DailySquashReport.com

Chapter  22

 The next event I was looking forward to was my first PSA Challenger tournament, the SweetSuccess Open, at a new club in Lancaster. The SweetSuccess was sponsored by a confectionary company run by a squash enthusiast. The prize for winning was five hundred pounds. The money was important. It meant ranking points. For a lot of the players, especially the ambitious ones on the up, the ranking points were the point. You weren’t going to survive on the prize money.

I was almost sorry I’d asked Sailor again about ranking points. Mary had left for work. Sailor was reading the Independent. I was still eating breakfast.

His first response was, “Read the Tour Guide, son. Read the Tour Guide.”

“It all looks so complicated.”

“Well, ye paid yer money.”

Sore point. I’d only just managed to pay Sailor back for my Professional Squash Association, ‘PSA’, Junior Membership fee of a hundred and fifty pounds. Now I’d had to fork out, or rather borrow, another three hundred for Continental Membership. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been eligible to enter the SweetSuccess. Country Membership, one category down at only two hundred pounds, in truth would have been enough, but Sailor had advised me to go for Continental so that I could enter tournaments across Europe. “Next year yer’ll be a World Member, but there’s no need now.”

Among the benefits of PSA membership, apart from the ability to enter tournaments, was the Tour Guide. It was the Bible of the tour. The Tour Guide explained... well I didn’t know what it explained because I’d only dipped into it. I’d found a complicated table about ranking points and immediately bailed out. You got, I remembered it exactly, ten point six two five points for fifth to eighth place in a ‘National Closed Challenger Tournament’, whatever that was. Time now to bail back in. Ranking points were about to become the obsession of my life.

“Ranking points for a tournament depend on the prize money. And size of the entry. Each stage, last sixteen, quarters, semis and so on, you get more points. It’s calculated as a proportion of the sponsorship, the whole pot, hotels, food, limos.”

“Limos? You mean I’ll have a limo to take me to Lancaster?”

“Dream on, son. Big tournaments, Hong Kong, Canberra, Delhi.”

“What if the prizes are in different money?” I was thinking of the Challenger I was hoping to enter in Holland. If I could afford the travel, I thought, a big concern. “That Maastricht tournament I’m supposed to be in. The prizes are in Euros. You get more of them so you get more points than a UK tournament?”

“It’s all calculated in dollars. Evens things out worldwide. In most places it’s dollars you get paid in, specially the big Middle East tournaments. Plenty of prize money there. Dubai, Qatar, Sharm el Sheik. Ye’ll have to be there soon. At least in the qualifying.”

“Do you get points in the qualifying?”

“Aye, ye do, not many. You also get tired. So yer going to need good results as soon as possible. Automatic first round entry. That’s essential. And that depends on your ranking.” He fixed me with his piercing eyes. “No time to waste. Lancaster’s important. Let’s take some time before we head for Eastlands. We’ll look where you need to reach, every three months going forward. Ye need to understand how tight the timing is.”

“What do I get for Lancaster?”

“It’s an open Challenger, fifty two point five points for a win. Twenty one for a losing semi.” He opened his laptop, put on his reading glasses and after a few moments said, “Come here. Let’s see. If you won in Lancaster you’d be ranked world three hundred and twelfth, alongside a feller called Samson Khama of Botswana.”

“You mean I could get a world ranking, just from Lancaster?”

“Aye, above Mr Khama, see the list. It’s on the PSA website. You can send your mother a text wi’ the good news. If you make the quarters, you’ll be,” he clicked his mouse a few times, “around four hundred and twenty fourth. Above,” he looked again, “Ian Cooper of Australia.”

I peered at the columns: rankings, names, countries the players came from, points. “What’s this?” It was a random single digit number in each row, a two or a three or a seven or a four.

“Number of tournaments played in the calendar year. Yer points total’s divided by ten. So it’s no good getting a good result in a single tournament. It’s still divided by ten. After that you can discard yer worst results. Then, I forget the detail, if you play a lot more tournaments the divisor goes up. Max sixteen for twenty five tournaments, but no way could you play twenty five in a year. Ye’d be shredded.”

“How many points do I need to be, say, top hundred?”

“Here we are, Manuel Montego, ranked one hundred. I know Manuel. He’s a Mexican, never gives up, his knees are shot to pieces though. Manuel averages forty nine points. So if you win ten Challengers in a year ye’ll be inside the top hundred. You’d be ninety two right now wi’ fifty two point five average.”

Sailor’s accent had become thick as he talked, his eyes fierce. He went out to his study and came back with his briefcase.

“I’ve planned it out for you. It’s tighter than I thought. Ye’ll need two years among the big boys, I mean the top ten, top fifteen mebbe. No way you could break through to number one faster than that. So you’ve got to be up there by yer nineteenth birthday. Less than two years. That means, see here, ye’ll need to be averaging three hundred and fifty points by then, give or take. For fifteenth in the world.”

“Three fifty points?” It was scarcely believable. Here I was planning to scrap for a couple of tens of points at a highly competitive Challenger tournament, maximum fifty in the improbable event that I won it. Then in less than eighteen months I’d have to be disappointed with fewer than three or four hundred for every tournament I entered.

“What sort of tournaments will I have to be in?”

“For winning a Two Star it’s three fifty points. Three star, five two five; four star, seven hundred. Semi in a World Series, five two five. You’ve got to be up there.

“And so, start with a bang. Ye can win the SweetSuccess, send out that message. You can’t mess around in Challengers for long, but you’ll struggle to get into the bigger comps without some outstanding results.

“Have a look at this. We’ll have to modify it as we go along, but it’s your tournaments for the next eighteen months.” Sailor took an A4 pad from his briefcase. I moved round the table and looked over his shoulder. In his heavy handwriting there was a list of something like twenty five tournaments, with their classifications, first a range of Challengers and later some Internationals with higher prize money. Towards the bottom of the list, more than a year on, the so called Internationals were of the ‘50’ and ‘70’ varieties, with prize money of fifty thousand dollars upwards. They felt as far away as their locations, across the Middle East and the Americas. The early tournaments were mainly in the UK, with one or two in Holland and Germany. At the beginning of the following year there was the British Juniors, where I’d be in the under nineteen, and mid-year the World Juniors.

“I’ve worked this out on the basis ye don’t lose much. You can’t afford to.”

