Squash

In my youth, I have been accused of being a pretentious, preppy country club snob.  At the time, my accusers were probably correct in the broad, sweeping statements they were making in my general direction.   Sometimes the truth can be a painful thing.  At the time, it wasn’t.  That is how pretentious I was. 

Part of country club life, especially up North, is squash.  Those Yankees are holed up in doors for so long in the winter that they have to come up with some sort of entertainment and exercise.  One of the games they invented was squash.  It is not unlike racket ball, only faster, more fun, and superior in ever way.   I enjoy it tremendously, but find that I am getting older and have less margin to play.  So, I rarely find myself on the squash courts hamming it up on a Tuesday night.  I would rather hang out with the LW and the kids.  But, in my youth, as a strapping single man out on the prowl, I would darken the courts from time to time, and more often than not, win.

I was also confident enough with my racket skills and abilities, that I could beat most people I played, especially girls.  I mean, what are they going to do, beat me?!  Puh-leeze.  They are girls, for crying out loud!  I am bigger, faster, and stronger, not to mention extremely good looking and smooth.  Just ask me.  The Country Club Strib would tell you. 

So, imagine my disdain when I was at a party and a girl there challenged me to a squash match.  She was a died-in-the-wool Yankee, which is just about the worst kind of Yankee.  That should have been my first warning.  But, I was cocky and arrogant in my misspent youth, and thought this would be a great way to get some exercise, beat a girl and feed my ego all at the same time.

I started to realize I was in trouble when she showed up with multiple rackets.  Here I am, seemingly fresh off the pickle boat, with one racket, socks of different heights that clearly do not match, and I am not in my “whites” (because apparently true country club snobs where only white when they play squash.)  My opponent shows up with three rackets, her court whites, and her college championship jacket.  How was I supposed to know that she played for her stupid Yankee college team?

It was awful, and what some would call a drubbing.  I think I got three points off her the first game.  After she got warmed up, if I got one point I was pleased and she was ticked.  I think we played five or six games that day, and I did not come close to winning a single one of them. 

We walked off the courts an hour later.  I was drenched in sweat and could hardly move.  I was dehydrated, broken, and covered in shame.  I might have even been bleeding.  I’m not sure.  I tried to block it out.  She, on the other hand, looked like she was ready to go for a jog.  She was lightly perspiring (because we all know women don’t sweat), and was ready to get back out there.  Fortunately, and unfortunately, there were a couple of dudes who were waiting on the court, so we had to stop playing.  I say fortunately because we were forced to quit playing.  And I say unfortunately because I had an audience watching me get beat so bad I could not show myself around the club for the next few weeks without being made fun of.  Those guys couldn’t even look me in the eye as we passed.  It was terrible. 

The lesson I learned is that you never accept a challenge from a girl, especially if she is a Yankee.  You have nothing to gain.  If you win, great.  You beat a girl, and a yankee girl at that.  Most of them don’t have the sense to come in out of the rain.  But, if you lose, watch out.  She is going to tell all of her friends, who are going to tell all of your friends, that you just got beat like a drum by a girl from up north somewhere who barely broke a sweat.