Moments, Memories and Me – A Squashed Short Story
My wife’s message worries me… “Supper’s in the Microwave …”
It is cold. And windy. Rain spattersagainst my grizzled cheeks as I trudge down the gravel pathway to that lighted building in the distance. Pistol-like shots echo in the greyness. My bag weighs heavily on my shoulder, my day weighs heavily on my mind. 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 strollpast the courts. Memories flicker through my mind. There, a father plays a dibbly-dobbly game with friend, while son, sits bored, munching his chips, caressing his Coke. Once, that was me.A bunch of13-somethings, bash around, screeching, laughing, and learning. Once that was me. Two wannabee champions practise routines, ghosting and jelly-legging. Drenched, determined, sometimes even desperate.Once, that was me. A coach patrols. Shouting encouragement. Barking orders.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 mom-time and husband-handling. A Valentine paddles a ball patiently to his girlfriend.How many romances have blossomed from these celled courts? And how many squashed?Opposite them, two old playing partners – battered and braced–spin the racquet, yet once again.I think of all those friends who have tournamented and tormented me into real 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 kneesbegin 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. 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?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. 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 drives hard, and straight. Time and again,he bursts through. I catch him, he recovers, I catch him again, fleetingly. The match sways. A web in the breeze. Can I hold his pace, his fearless fetching.
No, not today. He wins, but it was close. We shake hands, eyes meet. There is bonding. Of brotherhood. I am happy. I have competed. I have sweated, I have schemed. I was there. But not.
We sit, courtside, towelled, our heads bowed. Sweat drips from my nose. These are moments to cherish. That post-play relaxation where all you have put in, oozes from your pores. For awhile, 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, wet-sweated shirts, and retreat tothe sanctity of that changeroom. That tomb 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. Bodies - bulging, bad, beautiful –of all shapes, disappear into the mists of heated showers which soothe, and massage the physical and mental pains of the battle-wearied. Drooping 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.
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 spatters against my grizzled cheeks as I trudgeup the gravel pathway, back to my car. Rain droplets scatter under the whooshing wind-screen wipers. I ease into the traffic. Almost on auto-pilot, I wind my way home, to real life.That message still hovers in the back of my mind. Dylan’s “The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind” growls quietly.
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. Somehow it feels lighter. My mind is cleared. But, my wife’s message worries me 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”