I looked at the second page of the list, the final months before my twenty first birthday. If I could get close to the top, that would be where I’d have to make the last push. There was the PSA World Open, the world championship in Grandpa’s terms, in December in India. Winning that would be job done. Or, maybe less unlikely, I’d accumulate enough points to be top of the rankings. The Tournament of Champions in January in New York would be the last realistic chance of winning big points. As I stood behind Sailor in his little dining room, it seemed absurd.

Sailor turned back to the PSA ranking list on his laptop. “Right, son, it’s time to re-commit. You’ve got to do it. Think of your granddad.” Think of my mother, more like. “See here, Magdi Gamal, little genius, world number one, one thousand five hundred and ten points. He’s beatable, I’m telling you, Magdi’s beatable.”

“What, averaging one thousand five hundred?”

“Aye. It’s tough. There’s only three categories of tournament where first prize points is over fifteen hundred.” He reeled off some numbers from memory. “World Open, two six two five; World Series Platinum, two one eight seven point five; World Series Gold, one seven five oh. Magdi had a good run at the end of last year, and a couple of the others were injured, Trevor Cooper, Jan Berry. Trevor’s second, eleven sixty six. Another Egyptian’s third, Hosni el Baradei, solid. He hasn’t won a tournament for two years but he always make the quarters; usually the semis.”

“What do you get for a semi in a top tournament?”

“World Open, over a thousand. Some World Series, as little as five hundred. Quarters, you’re talking about three to six hundred. Like I said, it depends on the prize money.” Sailor looked at me. “I know what it feels like, son. It seems a long way off. Do you know what it was like with Zoë? She was a skinny little bairn, nothing on her when she first came here. But she fought, from day one. You’ve seen her at training. Once she’d come here, she didn’t have any doubt. She knew. I didn’t have to tell her. She made me believe, not the other way round. She made it happen. I’m a wee bit wiser now, an’ it’s me telling you.” He separated each word: “You are going to do it.”

It gave me a surge of adrenaline. He wasn’t making this up. This was Sailor McCann and this was what he really did believe. I was going to be number one.

“Now, bottom line. Win a couple of satellites, soon. The SweetSuccess would be a good start. We need you in the qualifying in the star tournaments. By the end of this year. Then next year, you’ll be eighteen, qualifying’s no’ enough. Automatic first round entry so yer not tired. Flights paid, hotels paid. Those limos. Chance to play the big boys. Chance to compete. You’ll have a year then to make it to the World Series, top eight. January. That’s as far as I can get you.

“Listen to me.” He turned round from his seat and his eyes bored into me. “That’s where I will guarantee to get you, Jolyon Jacks. After that it’s down to you. Everest, last five hundred metres. The death zone, they call it. I’ll take you as far as the death zone. After that yer on yer own. But you’ll do it.”

I knew about the World Series. It was a separate scoring system through the year that culminated in a tournament in London, two sets of round robins, for the season’s top eight players. The top two from each of the round robins went into semis. There was big prestige and big prize money for the winner.

Fortunately the short term pressure was off me financially. The two hundred and fifty Mick the Prick pounds were back with Dave where they belonged. I didn’t have to replace them by two hundred and fifty semi-final pounds from the SweetSuccess. The prize money there rose from twenty five pounds for a first round loss to the five hundred if you won. Paula hadn’t answered my texts, so there was less chance I’d have to part with any winnings to help her. I’d resigned myself to the fact that further contact with her would involve paying out rather than making out.

I didn’t know my first round opponent in the SweetSuccess, a twenty one year old named Ben Tors from Hampshire. “Blitz him,” was the instruction from Sailor before I left, and that was what I duly did, a guaranteed fifty pounds for the win. After the same result in the second round I was sure of a hundred pounds, more than two full days pay from Fallowfield. Next it was to be none other than Riley O’Callaghan, ranked in the world’s top ten. Not the in squash world’s top ten. This was a Jolyon Jacks ranking, the World Total Dick Scale, for arseholes and other scum. At squash Riley was eighty six in the world, with an average of fifty seven point six points. His best result had been in Canada, thirteen hundred dollars and a hundred and fifteen points as runner up in a One Star tournament. I’d done okay against Riley in practice sessions. We’d never played a full game, but I knew I wouldn’t be outclassed.

But oh dear. It turned out I was outclassed, comprehensively, though not exactly at squash. This was Riley, remember. Riley’s mother must have seen something in him the day he was born. ‘What are we going to call the ugly little we’un? Oh yes, Riley.’

The priest who baptised him would have been in on it. ‘I name this little bastard Riley, may God forgive my soul.’  What did the label say on the Riley tin? Riley, Born To Rile. He was probably fortunate to have made it out of Belfast. In the week following our match his risk of a kneecapping was back up to highly probable. This time by me.

It started with routine Riley as I walked into the changing rooms at Lancaster. He’d been getting increasingly offensive at training, especially when I practised with Zoë, and now he simply carried on.

“Ah the Golden Boy, Golden Jolly. Come for a lesson today, jolly Jolyon?”

As far as names were concerned, I was coming to the view that my mother and father could have done better for me. John would have been okay. Or Eric or something. Nothing quite as poncy as Jolyon.

“A little tedious, Riley. I suppose this is going to continue through our game?”

“Indeed it is, my boy.”

Indeed it did. I learned afterwards that tournaments at the satellite level had to have at least one international class referee. Whoever he or she was, they weren’t looking after my match. Early on in the first game, Riley played a good drop shot. I’d get to it, but as the ball was so close to the wall, all I’d be able to do was to push back a return drop with the end of my racquet. The problem was, Riley hesitated ever so slightly before clearing the ball as the rules obliged him to do. The result was minor contact between my hip and his which unbalanced me enough to make me hold back from playing my return.

“Let please,” I asked automatically.

“No let. Three two.” I gave the referee a look. He was a non-descript man, part bald, in his forties, standing halfway up a gallery of seven big steps behind the glass backed court. There were ten or twelve spectators dotted around, Sailor included, and nobody looked surprised. It wasn’t a big incident and I put it out of my mind. A marginal bad call. They happened all the time.

As Riley prepared to serve he smiled at me and said quietly, “Good marker.”

