadway that lurches alongside the Hudson River. That should be renamed “Expect Delays.”

“Yeah, hi honey, I’m coming home, currently on Expect Delays, but I might be a little late because I, uh, am expecting a delay.”

Or perhaps my Jeep Wrangler should be renamed ‘Lucky to Make it to 100,000 Miles.’ My car is currently at about 80,000 miles and I can foresee trouble ahead.

Politicians could go by a number of names, but I want to keep this column suitable for family viewing, so most of them I’ll have to keep to myself. One appropriate one would be ‘At the Beck and Call of Lobbyists.’

“Hey Joe, did you hear what old Beck and Call did today? He passed that bill that everyone was up in arms about, y’know, the one that turns Medicaid into a voucher system and takes money away from grandma.”

What about renaming sports more honestly? Women’s beach volleyball would be named ‘It’s Really About the Skin’. Golf would be called ‘Is This Really a Sport?’ NASCAR would be named ‘BURP – Oh, Excuse Me.’

Squash would be named ‘Best Individual Sport Bar None.’

Play and Pay

The world is an unfair place, and one place where the disparity between fairness and reality is painfully evident is in the paychecks of top athletes. 

"ESPN The Magazine" recently published a list of the best-paid athletes in a group of 30 sports, one of which is squash. Some of the findings you may know already. For instance, New York Yankee Alex Rodriguez gets $32 million. NBA star Kobe Bryant gets $24.8 million. Nick Matthew of squash fame made $166,926 in prize winnings in 2010. That doesn't include endorsements, which will up his income significantly, but it also doesn't include endorsements for Messrs. Rodriquez and Bryant, either. Matthew deserves significantly more, without a doubt.

Other entries are more surprising. The men's billiards champ made $118,494; the head bowler made $152,670; the top bull rider made a healthy $1,594,527, which will help pay for his extensive orthopedic bills; the top fisherman reeled in $915,500; the winningest poker player made $9,443,519; Lindsey Vonn skied her way to $509,542; and Rafael Nadal, everyone's favorite tennis-player-who-would-also-make-a-fantastic-squash-player, made $10,171,998 in prize money.

And then there's Joey Chestnut, at left, the top professional at Major League Eating, who gorged himself to $218,500, all earned one hot dog at a time. And then promptly regurgitated the whole disgusting mess out of view of the stage. Is eating really a sport?! Really?   

 

Schumacher Toots Own Horn

My nemesis Schumacher recently stopped thrashing me in squash long enough to toot his own horn.

Hard to see, I realize, but there he is, brandishing an inflatable saxophone while frantically dancing about a room. 

 
And why was this happening? Because Nemesis Schumacher was celebrating his son Jonah's bar mitzvah, a big occasion for a kid, and also for a kid's dad, who has to pay for an event that's as much of a production as a wedding. Jonah displayed the insouciance of a Schumacher by not flubbing any of his lines, which is saying a lot because it's easy to get nervous in front of a hundred-plus people staring at you. Jonah is a great kid, and he's got a little brother and sister who emulate him.

 
If anybody needs assistance from the best podiatrist in New York City, Dr. Schumacher is available. And willing. Trust me. He's helped me, he can help you. 

No, not Jonah, he's not a doctor yet. I'm talking the big Schumacher.

I Successfully Shoot Like Ashour!

Today I played my nemesis Schumacher again, and had him huffing and grunting all over the court. He won, but he didn't dominate me out there. 

I even had a wonderful Pyrrhic victory. I was at about the mid-court line when Schumacher lobbed a nice arcing shot heading for the backhand corner. I didn't like the look of that lob; I could tell it was going to drop straight down right in the corner. So I reached high with my racket, pretty much turned directly into the side wall, and tried to hit a little dunk shot to the right front corner. It required considerable concentration and balance, as demonstrated by this dog here....

This is a delicate shot, which I tried to do just to surprise the bastard a bit. But Schumacher watches well and he didn't hesitate for a second, moving right up to the right front corner to get his response.

