The Point

by Steve Hufford

What made that point different?  Very little from all the other grinding exchanges along the walls, except that it lasted a little longer, it took him back to last Tuesday, and it finally broke his opponent.

They were playing squash – the game for sadomasochists.  All good players find pleasure in the punishment they impose.  Forcing their opponents to run and run, to twist, to recover; and never revealing what will come next.  The sadist fosters uncertainty. Always giving a series of body blows to weaken, before administering the coup de grace.  And yet, a squash player’s ability to also absorb pain must be high.  Lunges, cramps, exhaustion:  none but a masochist could revel in the exertions required in competition. 

The perfect situation for a serious squash player?  More pain in a rally than the opponent can withstand.  A well of pain deeper than others want to swim in.  The months of training enabling one to endure the pain -- not really lessening it, just making it familiar.  The pain as a kind of comfort, reminding you you’re alive, and in the moment.  And so, the sadomasochist always wins in the little room.

But that point?  How long had it gone on, and why did he remember it even now, in the middle of the night?

He began it with a customary serve.  But first, an appraising glance at the opponent.  Indistinguishable from a gesture of respect to see whether a player is ready to receive serve; in reality, looking to see his condition.  Winded?  Slouching?  Wobbly?  Too tired to have his racquet ready?  In response to any of these, the serve would have been quick and hard.  The sadist bringing quick punishment, and a point that would end with the serve.

But Mr. X (we should call him that, given what’s ahead) was not yet vulnerable.  Hence, the customary serve. Three quarter pace, well above the red line, onto the side wall so X couldn’t volley.  One bounce, and the ball was in the back corner, with X constrained to hit a difficult straight drive.  Anything else, and he would be at risk because the server was now on the hunt.

The attrition game.  Deep backhands along the wall.  Three good shots each, and the question rose in importance:  who would pop one out, failing to keep the ball tight to the wall?  And when it happened, what form would the punishment take?

As he played, he knew there was no way that last Tuesday’s practice had been in vain.  A hundred deep, straight drives on each side, ten sets of ten, repeated twice.  Each ball hit well, with pace and precision, or the shot not counting towards the total.  Each shot accompanied by recovery toward the T, leg muscles grooving the pattern, torso and shoulder, arm and eye united in a flow that could be repeated at will, almost without thought. 

The outcome was certain.  As it happened, and as expected, X cracked first.  His ball came out, well off the wall, not moving all that fast.  A straight volley drop, to the left forecourt, was the opener.  After circling so many times between the T and the deep left corner, X was not quick to the new position.  He raised a weak crosscourt lob, which was cut off.   Another volley.  This time to the deep right corner.  And now X is pressed to run the diagonal of the court.  The longest distance inside the rectangular torture chamber.

At full reach, he manages a great defensive shot; a high straight shot along the wall.  The attrition game has now switched sides. Last Tuesday’s practice included two hundred such shots; well more, if you count the attempts that were not of sufficient quality to meet the self-imposed conditions of the drill.  So there is no problem with deepening the pain on this side of the court.  Although there could be for Mr. X.  Time would tell.

The battle continues along the right wall, and again X fails with both his width and length.  The ball bounces short, with plenty of air around it.  Another straight drop, hit this time with hold and deception.  It ends up tight to the side wall, and also to the front. X barely reaches it, but manages a slow, straight drive along the right side.

Quick onto the ball, there is a stroke situation at the volley.  X is still up front; caught between the ball and the front wall.  He could be hit with the ball, and lose the point automatically.  But grace is granted; impact averted; injury avoided; and the ball is volleyed smoothly crosscourt to die in the back left corner, point over.

If it hadn’t been for the eye contact, X might still have been in the match.  But the glance between opponents revealed much.  He was frightened of being hit, tired from running, knew he was outclassed, grateful for the sportsmanship, and either unwilling or unable to dig any deeper.  The exchanges would be shorter from here on out.  X would try too soon to end the points.  He would shave too close to the tin, hit a little too hard, and attempt shots he had never mastered.

The sadomasochist knew it was over.  A victory during the day, and a fine memory to last the night.

About the Author:

Steve Hufford, a former competitive amateur squash player, has also been a high school squash coach and a racquet sports blogger for About.com.  He now plays competitive squash only in his dreams, and enjoys the asymmetric sport of court tennis during the day.

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The above story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.