My way of dealing with irritation was to ignore it. I was playing really well, feeling good, keeping Riley behind me, making him run. Several points later I tried to play a ball with Riley close. My racquet clipped some part of him on my backswing and even as the ball was going down at the front wall I raised my hand and pointed to the end of my racquet.

“Let please. Contact.”

This is normally a routine let. Maybe Riley had been a little close for me to have played the shot. If he’d been closer I’d have stopped and asked for a let. Almost certainly in those circumstances I’d have been awarded the point. The rules say you have to be given room to play your shot, even if it means the non-striker must disadvantage himself by leaving the court open. Perhaps I should have asked for a let on this occasion; it was a fifty-fifty call.

Strangely the ref asked, “Was there contact, Riley?”

Riley stood there with one hand indicating apparent bemusement. “No. No contact.”

“No let. Hand out. Five Six.”

Another big smile from Riley as he retrieved the ball. “Justice,” he said quietly. “This guy’s reading it just fine.”

I was furious. Careful now. Ignore it. Focus on the squash, Sailor’s formula, take the ball early, hit it hard, keep the opponent behind, attack, attack, attack. Riley’s game was different from mine, subtler, probably better to watch, full of little drop shots and clever angles at the front. It was a risky form of the game because if the shots weren’t perfect the court was opened up for the opponent. On the other hand, it took a lot out of the opponent with all the scrambling, and Riley had excellent control. A couple of rallies later I played a perfect return at full stretch to one of Riley’s drops. Six months earlier I’d never have reached it but I was getting quicker all the time. Riley made no proper effort to reach my return but bumped into my back.

“Let please.”

Quite correctly the marker said, “No let, seven all.”

“I was all over it,” Riley said. “I’d have reached that easily.”

“You were short, Riley. No let.”

“Not a good one,” Riley said, loud enough for the marker and the scattering of watchers to hear.

Something similar happened the next point. Again, no let. This time Riley opened the door of the court. “He’s not clearing the ball. What do you expect me to do?”

“No let. Nine seven.”

“Hey ref, that’s harsh.” He closed the door and took his time preparing for my next serve. I knew what Riley was doing. He wasn’t trying to get the decision reversed. That never happened. He was putting pressure on the ref to influence decisions later on. Good refs could deal with that. Bad refs, which to be fair was most refs, it was the most difficult job in the world, always shaded one or two later decisions in favour of the complaining party.

I duly won the first game. In the interval, Riley spent some time in his what-a-jokey-fellow-I-am mode telling the referee how quick he was and how I was preventing him from reaching the ball. Sailor came down to talk to me. “Just keep yer concentration.”

As we went back on court Riley said a few words to me, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “See what I’m doing. I’ll have this fellow. Then I’ll have you. Match to Riley, probably three one.”

Riley started a campaign of minor delays in clearing the ball in the second game, especially after his short shots. Spectators who weren’t players wouldn’t have noticed. Nor apparently would low grade referees. Riley was too subtle. The slight hesitations made the ball harder to reach, and harder then to do something effective with. The first couple of times I squirmed past him. The next time, at three all in the second game, I stopped.

“Let please.”

“No let. Hand out, four three.”

I said as reasonably as I could, “But I wasn’t able to get through.”

“You have to make an effort to reach the ball. No let.”

Riley came in loud enough for the gallery to hear. “Come on, golden boy. Play fair. You’d never have reached it.”

I suppressed another surge of anger, said nothing and prepared to receive serve. The next rally was a long one, long and satisfying, with Riley desperately scrambling as I volleyed the ball deep into the corners. Eventually he played a loose defensive shot well away from the side wall. It was an obvious opening for me to win the point with a short volley and Riley was half way past in anticipation when once again I hit the ball deep, not short. Make him run some more, Sailor’s mantra. Riley’s effort to change direction involved charging into me, racquet theatrically outstretched in the direction of the ball.

“Let please.”

“Yes let.”

A hundred times out of a hundred with a decent referee it would have been no let.

“Hey,” I said. “There’s no way he could have reached that.”

“You were in the way. Plenty of contact. He couldn’t get through. Let ball.”

“See the way it’s going?” Riley said quietly. “You might as well give up now.”

I gritted my teeth and played on. Several more hard points, yesss, that’s better! It was looking as though Riley wouldn’t be able to keep up. Sailor’s formula.

Then Riley contrived another block. “Let please,” I said.

“No let. Hand out, Four seven.”

This was too much. “Come on!” I shouted. “What do I have to fucking do?”

“Conduct warning, Jolyon. The score is four seven. Riley to serve.”

“Now come on, Jolyon,” Riley mimicked, loud enough for the gallery to hear. “You’re not playing with boys any more.” He made a calming motion with his free hand. “Settle down.”

That’s exactly what I did. The next point finished with Riley just failing to reach a short angled shot and scraping it back, so clearly on the second bounce I didn’t consider going for it. To my amazement the referee called, “Five seven.”

“That pick up. I thought it was down.”

The referee hesitated for a moment. “I couldn’t be sure. Play a let, four seven.”

Standing in the service box Riley grinned his infuriating grin and said quietly, “You were right. Double bounce.”

That was as much as I could take. I drilled the next return of serve into the tin. The following point I bumped Riley as I went for a short ball.

It must have been too obvious. “Stop,” the referee called. We both turned. “Conduct stroke, Jolyon.”

“What do you mean?”

“That was deliberate. I’m awarding the point against you. Please play squash. The score is seven all. Riley from the right box.”

The referee has the power to give different so called conduct sanctions, a warning, a point, a game or even the whole match. He’d just awarded a point against me on a conduct stroke. How could this be effing happening? I’d heard of conduct warnings for ‘racquet abuse’, someone smashing his racquet against the wall or floor, but never a conduct point. Riley went through a show of stretching the side I’d knocked. Then he bounced the ball a few times, grinned his grin, quietly said, “I never realised you were a cheat,” and served. After a few shots another subtle block resulted in minor contact and prevented me from hitting an obvious winner, though I managed an average shot. Riley didn’t go for it but stopped.

“Let please,” he demanded. “More contact.”

“Yes let. Jolyon, there’s no need for that.”

I’d had enough and opened the court door. “Can’t you see,” I said as patiently as I could, only a couple of steps down from the referee. “It’s him getting in the way. He’s just not clearing.”

