DailySquashReport.com

When we went in on the Friday I felt as though I was getting my GCSE results. I knew I’d done well in the bleep test and the jump test but none of us had any idea of our results in the drop jump and the VO₂max. Sailor was taking about ten minutes to review the tests with each of us, at a table in a corner of the canteen, while the others rotated on two courts with hitting routines. I was last.

“Siddown, Jolyon, son.” Sailor took some papers from a beaten up briefcase that I hadn’t seen before. He looked unfamiliar in a pair of half moon reading glasses.

“Now, first the overall picture.” He looked at me with his diamond eyes. “I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve never seen anything like this. You’re a freak, son, a physical freak. How old are you, sixteen and a half?” I nodded.

“If I saw these in an adult with five years of conditioning under his belt I’d be impressed. You don’t play football, do you? Stupid question. They’d be drooling over these if you were at one of the academies. Even if ye couldn’t kick a ball. Anyway, football’s no’ the point.

“Now,” another pause to look at me over his half moons, “you’ve still some growing to do, if I remember your father. What’s he, six foot?”

“Yeah, but I was always smaller. I’m one seventy three now. Dunno what it is in feet.”

“That’s about five eight. Some kids, especially girls, they finish their physical development early. But I’d say ye’ve still some way to go. Strength and endurance, they’ll both improve.

“Hold on,” he said, “I need a coffee. You too?”

Sailor was back a minute later with the drinks. He looked older and unexpectedly studious, peering through his glasses as he shuffled his print outs.

“Okay, the jump test, you know that. Forty three centimetres. A high jumper, listen to me, a high jumper, would do better, but not by much at your age, great leg power. I say great when we combine it with the reactivity index.” He smiled. “Did you think the machine was electrified? You averaged 0.28 seconds contact, that’s short, and 0.78 in the air. That’s a 2.8 result, just under. That’s high jumper territory too: I’d expect a good high jumper to do no more than three.”

“What about the VO₂max?”

“I’m coming to that. VO₂max is something you’re born with as much as anything. But physical activity helps. You understand VO₂max, don’t you? It’s the rate your body can take up oxygen and use it. Anyway, you’re lucky, son. Your result is eighty three point six. I’ve never heard of a squash player that high. Riley’s the best I’ve had, seventy seven last year. He’s been down a bit this year. Cross country skiers, cyclists, they tend to be best. Miguel Indurain, heard of him?”

I shook my head.

“Great cyclist. Spaniard. Won the Tour de France five times. He recorded ninety six, incredible. Couch potatoes, mebbe forty five.

“But it’s not everyone with a high VO₂max who can perform. Your lactate threshold, that’s important, too. We didn’t measure that. Involves blood samples. Beyond your lactate threshold you go anaerobic. Your muscle efficiency goes down and you can’t sustain the effort. We’ve a clue to that from your bleep test. Seventeen. Seventeen, son! No one in my group has done a seventeen, certainly not at your age.

“So what this means, my friend,” those hard eyes again, “is that you’re under performing.”

Sailor must have noticed the disappointment in my face.

“No, I can understand it. It’s no’ bad. How long have you been playing?”

“A bit more than a year, I suppose.”

“Well really, it’s okay son, you’re over performing. Dave tells me you’ve played a lot of tennis.”

“That’s right. I never quite got on with it though. It ended up more my mother than me. She wanted me to play.”

Sailor nodded. “It had to be a racquet sport. Tennis is for poofters. In my opinion, that is. It seems to attract spoiled brats.”

“I used to play badminton, too. I’d play anything. I did gymnastics till I was ten. And swimming.”

“And you must have played football.”

“Yes, though my prep school did more rugby. I enjoyed that.”

“Scrum half?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s obvious. Combination of small size and insolence.”

“Riley would call that harassment. Child protection issue, since I’m still a minor.”

“Can it, sonny. I want to be serious. When I say you’re under performing, what I mean is that with your physical attributes, with a full grounding in squash, there’s no way you shouldn’t be better. I’ve been watching you these last four weeks. You’ve already come on but you’ve a long way to go, so-o-o far. You’re a tough little bugger. Yer just raw.”

