Barbara Beckwith

The fifteen of us huddle under the dome of Terminal A at Boston’s Logan Airport, swapping rumors. Rackets slung over our shoulders, we’re sharing what we know about the teams we’re up against. Portland’s team from the West Coast looks like the strongest, with players mostly in their 20s or 30s. We’re at least a decade older.

My squash buddy, Trish Johnston, is 41, and I am old enough to be her mother — 60. We’re both past the age when people tend to give up strenuous sports. Yet here we are, enroute to the national women’s squash team championships in Minneapolis.

“Attention ladies and gentlemen,” announces Eve, Trish’s 8-year- old daughter, to the all-women crowd. She grips her mother’s hairbrush like a microphone. “We’re taking bets,” she proclaims, “on who gets here next.”

Eve’s broadcast is the only media coverage our Massachusetts women’s squash team’s departure gets. Squash is not a high-profile sport in America. Until fairly recently, it was played almost exclusively by men in prep schools and private clubs. Few Americans have tried the game or even watched it. I myself did not see squash played until after Title IX widened opportunities for women in school and college sports, and women joined clubs
where they could learn traditionally male sports.

____

Trish and I did not go to prep school. We’ve played squash for only four years. This is our first national tournament. We’ll be up against the best amateur players in the United States. I tell myself that I’ve come here to learn, but I’m as eager as any other player to win. I want Trish to win, too. And I want Eve to see her do it.

Staying cool is my goal. Squash is a head game as well as a body game. Power and speed count. But strategy and placement count more. That’s why I managed to take up this sport at midlife and do well. I have beaten players half my age. When I place the ball strategically, my shots are ungettable and I win the game.

Trish wins too, especially when she’s in the right mindset. But competition has not come easily to either of us. We women over thirty-five did not grow up competing. To win, we must get tournament tough.

___

“I’ll play — but only if we don’t keep score” Trish declared when we first played squash four years ago. I, too, wanted to play “just for fun.” I’d just learned the game but, like Trish,
was leery of competition. We both assumed it would spoil our pleasure. Side by side on adjacent courts, we played solo squash, ignoring each others’ presence.

Our club’s pro urged us to play together. We finally did. I liked Trish’s Aussie accent, her flyaway hair, her graceful strokes. Her daughter, Eve, watched us play and called me “Gramma.” Still, we refused to play for points. We didn’t want winners and losers.

The pro pressed us to play “real games.” Once we dared keep score, we discovered that we liked it. Counting points made us want to win, which made us run faster, leap farther, and hit deeper. We focussed more. We started to hit balls AWAY instead of TO each other — the point, after all, in squash. We learned and then perfected strategic shots — high crosscourts, tricky boasts, and feathery drop shots. We realized that scoring improved our game.

Warming to competition, we challenged other players. But we soon noticed an odd gender difference. Women players at our club — at least those of us over 35 — tended to play the sport differently from men. Male players vied to dominate the game by staying in the center of the court. We women gave our opponents too wide a berth, placing ourselves at a disadvantage for the next shot. We let the loser of one game start the next, defying the rule that gives the service advantage to the winner. We replayed the shot if a player got hit; protocol says the struck player is at fault and must give up a point. We rarely called “let” —
interference — and lost points as a result.

When we played “soft” like this, our game suffered. So, Trish and I vowed to play the sport tough and right.

We started to play male players to give us experience in returning hard fast balls. We challenged women players rated at higher levels. We jockeyed for center court. We lifted weights. We cross-trained. We played to exhaustion and then said: “Let’s do two more games for stamina.”

Trish eventually pulled ahead of me. But I stayed close at her heels. I fought her speed with my wits. We stayed squash buddies. Each of us wanted to win; each of us wanted the other to win, as well.