“I’ll worry about him. Your movement’s up to you and I want to see you making more effort to reach the ball. Now play on.”

Riley acted as an obsequious doorman and murmured, “You just can’t hack it, can you? Riley wins, definitely, three one.”

“Seven all,” the referee called. Riley did a pantomime stretch, bounced the ball a few times and served. Four close points later it was nine all, with Riley seriously out of breath. I knew I had him for that game, and he must have known it.

But Riley dug deep, on the rule-bending front. “Racquet,” he called to the referee, holding up an apparently intact Dunlop. Without waiting for a response he left the court and spent an age pulling spare racquets out of his bag, removing the covers and testing the strings. He finally returned, comfortably back in aerobic territory. I controlled my temper. The next point was epic, with both of us up and back and side to side. Riley finally won it with a fluke, leaving me game point down. Riley though was wasted, first bent over and then down on his haunches. I was out of breath, certainly, but nothing I couldn’t manage. Next point, simple formula, keep him moving. He might win it with another fluke off the frame or a nick, but the odds were against.

I couldn’t believe what happened next. Again Riley said, “Racquet,” left the court and started fiddling with his spares. By all rights the referee should have told him to get on with the game. Squash rules say play must be continuous. The referee could award a conduct stroke or even a conduct game against him if he didn’t comply.

After a short interval, while I stood ostentatiously waiting to receive serve, I gave up on patience, went to the open door and said to the referee, “He’s got to play. He’s taking advantage.”

The guy looked harassed. “Riley,” he said, “that’s enough time. On court please.”

Riley raised a hand and carried on with his deliberations over his racquets. Finally he methodically zipped the unfavoured ones into their individual covers and meandered back onto the court, without shutting the door. He reached the service box, took a deep breath, grinned at me and said quietly, “Ah, that’s better.”

The next instruction from the referee was, “Please close the door.”

Riley said, “Go on, you do it.” A spectator closed the door but I was too far gone for it to help.

“The score is ten nine, Riley to serve, game ball.”

All my control, so carefully tutored during my months in Manchester, disappeared in a few rabid seconds. I flayed the ball round the court. The harder I hit it the easier it bounced. With a few simple strokes Riley worked me out of position and played the easy winner to take the game.

“Game to Riley, eleven nine. The score is one game all.”

“All going to plan,” Riley whispered as we left the court.

I sat fuming. Sailor had a word with Riley and joined me. “Ye know how to win this. Keep yer temper, keep yer temper.”

I made a big effort to control myself at the start of the third game. Successfully too until Riley managed something you see footballers do every Saturday on Match of the Day, but which I’d never heard of on a squash court. He contrived a dive as he brushed past me on the way for a short shot and ended up in a mixture of dropped racquet, hairy Irish legs and absurdly false indignation.

“Ref,” he said immediately from his sitting position. “That was out of order. Way out of order.”

“Jolyon,” the referee said. “I’ve already warned you for physical contact. I’m awarding a conduct game, eleven six to Riley. Riley leads two game to one.”

In four strides I was out of the court, hands on hips, looking up at the referee. “That’s ridiculous. He did that deliberately. That wasn’t my fault at all.”

“It was clear to me that you tripped him. I’ll have to come down hard on you if you carry on with this.”

“You already fucking have, mate. You’re missing his double bounces. You’re calling the lets all wrong. If I were you I’d be booking in to the optician, prompt on Monday morning.”

Not the best way to prepare for the fourth game, but the fourth game never started. For long moments the guy said nothing. His face went red. Eventually he came out with, “I’m sorry, you’ve gone too far,” then raised his voice. “Conduct match to Riley O’Callaghan, three games to one, seven eleven, eleven nine, eleven six and no score.

I was astonished. How could I have let that happen? How could the referee not have realised what was going on? I wanted to grab him and shake him till he changed his mind. Luckily it was Sailor who did the grabbing, “Come on, son,” and ushered me towards the changing room.

“What about my kit?”

“I’ll get your kit. You shower.” Minutes later, after the quickest possible shower but no towel, I was face to face with Riley in the changing room.

“What did I tell you?” he said. “Riley wins it three games to one. A triumph of strategy. Over youthful impetuosity. It’s like a song by Manu Chao. What a great forecast I made, don’t you think, jolly Jolyon? Riley wins it three one.”

I noticed Sailor coming into the changing room with my bag and I merely said, “Piss off.” Sailor extracted the towel from my bag, handed it to me and addressed Riley.

“You. Monday morning. My house. 10am.”

Riley started to say something, but he wasn’t encouraged by the look on Sailor’s face. Finally, after a staring match he just said, “Okay.”

Sailor turned to me. “You. Don’t forget your stretches. You’ll take a meal wi’ me later. Here, twenty hundred.”

We were staying at a bed and breakfast near the club. I didn’t want to watch the squash and mooched back there. At the B&B I threw my kit into my room and not caring who was about shouted, “Fuck,” once at the top of my voice, and listened to some mixes on my iPhone. I timed my return to the club for eight o’clock on the dot.

Sailor surprised me during our meal. I was expecting to be flame grilled like my burger. “Ye don’t need me to say anything, son,” he said. “That’s out the way now, mebbe a good thing that it happened today. We don’t see that sort of behaviour again. There’s plenty more Rileys out there. They won’t beat you at squash. You just show them, your two inches are tougher than theirs. Only reason they do it, mess you around, they know you’ve got their number.

“But remember, yer representing me when ye play squash.”

“So’s Riley.”

“I’ll take care of Riley. You take care of not having to find another place to live. And last thing, go and find Sid French tomorrow and apologise.”

I don’t know what went on between Sailor and Riley, Monday morning, 10am. Sailor never said, and nor did Riley, who conspicuously ignored me after that in training, and at tournaments, and anywhere we saw each other. I was to find out, though, that he hadn’t lost his capacity to annoy.
Chapter Twenty Two

My embarrassing efforts at Lancaster had left me with twelve point seven five points as a losing quarter finalist and a less than vertiginous world ranking of four hundred and sixty six, just below a Venezuelan, Hugo Crespo. At least I was on my way, just four hundred and sixty five rivals to pass. Watch your back, Hugo my man, I’m gunning for you. On the credit side, there were already thirty eight hopefuls, or perhaps not so hopefuls, below me.