Sailor slowly, deliberately finished his coffee. “The point is, son, for you,” he looked at me again, “the sky’s the limit. Up there. It’s just down to how much you want it. For only twelve months playing squash you’ve good racquet skills, amazing for such a short time, far better than the average. That must be the tennis and the badminton, and you’ve got good timing. What I think you’ll never have is Ahmed’s wrist, or Dave’s way with a racquet. They’ve both been playing since they could stand up. You could do with those skills. We all could. But ye don’t need them. You can break people down. So in the end the skills work against the player.”

“I’m not sure about that. I’ll never be able to beat Dave.”

“We’ll come to Dave in a minute. Have you heard of the South African, Jan Berry?”

“No, I presume he’s a squash player.”

“Aye, he’s currently ranked three in the world. Berry the Hatchet, they call him. The most boring individual on the face of the planet,” he laughed, “personally and squash wise. On court? He’s relentless. He’s short of real talent, nothing in the way of racquet skills. But as I say, he’s relentless, a whirlwind. Anyone who plays Jan knows they’re going to be put through it. He’s onto every ball early, bang down the wall, volley, volley, volley; bang, bang, bang,” he made cutting movements with his hand, “length, length, length. Nothing subtle. Nothing fancy. You know if you’re going to beat him you’re going to have to overcome his will. And he’s a hardboiled Afrikaner. Fancy stuff won’t beat Jan, not by itself.”

Sailor paused and lasered me over his glasses. “You, son, can be better than Jan Berry.”

“Me?” I didn’t know how to react. It felt weird. What had he said, number three in the world?

“Aye, you. I think so. And this afternoon we’re going to find out for sure.”

“This afternoon? What do you mean?”

“Nothing fancy. You’re going to beat Dave three nil.”

I laughed. This was some sort of set up. It was the sort of joke Riley would make.

“Don’t laugh son. Here’s how you’re going to do it. It’s all in the first three points. Now, you’re a good lad. You and Dave always have fun playing. I’ve watched you. Dave’s a good lad, too. Sure your game’s are hard. But they’re no’ serious. Well this is where they get serious. I don’t mind how you are off court. On court, from now on, you’re going to be an animal. I couldn’t say this to Paul, or to Riley, or to Ahmed. I don’t need to say it to Zoë. You have to have the physicality.” ‘Harv tae harv the phuzzicarlitay’, is more how it came out. His accent had become more pronounced.

Sailor took off his glasses and folded them away into a case. “This afternoon, first three points, if you do it right, Dave will know he’s going to lose. First three points. Or he’ll realise that it’s going to have to be a different ball game if he’s going to win. He’s going to have to dig, dig down deep. He’s a good lad, Dave, fantastic talent. But you can squeeze the talent out of him. Like toothpaste. No one can squeeze what you’ve got out of you. If ye don’t want them to, strong enough. It’s got to be the wanting. Am I making myself clear?”

“I suppose so. But beating Dave Kemball? I don’t know.”

“That’s the last time I hear you say that. For you, son, the world changes today, or I’m wasting my time with you.” He looked at his watch. “One fifty three, August the thirtieth. The world changes now today if ye want it to.” He rubbed the side of his face, as though checking his shave.

“First, here’s how you win. Simple. In one way it’s simple. In another way it’ll be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. You’re Jan Berry, mark two. Only you’re worse than Jan. Think worse than The Hatchet. From the first point yer going to pressurise Dave, early, early, early. When yer serving, no messing around, no wiping your hand on the wall. Straight into the service box. Ready. Serve. Ready. Serve. Pressure. Give him the message. Pressure. After five minutes ye’ll really be feeling it. But you can take that.” He smacked the back of his hand on the print outs. “The tests show it. After only four weeks training.” He looked away, “I can hardly believe it, a boy operating at that level. Dave will be hurting too, hurting worse. But most of all, he’ll be damaged inside. You’ll be damaging his psyche. ‘What’s got into my mate Jolyon? He’s a bloody animal today. Oh this is hard.’ After only five minutes.

“See?”

I nodded.