When a poster announced a round robin — with prizes for the winners — we signed up. It was our first official competition. Trish’s stomach churned before her first game, but she managed to calm down and win a trophy. I reached the semi-finals — no trophy but a slot on the winners’ roster. The next fall, we organized a women’s team. We played against six other clubs around the state. By the second season, our team won the tournament.
—
State-wide contests are one thing. TThe national competition we’re enroute to is another. In addition, Trish will play a step above the level where she usually competes. Just before the trip, a more advanced player dropped out. The state captain asked for someone from Trish’s level to fill the slot. One by one, the players refused to be “bumped up.” Trish, ever-obliging — she’s a mother, after all — volunteered to bump herself up.

Trish, when she’s at her best, plays a graceful and strategic game. She relaxes and moves with ease. She lobs balls so high that they kiss the wall and die in a corner. She feints
impressively, setting up for long drives, then switching to tricky corner shots.

And she outsmarts other players. “I never know what she’s going to do,” her opponents say. When Trish is “on,” she looks and feels like a butterfly. She’s graceful, unpredictable, and
elusive.

Trish wants to inspire Eve. She hopes her daughter will see her win — or at least play her best. The idea of being trounced bothers Trish. But the competition she and I face in Minneapolis — players both younger and more experienced than we are — will be tough.

—

Our first morning in Minneapolis, Trish and Eve join us for a pre-tournament breakfast. Trish had a bad night. The rest of us are bunking together, but because Eve brought Trish, they’d been shunted off to a private room. Trish had looked forward to gossipy swapping of training tips and shampoos. She needed that banter to lighten the tension building inside her.

What’s more, Eve’s “gigapet” electronic toy started beeping in the middle of the night. Trish pushed the “feed me” button, then lay awake the rest of the night. She pictured high lobs leading her to victory, then imagined feeble serves leaving her scoreless.

—

Bagels and banter at breakfast revive Trish. We all trade aches and pains. “My foot is killing me,” I moan. “I’m glad they don’t do blood tests,” says a player on medication for shin pain and asthma. “I’d flunk.”

Our talk is an odd reversal of male locker-room bravado. Each of us vies for underdog. “I’m going to be fodder,” says a top-seeded player. “I’ll get my butt kicked,” says Wendy. It’s as if talk of defeat will free us to give our all. Eve licks frosting off a Poptart and listens. I wonder what she’s learning.
___

As girls, Trish and I both loved sports but didn’t take competition seriously. Trish grew up in Australia, where every town had public squash courts. Squash looked sweaty and male to
her. She never bothered to learn. Instead, she played field hockey just for fun.

Growing up in New Jersey, I thought of squash as an almost mythical sports, like polo, that rich guys played. I, too, played hockey, and won “good sportsmanship” awards because I didn’t care if I won or lost. As an adult, I hiked, biked, rock-climbed, skiied and jogged — always for fun. In my 40s, back pain slowed me to a walk. At 56, I joined a sports club, determined to recover my athletic self.

Trish, meanwhile, spent her 20s traveling, carrying her hockey stick with her although her only exercise was waitressing. In her thirties, she settled down in Boston, and found herself driving her two kids to after-school sports but playing none of her own. At age thirty-six, Trish joined a sports club. Doctor’s orders — her blood pressure was far too high. She planned to swim a few laps, then soak in the hot tub.

On the way to the pool, Trish and I, about a week apart, spotted the row of glassed-in squash courts. For Trish, it was a familiar sight. Except that now she saw women playing the game. Yes, they were sweaty — but sweat was “in” — this was the 90s. Trish was intrigued.

To me, squash was a revelation. I had never seen such an exciting sport. The play was fast and fierce, delicate and graceful. I wanted that grace. I asked the squash pro to teach me the basics. Trish did, too. We both declared we were playing “just for fun”.

_____

Trish heads out early for her first match. I come along to support her. Eve skips ahead, swinging a backpack loaded with games. The other Massachusetts players are warming up. Trish checks out the international courts: they’re three feet wider than the older and narrower American-sized courts we play on back East.

Our first opponents, the Pittsburgh team, appear with their trainer. Trish and I have no professional backing. Our club dropped its squash pro a year ago. We’ve been winging it ever since, coaching each other, and training together.