At my next tournament things significantly improved, on two counts. It was a PSA Challenger 10 event in Cologne. The squash count first: I played out of my skin, reaching the final. I only lost there because I was tired after a marathon semi. I gained one hundred and fifteen points, all at once, think of it. My total was now one hundred and twenty seven point seven five, and I had leapt to a world ranking of four hundred and twenty seven. Hugo Crespo was crisped.

The other count was something else, up there with Count Basie and the Count of Monte Cristo. The former I was familiar with because my father was a jazz fan, the latter because my English teacher Mrs Crabtree had forced me to read Alexandre Dumas after catching me with a copy of Nuts in one of her grammar classes. The tournament was at the ACR Sportscenter, a large friendly club on the outskirts of Cologne. The ACR was a large centre, consisting mainly of random add-ons that can never have been part of any master plan. There were areas for table tennis and badminton, and squash courts on no less than three levels. The tournament squash was confined to the ground level, with two pairs of glass backed courts at right angles to an irregularly shaped area that included the bar, a small viewing area and some canteen-style seating for food and socialising. It was in this area that I first noticed an Indian guy with the whitest teeth I’d ever seen, hanging around with the two Indian players in the tournament. My semi was against one of the Indians, Pradhan Prasana, a hairy bundle of energy, the other end of the fairness spectrum from Riley O’C. You didn’t need to cheat when you could move as fast as Pradhan, I supposed. Fortunately, his stroke play was predictable, so he often failed to win the points he had earned. It made for a long game, nearly two hours, and neither of us would be fresh for any final.

It was after the semi that I was approached by the dude with the teeth. I was anxious to do some serious stretching, and force down a protein drink, mindful of Sailor’s instructions. “No problem,” he said. “Let’s have some food when you’ve stretched and showered.”

So we met at the back for the excellent buffet the club was providing. “Well played,” he said. “You always know you’ve been in a game with Pradhan. I’m Suresh Haladkar.”

Suresh turned out to be the sales director for a Mumbai sports company that was breaking into both the European and North American markets. Squash was growing rapidly in India. It already had one World Series tournament and there were rumours that the World Open would be played there soon. Suresh’s company, AllSports India, had already captured a big slice of the Indian market for racquets, shoes and clothing, he told me. Now they wanted to take on the Donnays and Adidases in their major territories. They were moving into soccer and golf, but they wanted to cover the sports that had given them a start in India, tennis and squash. With squash they were looking to sponsor three up-and-coming PSA players. I was less highly ranked than the players pencilled into their business plan, but Suresh liked the way I played and reckoned I was going to make rapid progress. Would I be interested?

I held myself down in my seat, and tried to play hard to get. “What sort of a deal do you have in mind?”

“It goes like this. We provide you with kit, racquets, shoes and so on. That’s taken for granted. We’ll also support you in your PSA tournament activities, travel, out of pocket expenses. Depending on your arrangements in Manchester, we’ll also give you access to our support team, physiotherapy, massage, the full health package.”

My astonishment must have shown, and Suresh put up a hand. “This doesn’t come for nothing. In return we’ll expect you to make at least three trips per year to India, either for tournaments or separately to do promotions and activities to support the company, get involved in clinics with kids, show yourself at events we’re promoting.”

Suresh saw my frown. “It’s all right. We wouldn’t want to disrupt your squash programme. Our interests are your interests. You’re with Sailor McCann in Manchester, that’s right?”

I nodded.

“We’ll work the dates out with Sailor. I know you’ve a tight schedule, all the training and the practice and the tournaments. But imagine not having to work to pay your way. Imagine being able to relax after training, or put in extra sessions.”

“How do you know all that?”

“We’ve done our homework, Jolyon. This whirlwind style of yours. That appeals to my fellow directors. AllSports India, we’re a whirlwind company. We don’t hang around. This is only our seventh year. You’re a perfect fit for us. The word is, you’re going to get to the top. This is, what, your second PSA tournament? And you’re in the final? Pradhan’s no pushover, either. Pradhan fights for every point. I’ll be interested to see how you get on against Rainer Rasch.”

“So you’ve been following me?” It was flattering but a bit scary, the thought that this company, in India of all places, had me on their radar.

“We keep in touch with the scene. We didn’t get where we are by sitting back and expecting the world to come to us. We have to know what’s going on in our markets. Anyway, what do you think about the offer?”

I swallowed. It was such a big deal. “It’s too good to be true,” I said. “It will take away a lot of my worries. It’s just, it’s just sudden, I suppose.”

Suresh smiled. “I understand. I tell you what. I’m going to be in Manchester next week. Let’s meet. I’ll bring along some written details. Nothing formal. We’ll do a formal contract when you break into the top thirty. The only commitment I’ll want from you at this stage is not to sign with anyone else without talking to me first.

“So.” He checked the time on his mobile. “You need to get back to your hotel.”

“I guess so. It won’t take long. The trams are brilliant.”

“No tram. I’ll give you a lift. And I want to give you some racquets to try. Two different weights, a light one, one ten grams, and the Hi-Per, one two five. We do two professional strings, Hi-Per Touch and Hi-Per Power. Four racquets. Try them out for a few days. Let me know which you prefer. And let us know your preferences for the grip.”

It was great to be driven back to the hotel. In spite of all the conditioning Sailor had put me through, I was weary. The next day it showed, and I lost to the elongated Rainer Rasch in less than half an hour.

Sailor always had us debrief to the others after a tournament. What was the opposition like? How had we played? What had we learned? What would we do better next time? We were sitting in a group in the canteen area at the EIS, ready to do some court work. Most of Sailor’s squad was there, Paul White, Ahmed, James Lovegrove, Riley, Carmen and of course, Zoë.

“So you lost to Rainer three oh,” Sailor said, and looked at me. “Journeyman German, disappointing.”

“Oh come on, Sailor, I was on court two hours against Pradhan Prasana in the semi. I was tired.”

Sailor seemed to know everyone on the circuit. “Aye, he’s a tenacious feller. Still, there was a hundred and seventy five points there for the taking, an’ you came away with a hundred and fifteen. What’s the lesson?”

“I dunno, train harder, I suppose.”

