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| Report: | MATCH 1
Monday 25th January 2010. At precisely 7.06pm, in his lounge, whilst watching highlights of the Australian Open (happy Australia Day Mark) the decision was made - Jon Lynch would go to Purley Squash Club to support his team.
He arrived in pensive mood, unsure as to how the evening would unfold. He knew only one thing - that his team desperately needed to beat their opponents. In fact he pondered this momentarily as he squeezed through the turnstile at the club entrance. "We don't just need to win but we need to pulverise them" he thought.
At 7.33pm Jon walked along the back of court 3 and noticed Shane, the team's number 1, already warming up with his opponent. The battle was soon to commence. As he sat down, exchanging pleasantries with the rest of his team-mates, Lynch decided to predict the match score. 3-2. Yep, definitely a 3-2. But to who? He didn't know - which isn't unusual because he doesn't know much.
As he watched Shane warming up the colour began to drain from his face. Shane was smacking the ball all over the place - literally. Shots were wildly out of control - it was as if someone had taken the chainsaw from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and replaced it with a squash racket. This was supposed to be the calm before the storm, not the storm before the even bigger storm. And, to my horror, just seconds later, the match was underway.
Shane raced to an early lead and as he turned to serve from the left service box he, for the first time, showed his face to the onlookers. At least it appeared to be a face but there was something missing. But what? Jon looked closer. That's it! It's the eyes - the eyes are different! They say the eyes are "the windows to the soul" but, quite simply, there was no soul. It was as if, dare I say it, Peter Sutcliffe had taken possession of Shane's body. He had eaten Satan for lunch and didn't even have indigestion.
As the game progressed it was a near faultless display for the no.1. Shane showed absolutely no mercy shown to his opponent and proceeded to tear him limb from limb. A 3-0, resounding victory that would inspire the rest of his team. Tonight was going to be more interesting than Mr. Lynch first thought.
MATCH 2
Next up was Chris Parkinson who was yet to record his first win of the season - could this be his night? Surely after watching his Master's impressive performance he'd be filled with an inspiration and enthusiasm that only a victory could satisfy?
As he set foot on court the remanants of the previous battle were splattered across the maple wood. A harsh reminder that only through hard work and profuse sweating will he achieve his goal. Something of a concern really since I could not recall a time when CP had ever broken sweat.
He began volleying the ball on the side walls. First the left, then the right and so on...not needing to shuffle or adjust his feet - simply pivoting on the same axis point. I was suitably unimpressed.
"Try hitting the front wall Chris" I quipped.
But there was a message behind my words.
The exhibitionism, bravado and 'flashiness' of the Youth had oft been his demise. Why not keep things simple? Or dare I say, even boring - it seems to work for Justin (sometimes).
And then came the shock. Simon Brooker, DL's no.2, stepped onto the court and shook hands with Chris. What was going on? Surely Chris was our no.3 string swapping with Simon 'the sacrificial goat' (or just goat) Jackson. Chris wouldn't have a chance against this bloke. After all this was the man who, earlier in the season, had humiliated our own no.1 winning 3-0 (having already played a 5-gamer that evening!)
"What's going on Mark?" I snapped. "I thought Chris was swapping with Simon?"
"Errrr....well....Chris said he wanted play at 2" he stammered.
Oh brilliant, I thought, what kind of backward Aussie logic is this? Surely playing Chris at 3 would be the smart move? Now we stood to lose both at 2 and at 3.
But then, as CPs match started, something amazing happened. in my 34th year on planet Earth (and a previous 192 Znarton years on planet Vigon-X) I was experiencing a new emotion. After a few moments pondering on it I realised what it was - I was in danger of being wrong. And the reason? Because Master Parkinson was playing a blinder!
No safe, boring, squash from CP. Outrageous volley nicks, ridiculously risky drops from the back court and even serves that stayed in gave Chris the 1st game in fine fashion. Was it just a fluke or perhaps we were in for something extra special?
The 2nd game went much the same way as the 1st with CP displaying a hunger and desire never seen before.
