SquashThe morning air is still fresh off its feet when I step outside with breath like dragon’s breath as it breaks into Hale’s cold, brittle air. Squash training will feel like the elixir of life after four weekends wasted lying derelict in bed, prisoner to my injured knee. Even as I stroll out, I can feel it twinge, most likely the result of the short jog that I’d pocketed yesterday evening, contrary to doctor’s orders. Hopefully, it doesn’t forebode any further injury - not with the local squash tournament coming up and only three weeks to rejuvenate my form.
Squash door. A flow of cold air warns me that it will be colder inside the building than outside, thanks to the lack of sunlight. Shuddering into the changing rooms feels like slipping on an old skin, I recognise Dan’s stuff as a sign that he’d already arrived and is probably already warming up. I dump my racket case on the bench and struggle into my squash shorts, painfully aware of how much weight I’ve gained during my weeks of exile.
Stretches. Check. It will be months before I regain enough flexibility to touch my toes again. As I enter the court, the brightness takes me by surprise and I grinned automatically at Dan, who’s already knocking around with a hard-grade ball – it’s good to be home.
“You’ll want a coupla minutes to warm up.”
He plucks the rubber ball out of the air where he’s been bouncing it against the wall and flicks it over to me effortlessly; I struggle to receive it – I must be more out of practice than I realise.
“Not bothering with a warm-up, I’m game for some proper playing, Dan. I’m been out of it for so many weeks - I need to get back into a game.”
He nods and lopes off to the opposite corner of the court to start the game. He strained his knee a couple of months back and knows how frustrating it can be to be out of it for so long. A long legged man, I can only match him when I’m on form – I’m looking forward to a real thrashing today.
Serve.
The dull whistling of his racket and the thud that follows it milliseconds later as the ball hits the wall. I move reflexively, pleasantly surprised at the revival of dormant reactions. Stretch into the low corner. Return. His reactions and strength are faster than I remember – I’m out of breath sprinting to returning his volleys. Plans to take it easy on my first day back have been forgotten, but I don’t care; Dan challenges me to push myself up to his limit and I am hypnotised and exhilarated by returning to the sport.
As Dan volleys the ball to the opposite side of the court, I lunge, but the sudden spark in my knee pulls me back and I watch the ball tumble to the back of the court.
“Must be pretty out of practice,” I admit breathlessly as we swap sides.
I smile again, savouring the fast-pulsing beat of my heart drumming against my chest and the faint ache of my neglected muscles.
“C’mon, I’ll take this next point.”
He just smiles and I’m gratified to notice that he’s breathless.
Almost as soon as I start, my knee complains in sharp buzzes and spurts of pain, but I hope that continuing for a couple of minutes will work the cricks out of the system. Lunge. Jump. Breathe hard, like a prayer for oxygen and strength. I remember his pattern, like a forgotten Christmas video tape revived by December. Drive hard against the wall. A low one to the back – return. A tensed right arm to deliver a lob to the back… as I move back, he changes his tactics and chips a short one to the front, forcing me to lurch forward in a diving pledge to meet the front wall before the ball. As I spring, I can already feel my knee give way as it collapses effortlessly below me and I slide to the floor with a sharp cry of pain.
Dan drops his racket as the ball dribbles across the floor, hovering cautiously about a metre away, cautious of touching me for fear of hurting me more. I lie crunched up like an old crisp packet, clutching my knee as it throbs beneath my hand.
“Your knee’s gone? Flip, you’ve gotta be joking me, after four weeks?”
I’d swear at him, if I weren’t suffused in pain. I lie there for several minutes before I can talk – the fall has knocked me breathless, on top of everything.
“That – hurt. Look, Dan, can you call one of the safety guys upstairs, tell them my knee’s gone and I’m gonna need an ambulance or something. It’s not an emergency, but I’m not gonna be able to get home on this.”
“Yeah, course. Just a sec, let’s get you to this wall first so you can sit up straight.”
Dan lectures biochemistry at a local university, but his nightly gym routine has given him an impressive set of arms and between my shuffled limp and his major support, we stumble to the corner, where he helps me to sit up. I’m glad of it – I don’t want to be sprawled on the floor when some nineteen year old first-aider dashes through the door.
“Right, I’ll go get – someone. I’m guessing Richard’s on first-aid duty today.”
“Anyone will do so long as they can get me some serious painkiller. Knock me out if possible.”
He nods and strides out of the court, leaving me to my helpless dejection. I can hear his muffled voice asking for directions to the reception. Alone and in pain, I rub my leg frustratedly. Another four weeks of stagnation, probably six weeks if my physiotherapist has her way. I run my hands through my hair. I’ll miss the local competition too.