“The lesson is, a tournament’s a full week. Ye have to win smart in the early rounds, ruthless, conserve energy. Plan to arrive in good time. Travel hassles? No good. Not enough sleep? No good. Three two wins? Three one is better, three oh is best. Double yer stretching. Take the massages. Eat properly. It’s not just what happens on court. You have to manage yourself.”

I nodded. “I do have one bit of good news. I’ve got some sponsorship. AllSports India.”

To my surprise, Sailor frowned. Zoë asked, “How did that come about?”

I told the story about Suresh, and showed everyone the racquets he had given me.

“AllSports India,” Zoë said. “I know them. They’re due to launch in the UK soon. A sharp organisation. I heard they put a lot of pressure on Beth La Salle after she’d signed for them. It was turning up early for tournaments and doing clinics. She said it was okay, but they’re very pushy.”

“Can’t have your programme disrupted. Ye don’t have the time,” Sailor said.

“Suresh said he understands that. He’s here in Manchester later this week. Wants to arrange a couple of trips to India for me. Thing is, they’re going to pay all my travel, and give me all my kit. Just think. I’ll be shot of Fallowfield Pools”

“What have you done to deserve that?” Paul asked enviously. He was five years older than me and struggling at mid thirties in the rankings, a victim so often of the qualifying round trap. He’d had some fine wins but was usually too tired to follow them up.

“They’re investing in gold,” Riley said. “Golden Jolyon.”

I smiled. “Something like that. Style. Have they approached you yet, Riley?”

“Can it fellers.” Sailor turned to me. “You say this man is coming here? Let’s meet him and lay down some ground rules. I’m no’ having you commit to anything that’ll hold your squash back.”

I was doing some routines with Zoë later. In a pause she said, “Watch those people, Jolyon. It’ll probably be great, and I like that racquet, the light one. Thing is, they’re very sharp, very pushy. I’ve seen them at tournaments. India, Malaysia, Hong Kong. If something’s too good to be true, it usually is.”

I was relieved at the end of the week when Suresh finally turned up. He took Sailor and me out for a meal in the middle of Manchester. Quality meals with Suresh were going to become a regular feature of my life.

“We won’t fix anything with Jolyon without talking to you, Sailor. As I said to him, his interests are our interests. Our board has decided to invest in three young players, a special extra promotion for three years. One Indian, of course, one Egyptian, you can’t ignore the Egyptians, and one simply whom we like. We’d started to hear about Jolyon. Then he really impressed me in Cologne, carpe diem.”

“Carpe what!” Sailor said.

“We like to act fast. I see a big future for Jolyon. He’s young but he has huge potential. Why wait? Seize the moment. Now the object is for him to progress as fast as possible.”

Sailor spoke to me at the weekend. The meal had gone well, and he and Suresh had had a long phone conversation the following morning. “I’m reluctant to admit it, but we’ve a good arrangement. Suresh Haladkar understands squash. Your work for them is no’ set in stone. It’ll depend on how you’re going. When you’re away, it’ll no’ be a vacuum, I won’t allow it. I’ve seen them, money first, no attention to the squash. But it’ll be fixed that you train with local players, proper players.”

“I’m just pleased I can say goodbye to lifeguarding.”

Sailor gave me the look I had learned meant that something unpalatable was coming. “Listen to me, son. Hang on to your job at Fallowfield. Six, mebbe nine months. Wait till ye know this is going to work out. You’ll no’ get back in, or not easily. Sure you can cut down the hours, do that.”

“It’s so grim. I could cope with that. But honestly, I’m knackered. I know I sound like a wuss. I’m pushing hard, Sailor. I’m not holding anything back in training. Sometimes it’s all I can do to get out the door to go to Fallowfield. I talked about it with Suresh. He understands.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “I’ve been impressed. With the odd exception, ye’ve exceeded my expectations. I think you’re going to do it, son, I really do. I worry, that’s all. When something comes too easily. In the end it’s your choice. Don’t come to me if it turns round and bites you.”

Chapter Twenty Three

Far from biting me, the sponsorship from AllSports India, and even more the support from Suresh, quickly developed into a major boost. Fallowfield was out, done, gone, finito, thank goodness. Without the financial imperative I just couldn’t bring myself to carry on there. After two more weeks I told the management I was leaving. Anthea wasn’t there on my last day. Derek was. He refused to shake my hand as I said my goodbyes and lumbered away, his huge neck muscles knotted, reeking of stale, testosterone-tainted sweat.

When I was out the door, finally on my way with my P45, I raised a finger to the forecourt CCTV camera and happily caught the bus home.

Squash Online, November 30th

...and in the world of Challenger tournaments, everyone is taking notice of the teenage prodigy Jolyon Jacks, from Manchester, England. After a poor start to his senior career, he was disqualified in September for abusing the referee in his first tournament, Jacks, not yet eighteen, successively reached two finals in Challenger 10s. Then astonishingly, he won the $12,000 Challenger 10 in Maastricht last weekend. His defeated opponents included two consistent performers from inside the top hundred, Dutchman Pieter Spaargaren, ranked ninety one, and in the final world number sixty Robin Norris, from Preston. Jacks’ run of form has rocketed him to a ranking of sixty five on the world list.

How far is Jacks going to go? Watch this space.

Sailor had been with me in Maastricht, and had helped me through a grim patch against Pieter Spaargaren, when I lost the third game. ‘Come on, son. He gave everything there. One more push. Don’t let up. First three points, break his heart.’ It had almost burst my heart, and my lungs, but Sailor had been right and Spaargaren faded when he found he’d have to exceed his effort in the third game to make any progress in the fourth. The final had been easier. Robin Norris had tired himself out overcoming the top seed in a long semi. My turn to benefit from the draw. The only down side was that I had to say some words of thanks at the presentation. Robin was a good guy and listed the things to say: ‘Compliment the club and the quality of the organisation. Thank the staff. Thank your coach. Above all thank the sponsors. They put up the prize money.’ I managed to mumble through the necessary words, and I made sure the AllSports logo on my kit was prominent in the photographs.

Sailor must have let a few people back home know about my win. While we were waiting at the tiny airport at Maastricht for the flight back to Stansted I had a text from Zoë. Gulp. It read simply, ‘thats the way you do it x Z.’ Next morning I had a call from Grandpa. ‘It’s a big step, Jolyon. Your first tournament win. I’m proud of you.’ A couple of weeks later I heard from my father, who was just back from somewhere in the seven seas. ‘Well done, I’m thrilled for you. Keep at it.’ Of course I had a text from Suresh. ‘Congratulations from all of us at AllSports. It will be the first of many victories.’

