Entry No. 1

'Moments, Memories and Me'

by Alan Stapleton

My wife’s message worries me… “Supper’s in the Microwave …”

It is cold. And windy. Rain spatters against my cheeks as I trudge down the gravel pathway to that lighted building standing in the distance. Pistol-like shots echo in the greyness. My bag weighs heavily on my shoulder, my day weighs heavily on my mind. Like a light-house in the storm, that building offers hope and comfort. My wife’s message worries me.

The locks click open, as my finger swipes my entry. Lightness. Laughter. Warmth. The thwack of ball on wall. I am home…away from home.

As if window-shopping, I stroll past the courts. Memories flicker through my mind. There, a father plays a dibbly-dobbly game with friend while son, sits, bored, quietly munching his chips, caressing his Coke. Once, that was me. A bunch of 13-somethings, bash around, screeching, laughing, and learning, having fun. Once that was me. Two young and ambitious wannabee champions practise routines, ghosting and jelly-legging. Drenched, determined, sometimes even desperate. Once, that was me. A coach patrols. Shouting encouragement. Barking orders. A student coach ... I guess, feeding backhands not so well to 3 beginner girls . But if he can get them to just-playing level, he will have “done good”. How much has coaching added to my life ?

Next court, two ladies, warming up. Chatting, giggling laughing catching-up between shots - loving it. Some woman-time away from mother time and man handling. A young guy paddles a ball patiently to his girlfriend ( I guess ). How many romances have blossomed from these celled courts. And how many squashed ? Opposite them, two old playing partners – battered, bruised, and braced - banter as they spin the racquet for their 1009^th encounter of their lives. One has won 504 of their encounters. The other, 505. This one is a “Biggie”, for both of them. I think of all those friends who have tournamented and tormented me into real, true gritty friendships.

And this ? Hectic! 4 players on one court. Doubles… Ball whizzing, players ducking… such FUN. Maybe this is where my squashed future lies, as my knees begin to gristle. On the last court, a group of N-th Leaguers, pitch-and-play in a frenetic bashing, blaspheming blast of fun. Sometimes, I wish, I could be just like them

I wander back to the change rooms. It’s quiet. That smell pervades. Male, but pleasantly not unpleasant. Sweaty, deoderised socks – red wine-like. Almost gearing you for battle. Quiet time as you sort your kit. Shoes – tick. Socks – tick, shorts – black – tick. Shirt – black - tick . Should I use that white wristlet. The “lucky” one . Knee brace … I hate this thing ! But it has extended my squash life ( Do I really need it ?). And my trusty old 125g gutted friend. You feel so good in my hands. Maybe…. you need a new grip

Others filter in…. a bit of banter… a bit of business. I am playing a young-gun tonight. Fast, and fit. He will run me down but hopefully my skills are better and tactically, I am more experienced. Vary your pace. Mix it up. Play your shots but give yourself some margin.

He’s on court already. Stretching, interspersed with short sprints, sweating already. The warm up is friendly, but focussed. He, at the back, hitting hard. Me. I am on the tee. Volleying. Lobbing. Dropping. We spin. Both of us, are tentative. Feeling our way. My serves – looping lobs. His volleys, firm and fast. I weave my web of intricate delicacy. He, driving hard, and straight. Time and again, he bursts through . I catch him, he recovers, returns, I catch him again, fleetingly. The match sways. A web in the breeze. Tricky, but fragile. Can my web hold his pace, his fearless fetching.

No, not today. He wins, but it’s close. We shake hands, eyes meet. Somehow, there is bonding. Of brotherhood. I am happy. I have competed. I have sweated, I have schemed. My mistakes have cost me. I was there. But not.

We sit, courtside, towelled, our heads bowed. Sweat drips from my nose. Glassed cold water soothe thirsted throats. These are moments to cherish. That post-play relaxation period where all you have put in, oozes from your pores. For a while, the world has been forgotten. Bombs may have fallen, miracles may have happened. But for that while, they are irrelevant and unimportant.

Slowly, we gather ourselves, our bags, racquets and wet-sweated shirts, and retreat to the sanctity of that change room where secrets are hidden, and shared. Some sit in silence. Others are loud, vocal in their victory. Some search within. Others stare, blindly. Lost matches call for inner questioning . Wins are reflected in smiling inner glory. It just feels good to win. That sense of satisfaction that only sports people will understand. Bodies - bulging, bad, beautiful - of all shapes, disappear into the mists of heated showers which soothe, heat and massage the physical and mental pains of the battle-wearied. Drooping hung towels await their masters. Out of the mists, they re-appear, refreshed. Clothes are bagged, bags are shouldered, and the game drifts into the past. Life starts again.

The bar slowly starts to bristle. The defeated and the triumphant console and congratulate as the cold beers froth into stories of victors and vanquished, come-backs and burn outs, scheming tacticians, rabbit-like runners and wily cheats . Squash-talk gradually morphs into more important issues of national sports, meandering men, wistful wives, wanton wenches, politics and pool parties. In the far corner, Committee Members cuss and discuss traitorous, conniving members and loyal servants, counting the pennies, planning plans, filtering fund-raising ideas and labelling league players into teams. Most will steer well clear of that table. Its claws are all-encompassing.

It is time. I do not wish to leave. I am happy. I am content. But, it is time. Amidst farewells and promises of return-matches and revenge, I leave. My wife’s message still worries me

It is cold. And windy. Soft rain spits against my grizzled cheeks as I trudge up the gravel pathway, back to my car. Rain droplets scatter under the whooshing wind-screen wipers. I ease into traffic, my mind cleared. Almost on auto-pilot, I wend my way home, to real life. That message still hovers. Dylan’s “ The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind” growls quietly.

I am thankful for my 45 minutes of zen-time, and 45 minutes of friend-time. But more. I am thankful for my love affair with Squash. Initially, I didn’t like her. But she has grown on me, into a passionate addiction. She has been my sounding board, my boxing bag to ease frustration, She has stretched me and soothed me. She has brought me friends, allowed me to travel, offered me the opportunity to compete at all levels, to tour with friends, to share my knowledge and guide others towards their dreams. She has grown me. I am thankful for the opportunity to organise, and live my dreams despite the petty politics. I have been blessed, for my……squash, my words, my work – my work, my words, my squash ….my life. Squash coaching, squash admin, squash politics, squash organising squash playing, squash writing…

My car arrives, and I ooze into the darkness of the garage. Gingerly, I ease myself from the car as post-match stiffness starts to set in. I gather my bag from the boot. Somehow it feels lighter. My mind is cleared. But, my wife’s message worries me

It is still cold. And windy. It is a horrible night. Soft rain spits angrily against my cheeks. The pathway is dark . The steps slippery. I check myself. As I unlock the front door, the keys chink in an eerie silence. My dog barks in the yard.

My wife’s message still worries me.

Aaah, it is so good to be home . But why is it so dark. Silent. Cold. As I reach for the light switch, my phone tinkles into life.

Another message from my wife.

“Supper’s in the Microwave …. Sorry, I forgot to add…

“Gone to play Squash. LuvUlots ”

This story and the stories in this contest are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, or to any other works of fiction, is entirely coincidental.