"It must be the prep talk I gave him last week" said Shane as he joined me on the viewing gallery. He had earlier shown us some good boasting on court and now he had brought it off-court. Yep, if ther'es a shred of credit or praise to be had, Shane will be there to lap it up like the fat office cat in the creamery.
As CP continued to notch up the points I could see his opponent slowly calculating Chris's strengths and began reading those forehand volley smashes that were so deadly earlier in the game (and return them with interest). This was a much closer game, 9-7 I believe.
Shane and I exchanged concerns and we were right to. Hopes of a resounding 3-0 win were soon dashed. For in the 3rd a whole different ball game emerged (no it wasn't racketball it was still still squash). His opponent was not only reading his shots but exploiting CPs weaknesses too. CP was finding himself in longer, tougher rallies that shared a common end - the ball in the tin....from his racket.
The frequency of CPs mumbles and drooping heads were on the rise. And when the mumbling wasn't enough he'd bend down and fiddle with the ridiculous accessories on his feet - adjusting the tongues or trying to stick down the white protection tape flapping around on the toe-caps.
Odd, I thought, that someone going to the lengths of acquiring such white tape to 'blend in' with the rest of the shoe must surely find it easier to beg mummy for a new pair of squash shoes instead? I know I would!
His opponent smealt the kill and fuelled CPs mumbles and shoe-fiddling to an unpresidented level. The Saint had become the Sinner. He was a little snatchy, a little impatient, a little *******! The decider was won by the vastly more experienced opponent.
In the Summer of '76 my mother sat with the father on his death-bed. As she held his hand she witnessed a slow, torturous and painful death (truth*). An absolutely heart-breaking experience. I am now familiar with her pain.
Ironically my grandfather died of Parkinson's disease.
Lots can be drawn from CPs match but let's not Morrisonize this. Let's keep it simple.
A) Great match to watch
B) Some excellent shot play and selection from CP
C) Very encouraging performance and needs to be built on with more practice
D) Buy some bloody squash shoes
E) I wasn't wrong after all
*Subject to artistic licence
MATCH 3
Cod is less battered than Justin Coellohlellohoehoe was last week against the ‘Bonkers Back Breaking Barger from Bourne’ but un-phased and un-broken Justin looked composed for the all important match against DL Hampton.
He was unusually quiet as he stepped on court and the usual ‘mothers meeting’ that generally ensues during his knock up didn’t happen. Justin’s eyes conveyed a serenity and calmness normally associated with Mother Theresa or Florence Nightingale. Unfortunately for his opponent Justin’s bedside manner was more of that of Fred and Rose West, not a crazed killer - but a point’s killer!
In the first game he went from 4-4 to win 9-4, not dropping a point or single hand-out. Impressive stuff from someone rated as rubbish, at best! The onslaught continued into the second game. Like a surgeon with a squash racket, sports gear instead of scrubs, a court instead of an operating room an opponent instead of a patient - he added points like a plastic surgeon adds silicone and new noses. He was clinical in his thrashing around and ruthlessly loose when dropping the ball. Fortunately his opponent, under sedation from the first game, was not sharp enough to capitalize. The last game was all but a formality; some dubious shot selection kept his opponent guessing to the last and with the final point put Purley in the lead, 2-0. No marking call was argued and the focus that he started with was upheld until the end.
Justin Coolio by name – Coolio by nature.
Justin left the court like a small child seeking approval and praise from his father, Justin’s father figure, Dennis Brickwood, was sadly absent from last nights game. Justin’s convincing win however would have left Dennis suitably under-whelmed and full of criticism. And like any small child in this situation, Justin went and did something rebellious to get noticed. He started to make inappropriate advances towards the youngest member of the team. The type of advances that implied that Chris is likely to end up in the wall of Justin West’s house following a little game of hide the sausage!