From my mother? Nothing.

December was a quiet month. The World Championships were being played in Saudi Arabia, beyond me at this stage. I’d have to be there within two years, preferably next year. What a thought: me competing in the world championships! In three years, just months before my twenty first birthday I’d have to be winning the thing. Financially I was doing okay. What a relief that was. I no longer had regular money coming in from Fallowfield, of course, but AllSports were giving me enough to live on. I received a monthly payment into an account they’d asked me to set up with an Indian bank, and all I’d had to do so far in return was to wear their kit and hit balls with their racquets. I was due to spend two weeks in Delhi and Mumbai in the spring. Part of this would be to play in a big Challenger tournament, and part to do some promotional stuff at two new clubs. These were being opened in Mumbai following the success of squash at the Commonwealth Games. In between there’d be training with two of the Indian players supported by AllSports. I couldn’t wait.

There was one big down to life, no girlfriends. I was too tired, too poor and I didn’t have the time. No girls was a massive ache. It had been so easy back in Sussex. If I’d split up with Samantha down there I’d have got going with someone else, no sweat. But up in Manchester, where to meet anyone anyway? Even if I found the energy, scraped the dosh together and made the time. Added to which, with Zoë around, I didn’t want to meet anyone else. Oh Zoë! There’d always been something about Zoë for me. Rid-flaming-iculous, but there it was. Apart from the usual things, I imagined us just being together, having a laugh, planning how to play an opponent, watching TV. Getting up together in the morning. If only.

I brewed the idea for ages. I knew Zoë liked me. Did I have the nerve, though? At last I had some money in the bank, tournament winnings. I’d ask her out for a meal, that wouldn’t be too blatant. Why then was I so nervous? One afternoon she and I had a brilliant session of court routines together. I wouldn’t get a better opportunity.

“Are you going to be around this weekend?” I said as casually as I could while we regained our breath.

“Yes, why?”

“Well, I wanted to pay you back for that meal, the Indian, you remember, when I was first up here. I’m not totally skint right now. That’s after Maastricht. Probably won’t last, so how about another curry? Taj Mahal?”

The smile she gave me turned my insides into a smoothie, a non-veggie one, trashed tripe. “All right. How about Friday evening?”

I managed to get to TK Maxx on Thursday and spent some money on clothes: a pair of All Stars, my current ones had a hole, some jeans, my current ones had several holes, and a thick fleece, I’d been feeling the cold, Manchester’s damp cold. More importantly, I didn’t want to look totally tatty going out with Zoë. As an afterthought I got some new boxers.

On Friday we did a light session in the morning because it was performance testing in the afternoon. Sailor’s entire squad was there. As usual, he organised us into two groups for the tests. Zoë, Carmen, Riley and I went off to do the jumps and the VO₂max. Ahmed, James, Paul, Louise and a young Australian who had joined us, Doug Kafalias, went to do the bleep test. It was my fifth set of performance tests since coming to Manchester. I was looking forward to seeing how much I’d improved. My autumn training and competition had gone really well. I was feeling a lot stronger, even than six months previously, a kind of bursting-out-of-my-skin feeling. Energy to burn, speed to burn, power to burn. I had them all.

I was surprised that Sailor had put Riley and me together. Riley hadn’t been too offensive since Lancaster, but he was always niggling. I didn’t mind though, as I expected to do better than him in the tests. That’s how it turned out. I was a full three centimetres above him in the standing jump, forty seven, a new PB. It was impossible to tell straight away with the drop jump; we’d have to wait for the print out for that. After the VO₂max Riley started whinging about not feeling well.

Then there was the bleep test.

Some things in life, just occasionally, worked out perfectly. Zoë and Carmen were cooling off, hands still on knees, when Riley and I started. The audience was completed by Sailor. The name of the game for me was to appear nonchalant. This was easy for the opening levels. What’s more, I knew, and Riley knew too, that I was going to trounce him. I sensed that he was torn between nonchalance, not wishing to appear less than comfortable, and early physical distress, to provide an excuse for when he stopped before me. He did start off with nonchalance. It was like arm wrestling, with the competitors making no impression on each other and only their distended forehead veins telling the true story. Still like arm wrestling, when the end can be sudden, at level twelve Riley started to grunt at the turn-arounds. I was bouncing. In level fourteen Riley fell behind a couple of times. He made it to halfway through level fifteen and suddenly stopped.

Ooh that had been fun! Now to rub it in. I was having to concentrate, fighting back the fatigue and making sure the enemy, the merciless beep, didn’t gain on me. Through sixteen. Into seventeen. I had been frustrated previously in not beating the seventeen I had managed in that first session eighteen months ago. Once I’d been tired from Fallowfield, once I’d had a niggling injury to my ankle, and once I’d just lost concentration and stopped before I needed to.

This time, the pleasure of carrying on well past Riley’s score kept me focussed. I was okay at the end of seventeen. “Come on, Jolyon,” from Carmen. Eighteen was horrible but I made it. At the transition to nineteen, Zoë’s voice cut through my pain. “Right, now it’s match point!”

I was determined to do nineteen. I promised myself a night with Zoë if I made it, will you undress me, Jolyon, or would you prefer to watch me do it? Agony, my whole body rebelling, lactic torture, two more reps, turn, just one more. Yesss!

I collapsed with my lungs heaving, face screwed up, desperately sucking in air. The pain rapidly disappeared as my hyper-efficient biochemistry dealt with the lactic enemy, that ally of the bleep. As I hauled myself to my feet Sailor said, “Good going, son. That’s a record in my squad.”

Zoë said, “That’s right. That’s the way you do it. Twenty next time?”

I felt great in the shower, endorphin heaven. I’d dumped on Riley. He’d slunk away. I’d done a fantastic score in the bleep test, maybe twenty next time was a possibility. And I was taking Zoë Quantock, world squash champion and the most beautiful woman on the planet, out for a meal. I surfed the euphoria as I got dressed in my new clothes.