But like Ramy Ashour, who does this shot all the time, my shot fell off the front wall and gently hit the sidewall nick, rolling purely off the wall without even a hint of bounce.

Schumacher let out a yell. I, like this dog here, let out more of a howl.

What it Takes...

One of the better videos I've seen about the dedication behind our sport. Check this out:

World's Worst Loser

Have you ever beat someone playing squash only to have your opponent be a sore loser? They might slouch off the court without a handshake, they may yell an obscenity and stomp off, or they may even re-argue a few let calls during the match that they felt were thoroughly unjustified. 

But what happens when you play a lunatic? 

Here's a report from the UK of a thoroughly disgruntled man who started arguing over the number of games he had won. The argument gets heated, both players start calling one another liars, and then, as his opponent bends down to pick up his racket, he hauls off and kicks him in the face, hard, breaking his jaw. "The victim later told police the sensation was ‘like crunching Polos,’ and he was left in a lot of pain with blood pouring out." 

Teeth were lost, the jaw was broken, the police were called, and the friendship was ruined. Plus someone had to clean up all that blood. 

This man was no squashist, he was a lunatic with a racket, a guy whose unbridled competitive streak had no brake, no warning voice between his ears saying, Hold it, maybe I ought to back off. 

To his credit, I guess, the fellow regrets his actions, particularly since he will now have to pay for the extensive dental work on his erstwhile friend's jaw, which has left his bite misaligned. And as in the US, there is the little matter of emotional damages, which has yet to be decided by a court. 


I have on fairly rare occasions played someone who is clearly too aggressive -- too aggressive arguing lets, too violent in their swing, too upset over a match -- too emotional for the game of squash. I say thanks very much, and I never play them again. 


The game of squash ultimately boils down to two people in a box with two rackets and a ball. We don't need an attitude problem in that confined space as well, it would get way too crowded.

Oh God, Please Don't Let It Be So!

There are a few sports out there which, unlike squash, have Olympic dreams that are absurd in the extreme. I remember reading not too long ago about 'beach tennis' trying to become an Olympic sport. If you've seen it, and if you know how phenomenally un-international this marketing-inspired sport is, you'd laugh along with me. 

But here's a new entry in the wannabe column: pole dancing.

And I'm not kidding. The International Pole Dancing Championships were just held in Tokyo, and acording to this article, "Hong Kong-based Ania Przeplasko, founder of the International Pole Dance Fitness Association, said efforts are underway to make pole dancing a "test" event for the Olympics in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in 2016. Pole dancers had tried to get on the schedule for London in 2012, but were too late to make a serious bid." Did she just say 'serious'?!

Formally a skill reserved for strippers, pole dancing even has a men's division. 

Yet another sign of the end-times, I'm afraid....

WikkiLeaks Document #23657.25 Reveals Squash at Center of Rift Between Allies

WikkiLeaks has once again sent the diplomatic world akimbo.

One cable (#23657.25) from 2007, received from H. Pritchard, U.S. Junior Assistant Sub-Associate Charge d’Affaires, revealed a fractious and embarrassing incident in which the president of Egypt, Hosni Mubarak, ridiculed the then-president of Pakistan, Pervez Musharraf, to his face, causing an immediate response that was as undiplomatic as was the original Egyptian attack.

As talks dragged on during an Arab League meeting that year, Mubarak, who was seated next to Musharraf,  and who had invited Pritchard and a small coterie of US diplomats to join his delegation as observers, leaned over to Musharraf and said, “Let’s cut this nonsense short and you and I go play some squash. I’ll beat you, guaranteed, despite the age gap.”

Musharraf, struggling to maintain diplomatic niceties, said: “Hosni, my dear fellow, excuse me but I would so kill you in a game that it is not even worth considering. The great genius of Pakistani squash runs deeply through my veins, old friend. Do hush up, I’m listening to the speeches.”

Mubarak, not one to shy away from a challenge, said: “That’s crap, and you know it. I haven’t seen much of the vaunted squash genius from Pakistan lately, you buffoon! Do you know I still play twice a week?”