MATCH 4
I have my own brief version of Simon's "game":
The excitement and intensity of Cps match had increased my heart rate from 20 bmp to 21 bmp and I did wonder what could bring me down again. So I decided to watch Simon's match. Except it wasn't a match at all. It was barely a warm up. After his opponent cried off with an "injury" Simon struggled to curtail his smugness. And then I began to wonder - why did Simon have such a spring in his step prior to his game starting? That never happens. And why did he tell Greg the Judas he'd play him after his team match?
It was as if he knew what was going to happen. Could it be that Simon secretly gave his opponent a backhander to throw the match? Nah...he's as tightfisted as they come.
Then it dawned on me - obviously his ever-faithfull wife Karen was sitting at home poking a knitting needle into the shoulder of a voodoo doll*. Why haven't I thought of that before??
*voodoo dolls must be used in conjunction with a black magic book to have effect.
TO SUM UP:
Purley 5’s trucked up for our home game with DL Hampton under huge pressure. Not only had this DL Hampton outfit wiped us out at their place 3-2, they had beaten the division leaders Varsity the previous week 4-1. The Doomsayers begun their chorus earlier in the day.
“Their unexpected win against Varsity last week has landed us right in it and not only do we need to win but we need a BIG win. Dare I suggest some last minute desperate phone calls to the big guns??” Jonathan “Doomsayer in Chief” Lynch.
Our form over this season has seen a team which has persisted in division 6 for nearly 5 years staring darkly at the trap door. We are at the bottom of the league and go to bed at night only to wake in cold sweats by the horrid nightmares of ‘old boy’ squash in Div 7.
Cap'n Ames considered his options: should he recruit the services of our VMDs (Veterans of Mass Destruction); guys that could save our bacon. Or should he persist with the Pork Bellies masquerading as athletes that had singularly steered us to the bottom of the pit. A team that had played 10 times and only won once.
He went with his instincts and selected the pork bellies Shane, Chris, Simon, himself and ‘Get some nuts’ Coolio.
Shane went on first expecting to go up against the guy that rolled him over 3-0 at their place. Instead he found himself playing their ‘proper’ no.1, the guy that normally makes mince meat of the chap that duffed him in on the away fixture.
As Shane says, "I went on court ready to rumble Simon Brooker, but found myself playing the young superstar Ed. For some reason Ed struggled to get his motor going, but I had no such inconvenience and took full advantage."
Indeed, the manner of Obi Shane Kenobi’s victory sent waves of belief coursing back into the hearts of the Pork Bellies.
Jusin Coolio went on next with his brand of “I don’t care what they say” squash. As David Beckham once said, “its nice to play attractive football, but I’ll take ugly over losing.”
Prior to this match Justin had moaned like a premenstral walrus that he had been beaten black and blue by the Bourne no 5 last week. For anyone that had ears to hear he sung his lament. I heard he told the old ladies that play bridge, the old ladies that play bowls and the old ladies that knit in the bar that he would never morelet himself get beaten up like that again and he would win his next match.
Frankly, like Dennis our resident squash greybeard, we did'nt believe him either. So when he proved us wrong, his palpable vindication went searching for another set of ears to him sing his ode to joy.
With this result, Justin catapulted himself into the rank of MVP (most valued player) on account of winning more matches than anyone else. It was a shame Dennis was’nt there to see his coronation and ascension into team 5 heaven.
For young Christopher the night could have been so much more than simply the lift home with Coolio and the anxieties about sausages. He was up against the very seasoned and very skillful Simon Mellard ne Brooker. Now Chris P is our maverick young genius whose abilities on the ball make him a genuine contender within the ranks of top juniors within the country. However, that is no excuse for turning up with trainers that flapped and slapped about so much they needed securing with duck tape. Still – all could be forgiven if only he could build on the work done by Obi Shane and Coolio.
Watching Chris play those first two games was like sipping the most incredible Chablis. It had hints of rose petal and apricot. Cool, refreshing, sweet as you like and pure joy. Simon looked confused, disarmed, dismantled, and now looking lost and so very very alone.
