This page hosted by Get your own Free Homepage

It was far too late to pull out of the squash match, David realised as he watched his prospective father in law squeeze into a pair of very tight shorts. Nasty sprouts of wiry grey hair poked out from his towelling socks, thinning out to an even spread over his lengthy and muscular legs.

David had never been one of the 'sporty' people, he preferred to stroll during the cross country runs at school, affecting a gentle jog whenever he came within the hawk-like vision of the PE teacher. He'd been relieved to give up playing football, rugby and cricket in his mid-teens when table tennis had been offered as an alternative. But his relief had turned into abject dismay as he entered the low ceilinged gym to see rows of girls in tight white T-shirts and shorts viciously pasting the ball with rubbery paddles, maliciously aiming at their opponent's heads. On the far table, in a shaded part of the hall, he'd joined a small band of portly boys who watched two of their number prod at the small white plastic ball experimentally, cringing as they ran clumsily after the ball which had escaped their efforts. David stooped to grab the ball as it skipped nervously along the fluff dusted wooden floor. It was at that time in his life that he discovered he had an eye for the ball in racket sports. Yet even now, in his mid-twenties he felt again the leaden weight in his abdomen as he changed into a pair of baggy shorts in the uniquely smelling changing room.

It is one of life's little mysteries just why the ventilation in male changing rooms is so poor. The showers, stale sweat, overpowering under arm spray deodorants and numerous active people with bad personal hygiene seemed to David a plentitude of reasons for ensuring that a good supply of fresh air was able to flow freely through this space. Yet there seemed to be some higher architectural purpose in the way these rooms were sealed up like mausoleums. It was as though, in order to guarantee a flood of recollection and maybe even nostalgia the fetid air was left to hang uncomfortably in an almost visible haze, around the naked bodies.

The match had been arranged without his knowledge. While Tracy went shopping with her mother (doubtlessly spending money which they could ill-afford) the 'boys' could engage in other manly pursuits. It was the act of being left out of the decision making process which really annoyed him. It had also completely failed to provide any excuses. His lack of sportswear had been compensated for from the extensive archive of musty smelling clothes at his opponent's house.

"I'm sure we'll be able to find you some togs." the old-boy smiled, reminding David uncomfortably of the hyenas which they had watched on a BBC2 documentary about a week ago. The creatures had surrounded a prone and bloody corpse, laughing in a disturbingly human way as they tore shreds and chunks of flesh from the tattered frame.

He sat dejectedly in the humid room, fingering the edge of his borrowed shorts, far too long, they brushed his knees - the modern style certainly, but these looked like something footballers used to wear in the days of black and white TV. The faded blue cotton shirt felt itchy against his skin and he wondered idly whether it was the fabric, the washing powder or some form of insecty parasite that was the source of his discomfort.

"Did you know that squash has the highest mortality rate of any sport?" chuckled his opponent with a yellow grin, "More people die, per player on the squash court than while participating in any other strenuous activity. Even BASE jumping has less fatalities!"

"Base jumping?" trying to stop his voice from cracking, the old man always seemed to be pulling his leg.

"You don't know about BASE jumping, hmm, well, it's a sport where people put on parachutes and then throw themselves off of high buildings, cliff faces, bridges, stuff like that. They reckon that one in ten people who do it die. Still less than squash."

"How do people die playing squash?"

"Ahh, well it's all the old farts like me you see, we waddle on to court, the first exercise we've taken in decades. Then as we run around with gay abandon we forget that these frail bloated, fatty bodies," and here he lifted up his shirt to point out the roll of hairy fat which gathered at his waist, "are not the lithe, finely tuned instruments of yesteryear." at this point he waved his arm in Dave's direction, before scrutinizing the boy and shrugging, "Well, you know what I mean. So all these portly, middle aged businessmen stroll onto the court, run around for half an hour or so, getting progressively redder before collapsing into a panting perspiring, quivering mass and dropping dead of a heart attack. That, is why squash is the most dangerous sport!"

In trying to smile, he found his lips had become surprisingly dry and if he stretched them any further they would simply crack and bleed, so settling on an amused nod he tried to formulate a reply.

"It'll be good to play again," he laughed, "have you played much squash then youngster?"

"I played table tennis at school, even got to play in the third team a couple of times, but no, other than having a knockabout a couple of times at college, squash has never really been my game. I can't get used to the walls, you see." a quizzical look greeted his remark so he reluctantly continued to qualify it, "In table tennis if you run off court then you don't find yourself running full tilt into a wall. I like sports where you have space to turn."

"Never liked ping pong myself. Too much poncy wrist action. I like sports with brute strength."

George, Tracy's father, had worked for 30 years in the merchant navy. The work had taken him away from the UK and his family for nine months in every twelve. Tracy was the second youngest out of five, falling neatly out of the privileged positions of 'youngest' or 'eldest' but taking up a nicely anonymous role in the family unit. She confided to her fiancé her suspicions that it suited her father to play the visitor in their home. The children were doted on by their mother but always saw their father like a favourite uncle who came to stay from time to time. The family had never had any pets (the eldest girl had a fish, but it died and was soon forgotten) and it would be true to say that George saw children as a way to keep his wife from loneliness during his months away at sea. His retirement had not been easy for either of them, so accustomed had they become to there being a departure date in the months ahead. Within a year the troubles had been neatly side stepped. George spent his days delivering cars around the country for a local Japanese dealership and his wife relaxed again into the solitude which she enjoyed.