“So I heard, and I also heard that you play only doubles, and threaten your partner with death if he should lose a game for you. We are not in Egypt now, old pharaoh, so where is your support when you need it?”

“You’ve heard wrong, as usual, just as your intelligence within your sad albeit mightily armed country is giving you a continual stream of faulty advice,” Mubarak said, jabbing his finger at Musharraf. “Use your eyes, use your wits, and you may yet succeed in running that mess of a country you claim to run. It’s like in squash -- eyes, wits and a smidgen of sense are the recipe – but do you have them? I think not!”

Pritchard, seated behind Mubarak, grew uncomfortable, and, squirming in his seat, said, “But …,“ only to have Mubarak swivel immediately and cut him off. “Shush, or you know what will happen!” Pritchard admitted in the cable that he recoiled, eyes agape at the warning….

“I would kill you in a game, Mubarak, and any roomful of Pakistanis would do likewise to a boatload of your best Egyptians, and there is no changing that, so quiet, please, will you?”

“Do not offend me, Musharraf! Do not irritate me to the point of anger, or you will see….” Mubarak growled at Musharraf, eying him stonily, while Musharraf glared icily back.

Pritchard leaned in once again, trying to restore calm: “Gentlemen, please, as allies and friends, could you please…”

“SHUT UP!” both Musharraf and Mubarak yelled, turning to Pritchard head-on, shouting within inches of his face. At that, Pritchard thought it would be wiser to leave, so he stood up, straightened his tie, bowed, and left.

“What a fool…,” grumbled Mubarak.  “Perhaps a racquetball player, eh, Pervez?”

“Heh heh,” softly laughed Musharraf. “Yes, I suspect you’re right, Hosni old friend. Oh well…. Tea? The Darjeeling is nice….”

New Delhi Squash Animal

Here's Shera, the mascot of the New Delhi Commonwealth Games, having a go on the squash court....




I feel pretty confident I would beat that furry little rodent....

On-Court Grunting: Here Comes the Science

In a past blog I noted the aggressive grunting by top female tennis pros, the likes of which can be quite impressive indeed. Male tennis players are not nearly so loud, but they do their fair share of grunting too. My point was that I thought that squash players should be allowed a grunt or two -- Hey, it's a tough game! -- and that our sport's obsession with insisting that a squash court is a no-grunting zone is a little too old-school for my taste. It's also not good for fans, who want confirmation that their favorite pro is out on court working hard.

Ah, and now the science..... Well, some intrepid psychologists got together and tested whether on-court grunting might have a negative impact on the opponent's game. The study (here) was published in the Public Library of Science ONE, an online, open-access journal. Their main finding is this: "When an additional sound occurs at the same time as when the ball is struck, participants are significantly slower (21–33 ms) and make significantly more decision errors (3–4%) regarding the direction of the ball both for easy and hard decisions alike."

Now, in tennis some of the louder yellers bellow their grunts at 100 decibels or more; in a confined squash court, that would be insanity. So we need to have these same researchers look at squash and quantify the degree at which a grunt goes from an acceptable audible pronouncement to an aggressive and unfair violation. I await the results.....  

Eyes Wide Open

Forgive me, but this blog has nothing to do with squash..... Last night I had the great good fortune to take a plane from Chicago back to New York City, flying into Laguardia Airport. I've flown a fair amount in my day and one of the things I've noticed is the difference in behaviors as a plane approaches its destination. There are three basic types. The first type of passenger stares out the window, watching the approaching earth as it glides by, perhaps pointing out a landmark or two. Another type sits and fidgets, a necessity because this type of passenger is a nervous flier. The final type is the road warrior, who has been in a plane a million times, is not interested in watching the city below him for the 100th time, and would rather continue his paperwork, or his novel, or whatever else has occupied him during the flight. 

But as we descended last night I was really struck by the virtual unanimity with which all the passengers stopped what they were doing and looked out their windows as this great, gorgeous, vibrant, remarkable city inexorably drew closer. 

For some reason I felt proud.