Sailor had summoned everyone to the canteen area afterwards for rehydration, re-carbohydration and re-something with protein, so we pulled a couple of tables together and sat down. Sailor extracted some result sheets from his briefcase, put on his reading glasses and peered over them at us.

 “Pretty impressive overall. Particularly well done to Carmen and Jolyon. Your best scores all round. I know these tests aren’t the same as winning matches. I said that before you said it, Riley. But they tell me what you’re putting into your training. You have to invest to succeed. Big session tomorrow for those of ye who don’t have a tournament next weekend. Have a good meal tonight. Early bed.”

Riley said, “Zoë mentioned your curry, Jolly One, great idea, my social life has been lacking. I’ve asked around and everyone’s up for it except Sailor. You sure you don’t want to come, Sailor?”

My heart sank. Nooo! What was going on? Somehow my date had been hijacked by a suddenly cheerful Riley. Not that Zoë would have considered it a date, my private fantasy. She must have mentioned the plan, no big deal, to one of the group, and it had found its way to Riley. It was impossible now for me to say hey, this is a personal arrangement; I’m having Zoë all to myself. Piss off you lot. Find yourselves somewhere else. To make matters worse, Zoë didn’t seem bothered. I felt as deflated as I had been inflated only moments earlier. Pox, in spades.

And sadly, things were going to get worse. Sailor said that he wouldn’t sully his guts with spice-defiled food, or something like that. The rest of us worked out the transport. Zoë’s car was having a service; she had apparently been given a lift to the EIS by the manager of the garage that sponsored her. Riley had come in his car. He claimed Zoë and Carmen. Doug would take James and me; Ahmed had other plans and Paul was on his pushbike. As we were leaving the EIS Riley said quietly to me, “Clever trick, that, Jolly One, trying to slip away with the princess. That’s my territory, understand? Leave Zoë to the grown ups, someone who can handle her. She needs a proper seeing to and I’ve nominated myself.”

At the Taj we sat at a long narrow table. Somehow I was at the other end from Zoë, and on the same side, with Doug in between. I couldn’t even see her, pox again. Opposite Zoë was Carmen, and beside Carmen an increasingly jovial Riley. Smug, smugger, smuggest.

“Okay,” Riley said to the waiter when the menus had arrived. “Bring us some poppadoms.”

Then he addressed the women, rubbing his hands. “Indian food is Riley territory. If I may, ladies, I have some recommendations. Mix and match is the word. Nothing too spicy. A korma, coconut there, a bhuna, we’ll go for a sag aloo, chicken tikka masala, pilau rice for six and six nans. What about you fellows? Let’s start with some onion bhajees.”

And so on and so on. The meal turned out to be a disaster, a royal command performance by Riley O’Callaghan. Riley King of Dicks. Still worse was to come, the sting in the disaster’s scorpion tail. We’d all put in to pay the bill and at last, I was thinking, the Riley road show is coming to an end. As we were finding our coats the question came up about getting home. Riley came over to Doug and me and said, “Could you give Carmen a lift. I’ve, er, been invited for breakfast.”

What did that mean? Stupid! It dawned on me. No, no, nooo! Riley and Zoë? It wasn’t possible. I’d thought he’d been joking earlier. Irish excrement. I couldn’t believe that he would be going home with Zoë. She wasn’t even interested in men. So I thought. Neither was she shy about the arrangement, as everyone said their goodbyes, and she gave me what I would previously have classified as a warm smile. Normally I’d have smiled back but I must have looked as though my balls were at that very moment being chewed by a rabid conger eel. So the rest of us joined Doug and he did a circuit of south east Manchester dropping everyone off.

I tried to be quiet as I let myself into Sailor’s house, but back in my bedroom I flung my kit against the wall. I’d get a bollocking in the morning. Sod that. I had a savage mix that blasted deep into the night.

Zoë wasn’t overly familiar with Riley at training the next morning, and Riley wasn’t overly cocky. Perhaps his cockiness had all spurted out of his cock the previous night, I thought morosely. Perhaps it had just been buddy sex. That’s all right, then? Far from all right, it was a dense sensation in my guts, a leaden angst. Riley and Zoë? I couldn’t help picturing them in bed, this way and that way, legs entwined, licking and sucking, straining and sweating. Cumming and cumming and fucking cumming.

Over the following weeks I put everything into my training, pushed myself to anaerobic extremes, up before breakfast for a run, doubling the repeats Sailor had prescribed for me in the gym, attacked the routines on court. One afternoon I absolutely crucified Zoë in a simple drive boast exercise.

“Is there anything wrong, Jolyon?” she asked as we came off court.

“No,” I replied casually. “Just trying to push myself. It’s only what you said.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

The extra effort paid off in the British Junior Open in January. As usual it was played in Sheffield. This time I was staying in a bed and breakfast near the Abbeydale club. No favours from Dick Bentley, I could cope with that. Harder to cope with, there were no favours from Paula B either. I’d been hoping to see her. Someone said she’d given up squash, which didn’t surprise me.

Ranking points were not on offer for the Junior Open but it was an immensely worthwhile trophy. Past winners were a roll-call of players who had made it right to the top. I got to the final without conceding a game, and had to play the previous year’s winner, the elegant Hussein el Kashef, who during the previous year had come through qualifying at several major PSA tournaments. Sailor was laconic. “Ye’ll have to earn this one. Usual formula will do it, but expect some resistance. Get in front of him.”

I was optimistic. El Kashef had won his semi against Neeraj Solkar, a talented Indian player nobody had seen before at European junior tournaments. Neeraj played a high risk game, going for outrageously attacking shots. El Kashef had eventually reached enough of these to set up his win, but he had been pulled all over the court for a while. It surely would have taken something out of him.

Suresh had been there right through the tournament. He had seen all my games and was full of support. It gave me a boost to have someone else on my side as well as Sailor. Against el Kashef Suresh was desperate for me to do well. “I think you’ll win, Jolyon. You must beat him in three games. Come on!”

Thankfully, three games were what it took. The pressure against juniors was nothing like as intense as in PSA tournaments, I’d found. There were some incredibly quick juniors, but you tended to have a fraction of a second longer to play your shots. Theirs were never quite so tight. So I was able to impose my game on el Kashef, and long before the end a look of desperation had appeared on his face behind his trendy eye mask. I’d have to ask Suresh about the mask. The AllSports one I’d been given was no more than functional.