Ah… how Cap'n Ames and I marveled at our wunderkid. “he’s controlling the ball so well.. look at that forehand volley kill into the nick,…. Look how he floated that lob”. We had tears in our eyes condensed from the nectar of pure appeciation. .. But… this team knows disappointment, and so does Chris....
Simon, aroused by humiliation fired up his super charger and flicked the nitrus switch. The retrieving commenced. He neutralized Chris’s volley kills; he plucked the lobs out of the stars and smashed them into the ground. He patiently waited on the back hand rail for Chris to make a break and play some sort of advantage shot, and when he did, he pounced on it – instantly neutralizing it. Tears of joy soon dried up, as did any other games for Chris that night. He succumbed 3-2. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you must never, never, never think you have won a match just because you are 2-0 up. You MUST play the 3 in the certain knowledge that your opponent is now properly miffed so must be dispatched ruthlessly. Ruthlessly Chris.
Chris, sportingly shook hands and trudged up to the balcony. There were positives. This was the first match of the season where he’d won two games.
We’re 2-1 up and Cap’n Ames senses the weight of his responsibility. If he loses, then the team can at best get a lackluster 3-2 victory, or worse…, lose. His warm up consists of his trudge up and down the court as if he hates every moment of the experience. He unhappily limbers up and has the manner of a headmaster about to give 6 of the best. A few smacks up and down the wall and he’s ready to go. The studied angst drops, the eyes become fixed and its game on.
The first game starts keenly enough, but his opponent fails to find sufficient range and accuracy to stall Mark. As the game proceeds points simply add up with their own momentum and Mark merely has to keep the ball in play. He does so in game one, but by game two his concentration begins to waver. Before I know what’s going on he’s 8-4 down. I begin to assemble my bag of curses as this looks like a tragic waste of a game. I start snarling at him (and I’m the marker). My lips contort around words beginning in F and ending in crushed consonants. He pops a quick glance up to the balcony and recognizes the horrified looks on our faces before proceeding to win the game 10-8.
He did’nt do anything special. I would like to say he hit swooping drives and driller kills, but he did’nt. He just moved the ball around, kept it in play and tried to keep it tight… It worked. I put my bag of curses down and prayed he would not give away the 3rd game. He did’nt, his opponent was overwhelmed.
Measuring this Cap’n A performance is tricky; on the one hand, a lot of the match was given to him by his opposition who seemed overwhelmed by the task in front of him. While on the other and more importantly, and definitely more positively, he did’nt waste a game. A captains innings.
Finally, Simon Jackson turned up with his extra round spectacles on - looking like he was on a break from an accountant’s convention. He looked up the score sheets, assembled the data, visualised the spreadsheets and inwardly smiled. He knew if he won his match, we would get 18 lovely points.
He spied his opposition carefully. Something was wrong. His opponent Damon was rubbing his shoulders. He was moaning about being injured. He was suggesting that the only reason why he showed up was to make up the numbers. Sure, he looked fine – but could it be true… could he genuinely be injured. Simon darted into the changing rooms like some mild mannered Clark Kent, and came out almost immediately like Lofty from Dad’s army -Racket in hand - and ready for business.
When he got on court and started warming up with Damon. He noticed again those same signs. Damon was not hitting the ball hard and was throwing away shots in the warm up. Cool as a cucumber, once the match got going, Simon started playing shots down the forehand side, stretching whatever injury Damon had. Whenever he was returned on the back hand side, Simon simply cross courted back again and forced Damon’s forehand until it broke. I think Damon then simply realised that his team had been squashed and so kindly surrendered his entire match to Simon. 3-0.
The final match score was 18-3, which is our best win of the season. As we strolled – full of bonhomie to the bar like the conquering heroes we were, our restaurant manageress Dianne in the bar recognised that we’d done a good job and so laid on the best beef curry we’ve ever had at the club. As the night only cost a tenner each, I couldn’t help think, some nights are priceless.
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| Author: | 5th Team Effort |
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| Away Report: | |
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| Author: | Mark Rodell |
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