“Dave’s a good lad. He’ll fight. He’ll hit a few winners mebbe. He’ll rally, he’s no’ unfit. And he’s quick. But as you grind, he’ll start to realise.” He made a clenched fist gesture against his heart. “This is going to be too hard. And then the mistakes will come. They always do in the end, if you pressurise enough. Too hard. All those wonderful shots you’ll never be able to play? They’ll find their way into the tin, not the nick. Then you’ll win the first game. He’ll joke while you towel down. Because believe me, you’ll need to towel down. It’ll be the eighteenth level in the bleep. You won’t joke. It’ll reinforce the message. ‘This is serious. This is business. I make this my business, my friend.’

“First three points of the second game, same message. That’s when he’ll know for sure. That’ll confirm it. He’s going to lose. And he’ll break. I’m telling you. He’s a good lad, Dave, but he’s no’ got what you’ve got.”

I was shocked. It was the intensity as much as the actual words, the way Sailor delivered the message, his piercing eyes. I wasn’t convinced though. Dave Kemball was miles ahead of me. I’d tried rallying with him, been there. But he was fit, too. And he was certainly quick, getting to shots he’d no right to. He could always absorb a hard five minutes. Then he had the skill to pull away. I’d tried going for clean winners against him, lazy short cuts. No good those; he was simply better at those. Once after I’d gone one game up he’d beaten me with a stream of clean winners that went right through the next three games.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we? You do as I say, son, don’t mix it up. Just pressure. Pressure, pressure. Berry the Hatchet. Be like Jan Berry. You’ll never beat Dave in a game of skill. Not if you play for the next twenty years. But you’ll beat him today if you beat him in his mind. The top two inches, that’s where you’ll win, top two inches.

“And then if ye beat him, no, when ye beat him, I’ll want to talk to you, on Monday. A serious talk. Okay?”

“Okay, Sailor.”

Wow! Sailor’s passion. I was half convinced. Not the rest of it, not Jan Berry, not three in the world convinced, just beating Dave today convinced. Maybe I could do that.

Then it was all happening. We were on court, three minutes into the first game, the score had hardly moved, I was one nil down. Unbelievably, we were in the middle of only our second rally. I’d won the toss and served. The first rally must have gone on for two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty shots. Eventually a backhand volley from me had jammed out and it had been a clear penalty point to Dave. He smiled as he went to serve.

“Phew, bit fierce, that.”

I just looked at him. Now into this second rally I was starting to feel the pain. There’s nothing harder in squash than taking the ball early. More physical effort is needed and you have less time to breathe before you’re doing it again, less time for oxygen in, less time for carbon dioxide out. A high VO₂max obviously helps, high lactate threshold too so you don’t go anaerobic. The theory’s fine, I understood that. The theory gives you high hopes that your opponent is feeling worse. That’s the other side, the good side of the taking-the-ball-early equation. Your opponent has less time to get back to the T after his last shot, and if your next shot is tight, he has less time to pick it up. You’re pressurising him. In the second rally I had Dave behind me, where I wanted him, volley, volley, volley. He tried floating the ball high down the wall, but I still reached it and volleyed it, push, push, don’t wait to take it off the back wall. Eventually Dave only scraped a short straight shot into the middle of the court and I hit it away easily.

Four minutes gone.

One all.

Riley was playing Ahmed in the next court but everyone else had come to watch us. Sailor must have said something. There he was, staring down impassively. After fifteen minutes, I could hardly believe it, we were no further than five all. Dave had quickly realised I was serious, and had cut any errors out of his game. That’s good, I thought, he’s playing my way. We exchanged the serve a couple more times. Neither of us could establish a lead.

Then suddenly Dave hit a succession of superb shots, including three fabulous, risky dead nicks. Eight five to him. Not good after all. I knew it: Dave had too much class. I remember thinking, this isn’t going to work, he’s just too good. I looked up at Sailor. An imperceptible nod. I was feeling as bad as level seventeen, breathing heavily, thighs painfully leaden. Come on, at least try. He must be feeling bad too.

He was. The next rally was a huge one, with Dave mainly behind, me mostly where I wanted to be, in front on the T. Then crash, tin. Yesss, he’d tinned! At last. Crazy to try a winner from back there. Hand out, me serving, six eight. Next point the same, another unforced error from Dave. “Come on,” he shouted and wiped his hand high on the wall. Next point the same, but it was far shorter.