Eve stares at the Pittsburgh’s players. Their muscular thighs attest to constant lunging after balls. Her mother and I stare, too: their training clearly surpasses ours. Eve pops gum in her
mouth and sits on the floor by her mother’s court. Taking Crayolas from her backpack, she sketches the scene.

Trish grips the terrycloth binding of the quality-brand racquet she bought when she committed herself to playing competitive squash. She fastens her hair with a pink plastic comb, then slams a series of hard shots to warm up the ball. The hollow rubber
sphere speeds up as it heats. A squash ball can travel over 100 m.p.h. in top matches.

“I love this sport,” says Trish in a loud voice, as if to encourage herself. A woman in neon-green tights steps onto the court and warms up, as well. Her hair is wild and red. Her stroke
is controlled and strong.

The game begins. Trish’s mouth is open and relaxed at first. It soon clamps shut. The redhead delivers a wicked serve. Trish returns it, but weakly. Her opponent slams a winning shot. Trish panics. She retreats to the backcourt. She hits defensive shots. She forgets her winning kiss-the wall-and-die lob. Her rival plays with her like a cat with a mouse.

Games between equally matched players’ games can last up to 35 minutes. Trish loses hers in under five. “Is it OVER?” asks Eve.

“Think of it as a warm up,” I say. “You have three matches to go.” I want Trish to stay positive. A few minutes later, I lose my first match, too. “Ohmygod, they’re GOOD,” I say. So this is what great squash looks like, I think. Discipline, that’s what we’ll get from this weekend. When we get home, we’ll train harder. I tell myself that I did well for a 60-year-old. For Trish, who is younger, it’s tougher to lose.

I remind Trish that if we’re outmatched in muscle power, we can still win by using our wits. Squash is a kind of chess at high speed. The player who decides, in a microsecond, where to strategically place each shot, can win any rally.

Trish’s second opponent trounces her and so does mine. “I was blown away,” gasps Trish, red-faced and teary-eyed. Eve sees her mother’s face, then looks away. Her shoulders droop. She blows her gum bigger and bigger until it collapses onto her cheeks.

Our team gathers at the breaks to swap tournament tips. “Play each shot as if it’s the first.” “Play hard, stay calm.” “Every ball is gettable.” Players traditionally use these sayings like
mantras, and they often work. Trish doesn’t seem to hear them.

Opponents as well as teammates offer advice. A Texan in her 40s tells us she plays only men to prepare for the hardest-hitting women at tournaments. She starts her training sessions with 100 sprints up and down the court. I’m impressed. “We can do that,” I
say to Trish. But she remains glum. Her double loss hurts. “It’s humiliating,” she says.

Trish considers skipping tomorrow’s matches and flying home tonight. I persuade her to join our teammates as we load up on carbohydrates — and more team talk. “I’ve had a disastrous day,” says one top player, who’d lost her first match, “but outside of
that, I’m fine.” Trish does not get it — how can you lose and laugh? She’s focused on regret: Why had she agreed to be “bumped up” to a higher level of play. “I was a jerk to play nicey-nice,” she says.

___

The next day, at breakfast, Trish’s usually bouncy hair hangs lank — she hasn’t bothered to wash it. Her mood has plummeted. She doesn’t take her allotted five minutes to warm up on the court. “Why kill myself?” she says.

At the courts, Eve joins a mix of players from different teams as they go through their exercise routine. She copies their movements: 10 sit-ups, 10 push-ups. To get through the last five, she cheats a little, propping her knees on the floor. “Push-ups are hard,” she says.

Eve swims and can dive, she’s tried squash and she’s starting hockey this year. She may decide to work hard at a sport, hard enough to excel, or she may not. This weekend, she’s seeing women exert themselves more fully than she’s ever seen before. She’s watching her mother as well. Trish could be a model for Eve — or not.

To help Trish focus on her upcoming match, I say to Eve, “Let’s hit a few.” She leaps from the floor, grabs a racquet, and skips onto an empty court. I feed her balls. She misses the first but returns most others. I’m impressed by her strong forehand, her careful preparation for each stroke, and her easy movements around the court.

