What's On My Mind? The Last Lesson by A.J. Kohlhepp
June 2024. As we head toward our dormitory
on the park-like grounds of St. Paul’s School, I am experiencing a
vertiginous sense of past, present and future overlapping. My wife and
I have come to Concord to teach in the Advanced Studies Program, which
helps to prepare New Hampshire students for the challenges of the
college experience. While our present efforts serve to promote future
success, I am thinking about the past. And the sport of squash is
central to those reflections.
St. Paul’s School looms large in my squash
consciousness in many ways. For one thing, there is the lore associated
with the institution itself, which claims to be the first of its North
American ilk to build a court. In fact, the case can be made that US
squash was actually born in that august institution in the late
nineteenth century about fifty years after the sport was invented in a
similar English environment (Harrow School circa 1830).
From a familial perspective, school and
squash also resonate at St. Paul’s. My beloved uncle attended the
school in the middle of the twentieth century. Aside from being picked
on relentlessly for his southern accent, which earned him the moniker
Johnny Reb, he claims to have earned accolades on the squash courts,
which laurels he brought with him to Harvard College. (The records for
in-house championships, as opposed to interscholastic competition, are
pretty spotty so I have been unable to verify his conquests.)
His years at St. Paul’s were a source of
fascination to me growing up. The large suburban high school that I
attended in the 1980s was a far cry from his cloistered New Hampshire
experience. But a nephew could muse, and I did. What might it be like
to attend that kind of institution? Would any of the stories that my
uncle shared, which bore a strong resemblance to the depiction in Dead Poet’s Society,
still apply as we approached a new century? Having missed the window as
a student, I continued to ponder. How might it feel to teach and coach
and live in that kind of milieu?
Perhaps you see where this narrative is headed.
I landed a New England prep school job in
2001 and leaned into two decades as a teacher, coach and dorm parent:
the venerable triple threat model that has characterized boarding
school contracts since time immemorial. On the athletic side of the
ledger, I coached football and baseball, tennis and cross country over
the years, but squash was always the centerpiece of my athletic
portfolio. In a twist that I should probably have foreseen given the
vagaries of the hiring process and the roundabout nature of fate,
however, this position was not at St. Paul’s but at a smaller, newer
school in western MA.
Fast forward to 2016. In a memorable
weekend at the end of a challenging season, Berkshire School’s girls’
squash team won a NEISA league championship at St. Paul’s. (Longtime
DSR readers may recall my sudsy recap.) In our white minibus, we
rocked out to “We Are the Champions” in the parking lot near the McLane
Courts before heading home on a snowy Sunday. I had four hours behind
the wheel to reflect on what would prove to be the only team
championship of my coaching career.
Advance the tape another eight years. This
complex backstory is very much on my mind this past June as my wife and
I drive past the venue where the Berkshire Bears had hoisted the NEISA
trophy. Somewhere in the depths of our well-packed Subaru is my squash
bag. Not green and gray, as it had been at Berkshire, but maroon and
white, official colors for Boys’ Latin School of Maryland.
I had just finished my second year at that
august institution, which included two years at the helm of the squash
program. That culture shift, from a rural New England school with our
own 10-court facility that I oversaw, to a city school that rented six
courts for an hour (weekdays only), is worthy of a whole separate
essay. Suffice it to say that squash coaching occupied a smaller
portion of my professional focus in a Baltimore day school than it had
at a New England boarding school.
Another pursuit had siphoned my attention
away from squash. I picked up guitar during COVID and soon moved into
songwriting, which had eventually led me to open mic nights and the
occasional busking gig or support slot. Wedged into the Subaru, near my
arsenal of Dunlop rackets and ASICS court shoes, is a hard case
containing an acoustic guitar and a binder full of songs. As we find
our way on campus, I anticipate leaning into my passions in equal
measure. Once I have finished teaching my three-hour seminar each
morning, I will surely enjoy the opportunity to rebuild my squash game
and develop my songwriting catalog.
As fate, and choice, would have it, I had a
productive summer with the six string. I played most afternoons for at
least half an hour; I co-wrote with a real live Nashville pro; I
launched a new cover series via Instagram; I encouraged my own students
in their musical pursuits; I even wrote and performed a song to
commemorate our intense and rewarding seminar, which focused on banned
books.
But what about the squash?
I made it over to McClane toward the end of
our first week, in a gap in the faculty orientation schedule. In the
first few minutes, I enjoyed the familiar cathartic output of smacking
the double dot around court two, where my team had hoisted the trophy.
After some leisurely court sprints, a modified dynamic stretch, and
some tentative star drills, I was ready to roll.
My task was straightforward. I had
volunteered to show two college-age interns around the court, as it
were. A. and Z. had been assigned to oversee the recreational squash
program that summer. Superior students at elite institutions, neither
had any meaningful squash experience. Needless to say, they were
nervous about their afternoon assignment. I stuck to the basics in our
first session: proper grip and swing shape; basic mechanics for drives
and volleys; pro tips for serves and returns; and a general tactical
framework.
Balancing conversation with demonstration
and replication, I did my best to get them ready. I also suggested
useful websites for further study, invited them to reach out with
questions, and wished them well on their opening day. And that was it.
Forty minutes of work, more or less, and my shoes were off and rackets
were back in the bag.
Packing up that afternoon, I assumed I
would be back on those courts soon. Perhaps I would identify colleagues
who wished for a summer game; or get invited to join my own students in
their afternoon recreation; or maybe even get recruited by the summer
AD to support the interns, given their lack of expertise.
In point of fact, none of those things
happened. Teaching three-hour seminars, six days a week, required more
prep time than I had anticipated and therefore accorded me less free
time than I had envisioned. Leaning into music and running in the free
time that I did manage to set aside, I never actually made it back to
the McLane.
By all accounts, my plucky proteges did
just fine as squash supervisors. They actually picked up participants
in the second half of the term as soaring outdoor temperatures made the
squash courts an attractive afternoon destination. Hats off to them and
fingers crossed that they and some of their charges will find ways to
stay engaged in this sport in the years to come.
As it turns out, my last lesson at St.
Paul’s may turn out to have been my last opportunity in a coaching
role. I have moved on from Boys’ Latin after two good years. Relocated
to Richmond after a complicated summer, I am fully immersed in a job
search this fall. Few opportunities that I have explored here involve
independent schools, and fewer still have any connection to squash.
(Richmond boasts only two school teams and a single club college
program.)
Had I recognized that last lesson for what
it was, perhaps it would have been more poignant. I might have drawn it
out by challenging them to a two-against-one match, regaled them with
stories of my team’s fateful run in February 2016, or demanded a selfie
to commemorate my last moments in a familiar role. At the very least I
would have thanked them for the opportunity to pass along some of the
knowledge I had accrued over two decades. But I, and they, simply moved
on to the next activity in a busy week.
Turning back toward myself, I am hopeful
that the central ideas that I shared with A. and Z. will serve me well
in the challenges I face this fall as I adjust to a new environment and
seek out new employment. Leaving out all of the squash-specific
elements, here are the main lessons I tried to impart. You begin with a
strong foundation that will facilitate future success, and you get the
basics down before worrying about the results. Working from a place of
agility and responsiveness, you treat yourself and those around you a
measure of grace even as you try to impart, develop or reveal grit.
And you celebrate success when it comes
your way since you never know when this moment, or this championship,
or this lesson, will be your last.
What's On My Mind is a column by rotating authors. Contact DailySquashReport@gmail.com