And so on till the end of the game as Dave’s effort collapsed. Game to me, eleven eight, in about twenty minutes, eighteen of which had been the most intense continuous squash I’d ever played.

We left the court for a drink and to wipe away the sweat. “What was that?” Dave asked. “That was a bit fierce.”

I didn’t reply.

Dave looked hurt. “Okay, be like that.” He went back on court and flogged the ball angrily down the wall until I joined him.

“Right, you’re one up,” he said. “Bring it on.”

Yup, I thought. And you’re going to have to do something better than the last game. And I don’t think you can.

The second was like the first. Dave now realised what he was up against, and he wasn’t giving up. If anything I had to dig even deeper. The score hardly advanced for ten minutes. The ball was incredibly hot and bouncy. Then Dave began to delay the start of the next point. No matter how stressed I was feeling, I followed Sailor’s prescription and moved promptly in the service box when I was hand in. Dave in contrast would go through a rigmarole of wiping his racquet hand on the court wall, wandering around adjusting his sweat bands, pulling up his socks and tying his shoelaces. There was no marker and still further no referee to remind him that, as the rules said, play had to be continuous. I wasn’t troubled, though. I knew it meant I was getting to him, and although I was hurting myself, I was confident of playing through it. A couple of fantastic shots from Dave saw him to a four two lead. Come on, up the pace. Volley, volley, volley.

Then, on cue, the mistakes started. There was another shout from Dave, “Aaahhh!” He looked fiercely up into the lights, as though seeking help from some god, left hand open, expostulating with the deity. I waited patiently in the service box. There were half a dozen of Dave’s hand wipes, then the sweatbands, the socks, the laces. It’s not going to help, mate. Volley, volley, volley. His deity ignored him and soon Dave was well past his anaerobic threshold again, behind me, retrieving in the back of the court.

Another couple of minutes and I’d won the game, eleven four.

“It’s only a practice game,” Dave said as we both took a drink.

“I’m practising winning.”

I went back on court to warm the ball up. I didn’t want to chat.

Dave’s resistance lasted for one rally at the start of the third game. Admittedly it was a long one, the usual formula, volley, volley, volley. After that he just tried to hit nicks. One came off, and he served, but that was all. It can only have taken two or three minutes. A final crashing tin and it was match to me, eleven eight, eleven four, eleven one, with the score telling nothing, absolutely nothing, of the story.

We shook hands, and being the decent guy he was, Dave said, “Well played mate,” as though he meant it.

The others went to watch Riley and Ahmed’s marathon, and we joined them in the gallery. I was done. My legs were absolutely dead. As the adrenaline slipped away my body gave me the message I’d ignored from about the third minute of the first game: that was the hardest physical stress I’d ever been subjected to, or subjected myself to. All right, maybe the Redbrook steeplechase, Senior Heartbreak in the gale, maybe that came close. The steeplechase went on for longer. But it didn’t have the intensity of those thirty five minutes on court with Dave Kemball.

“Have you rehydrated?” Sailor addressed both of us. “Take a protein supplement, too. And spend at least ten minutes stretching out before you shower. And you,” he said to me when Dave had moved away, “we’ll need to talk. After training on Monday.”

I had a big smile from Carmen. “Well done. You were very good.” And I had a big thrill from Zoë. She looked me directly in the eyes, itself special, and said simply, “That’s the way you do it.” Riley on the other hand said, “What a little golden boy.”

On the bus, with the Pennines glowing in the late afternoon sun, Dave asked the same question as he had after the first game.

“What was that about, then?”

“It was Sailor. After he’d seen the results of the gym tests, he gave me a talking to. He said mine were good, that basically I should play at a faster pace.”

“Friggen’ hell, faster pace. You certainly did that. You didn’t have to be so offensive about it.”

“I think that’s the point. The top two inches, Sailor said. Winning mentally he meant, I think.”

Dave grinned ruefully. “It comes across as mental. You looked as though you should have been locked up. Mental. You’re right though. Have you heard Sailor talking about Zoë? She’s mental.”

I was happy to talk about Zoë, and we spent the rest of the journey discussing women who played squash. Not from the squash angle, though.