“You’re good!” I tell Eve. “I can tell you’ve had lessons.” But she suddenly hesitates, her pleasure compromised. “I feel sorry for the guy that teaches me,” she says. “He must be bored, just feeding me balls, feeding me balls.”

—

Trish checks the tournament line-up and finds a new worry. Her next game is scheduled for a court opposite the bleachers. Her match will draw the largest number of spectators. She now frets about being beaten and being watched.

I’m getting fed up. “Forget the onlookers,” I tell her. “Forget your opponent. The game is between you and the ball.” The Texan finishes my rap. “Losing is what you do on the way to winning. Get used to it, Trish,” she scolds. “I’ve played tournaments where I won no points.” Trish looks stunned. This experienced player doesn’t consider losing humiliating? How could that be?

Trish’s third game unfolds like the first two. Her opponent wins but is gracious, shaking Trish’s hand and chatting before they leave the court. Still, Trish exits red-faced and distraught. That evening, Trish meets up with our state coach in the cramped
space of the ladies’ room between toilets and sink. “I’m being blown away!” Trish blurts out. “And this was supposed to be fun!”

Word gets out: Trish is demoralized. One player offers to take Eve swimming so Trish can be with her teammates. The next and final day of the tournament, the Massachusetts players find time, between their own matches, to shower Trish with encouragement.
“If you’re outmatched,” says the most experienced competitor, “try to win one game. If you can’t win a game, go for one point. If you can’t get a point, try to keep the ball in play.”

Trish is thinking about everything and everyone but her own game. She worries that she may not even give her final opponent the workout she expects. She’s haunted by the memory of a player at a Boston match who, after trouncing a lesser player, griped loudly
to onlookers: “I never even worked up a sweat.”

One minute till game time. Trish’s final match. Eve sits up front but buries her head in a book. I don’t think she wants to watch.

Trish slumps on the bench outside the court, brooding. Trish stares at the terrycloth binding of her racquet handle. She swivels her head toward the tight tape wrapped around mine. “My binding’s too fat,” she announces. “The grip’s too big for my hand.” She grasps a corner of her binding. She jerks hard.The fuzzy strip falls to the floor.

“What are you DOING?” I cry, aghast. Trish’s handle shines with glue. Her handle is down to the basics. It’s time to play.

Trish grins as she jogs toward the court, hand and racquet are fused for this one match. “It’s a job that’s got to be done,” she declares to no one in particular. She’s found words that work for her.

Five minutes into the final match, Trish is sweating. But so is her opponent. Each rally lasts several minutes. Trish plays her lovely lob — the one she’s famous for back home — and wins points. From the bleachers, her teammates yell, “Good shot!” and when she misses, “Good try!” Eve looks up from her thriller.

During each break in the 3-game match, a cluster of teammates surround Trish, whispering suggestions.

Trish leaps back onto the court. She manages to keep the ball away from her opponent’s backhand. She forces the play over to her own stronger side.
—
Trish loses her final match. But shee doesn’t mind. She’d returned the ball well. She’d won the serve often. She’d earned — with her tricky corner shots and loopy lobs — almost half the number of points her opponent won. Trish had played her best. “Finally,” she tells me, “I was in the game.”

“The last three points were awesome!” Eve yells.

—

The next day, we Massachusetts players sprawl across the hotel lobby sofas as we wait for the airport van. Our shoes are off, our feet propped on sports bags, our bodies limp.

Eve, however, has energy to spare. One of Trish’s teammates heaves herself off the sofa, shoves a pile of sports bags into a row, and says, “Let’s do hurdles.” She and Eve leap over them. We cheer. Trish’s teammate moves the bags farther apart. “Now let’s try this!” she says. And the two leap over the barriers as far as they can go.

[Published in Whatever It Takes: Women on Women’s Sport, edited by Joli Sandoz and Joby Winans]