Yet this new, fatherly presence was felt acutely by the offspring. Tracy and David had been together since school, maybe ten years or so, David didn't count but he was sure if he wanted to know that Tracy would have given him a frighteningly accurate guess. Over the years David had seen the transient presence of George pulse quietly like the seasons, blooming at home for a few months before wilting and returning to his natural environ, the sea. Yet even these sporadic appearances left deep impressions on the young man's mind. The father-daughter bond, which Tracy would regularly dispute existed as she bitterly pondered her childhood years, is complex and it would be foolish to discount its effects simply due to the circumstance of the past.

The squash court was plain and bare, the white-washed walls were dappled. Paint flaked scattered on the dry wood floor where the repeated pounding of Dunlop rubber had taken its toll. Blue-white neon light cast a surgical glare over the arena and high up in the right hand corner an infra red electric heater was bolted, caged for its own protection. It lent a carnation hue to his racket and a hint of warmth to his chilly bones. They dropped their bags next to the scaly wall lying snug to the metal plate which rose a foot from the floor.

"I'll warm up the ball." George declared. With slow deliberate violence he thrashed the red spot ball of rubber into the plaster not terribly far from David's head. As he bent stiffly to tie his laces his fingers felt puffy and not altogether real, the skin seemed pallid and numb. He picked up the racket he'd hired and experienced the uncomfortable impression that his hands were cooked chicken and that his muscle might split at any moment and fall succulently from the bone. The sickening pounding of rubber-plaster, rubber-catgut rang consistently in his ears. He suspected that George was considerably better than he'd been led to believe.

Grabbing the ball as it hurtled through the air, George squeezed it pensively in his palm.

"Feels as though the ball's warm, now it's your turn."

He threw the ball up and swiftly brought the racket head to connection. The ball thumped minutely above the centre line then sped directly towards Davids forehand side. He swung his racket speculatively and was startled to see the ball fly past him, completely untouched. A flush of blood rose to his cheeks as he chased the bobbling ball, crouched, humiliated before his incredulous opponent.

"Just need to loosen up a bit." he muttered, hoping that the next forty minutes would pass quickly.

The ball scuttered into his leather shoes and he retrieved it with a delicate hand. Stumbling backwards, hoping that he appeared more casual than incompetent, he cast the racket in an arcing well focused swing, flicking the ball against the wall again. He heard George pattering to return the serve, the ball came back to him slower than previously, it was a familiar sensation - an opponent lowering the tempo to save him from abject humiliation. When he was younger this condescending attitude had deeply hurt his pride, but nowadays it was the times when games were ruined by over skilled and overcompetitive acquaintances that grated on his nerves.

The ball flew true and good between the two men, achieving a happy rhythm. While warming up the players put together a series of placid rallies, punctuated sporadically as awkward shots wrong footed the younger man or his returns were so wayward that they left the elder with no chance.

"Warm yet?" he asked.

David merely nodded, pools of sweat were gathering around his body and despite the quick dull pump of his heart, his muscles felt strangely cool in places.

"I'll be honest with you," said George, "I don't actually know the rules completely. . ."

"You serve above the line from one box to the other." David explained.

"Do you know how the scoring works?"

"Nope."

"I know, we'll use a mishmash of squash, badminton and table tennis rules. You score a point on your serve, lose the point if you obstruct me (or vice-versa) and the point is lost if it goes below that line or above that one."

"What shall we play to? Seven or eleven? I reckon we should start off with eleven and if that proves too knackering, drop to seven."

"Sounds good to me."

Then, wordlessly, the competition began. David started well, taking the first few points with savage serves that flew past George and nearly touched the back wall. A series of poor shots sent the ball into areas beyond the boundary lines. It was then that George seemed to get the measure of the game, stroking the ball gently so that it grazed the side walls lightly and prevented David from returning, anxious not to damage the racket he'd hired. After a flurry of serves with the scores tied, George dominated and took the first game easily.

Both men were now truly warm and David was keen to start the second game as soon as possible to put his early defeat behind.

As David stooped consciousness of defeat spilled suffocatingly down upon him. The last two, three, four games had seen him lose point upon point, gentle serves of condolence were squandered stupidly until the final shame of a careless swing which missed the ball completely and connected painfully with his knee. The stoop crumpled and he sprawled agonisingly across the court, wheezing asthmatically feeling his heart swell and flutter dangerously in his chest.

"That looked really painful." gasped George as he knelt down beside the prone man. There was a curious look in the old man's eyes.

"We'll call it a day, do you fancy a drink, I've got a bottle of water in my bag."

As he vacated David's panorama of the ceiling it suddenly struck the injured man that he had certainly witnessed a shift in his opponent's attitude. Yet he couldn't put his finger on exactly what had changed.

Breathing heavily, but steadily, he sat up gingerly and looked at his knee which was swelling into a carmine blister as he watched.

"Tracy will think I've been roughing you up." laughed George nervously "Then I'll be for it!"

"Nope, she'll know that it's just her clumsy boyfriend injuring himself in new and inventive ways, then she'll blame me for my stupidity, lack of mobility, etcetera, etcetera."

"She can be an aggressive little so-and-so can't she?" he agreed.

"You don't need to tell me!" David exclaimed, both men laughing with restraint at the intimate knowledge they shared. David's knee prevented him from laughing wholeheartedly and he noticed once again the violent glint in George's eye. The old man still laughed nervously, aggressively, with pent up anger. The act of creation that he had shared with his wife, the act which had ultimately formed his daughter was known also to the boy that lay, pathetically injured before him. It was that common knowledge (never changing from generation to generation) that drew them together and was also the tempestuous undertone which would forever stifle their friendship.

©1999 Mark Sexton