18 September 2004

The sultans of swing

Eric Ellis fumes, sweats and argues over a disputed squash point


IT WAS an extremely tense point. And as adrenalin-drenched squash fanatics from Sydney to Surbiton know, all points are tense in a tight game. And all squash games are tight.

My partner had hit a good shot to the front wall. I scrambled to make the return, but my shot came back at me off the wall. A rebounded ball hitting the striker's body or clothing is a penalty. I contorted into the splits, and the ball carried unimpeded between my legs to the open court. A fist-clenching yes!

"My point!" declared my opponent at the other end of the court. "No, I got it." I said. "No, you can't let the ball go between your legs, it's my point," he insisted. "Yes you can. It's my point." I was equally insistent.

"Nonsense!" he said. Actually it was a stronger word with bovine excrement implications but this is a family newspaper. "Let's play a let then." I offered. "No, it's my point." he said.

As blood pressures soared, war was duly declared. Choice words were exchanged before we sued for a ceasefire, interrupting the game to consult our net-enabled mobiles. I Googled "squash rules" and "through the legs" and 10,700 results tumbled forth. I selected one and read the unambiguous rule interpretation to my partner. "There is no 'automatic stroke' for the ball passing between your legs. As long as it does not hit you then the ball is still in play, and normal decision- making applies."

My opponent was, er, unconvinced. "What bloody site is that? It's bogus!" Charges of "cheat," and worse, filled the air. Dogs barked and frightened children ran into their homes, their anxious mothers peering behind drawn curtains at the commotion. Our ceasefire was broken, the game over and we stormed off the court. I doubt we'll ever play again, or speak for that matter.

OK, we are both 42, educated, married, comfortably middle class and pretty pleased with our lot. Now, in the cold light of day, I reluctantly admit we should know better. But it's here where squash players diverge from the rest of society. Squash playing is like a masonic sect, a sweaty cabal as tight and conspiratorial as those secret smokers' societies that puff away in knots outside their office buildings. The intensity of high-impact squash does something to us beyond the understanding of non-players. I've seen the nicest, friendliest people turn into uncompromising monsters on the court. Non-playing psycho-analysts might call it "squash rage"; it's ugly, it's boorish, it's obnoxious but, truth be told, it's part of the appeal (as was a bumper sticker in my childhood Australia that said "Vital people play squash" which was often cut-and-pasted to "Squash vital people")

Vital or otherwise, it's only a game (squash players will sympathise that was very hard to write). And my partner was right up to a point, the website I'd consulted was that of an enthusiast, not the game's custodian. That would be the World Squash Federation, the game's Royal and Ancient Club, a body so definitively authoritative and incorruptibly neutral its website is simply www.squash.org.

I sent the WSF an e-mail, cc-ing my partner, describing our disputed point. A patient man called, appropriately enough, Donald Ball, responded within a few hours with a ruling that to me clearly confirmed the point was mine. My lawyerly mate, of course, naturally interpreted in his favour.

Still boiling, I called the WSF headquarters in Hastings, East Sussex, for clarification. I got through to Edward Wallbutton "call me Ted" - who is the WSF's chief executive and secretary-general, a job he's had since 1990. The former marketing director for condom-maker LRC International, Ted is the game's guru, a sultan of squash. For Ted to respond from England to a couple of hack players in Singapore would be like calling the White House for an explanation of WMD and George W Bush calls you back personally. Ted referred me to his rulemaking colleague, Don Ball, available by e-mail from South Africa.

Don and Ted's ruling seemed clear. "If player A (marooned at the back of the court) makes no attempt to reach the ball that has been hit by player B (between whose legs the ball passed), it is a point to player B." My partner of course interprets the ruling in his favour, driving the final nail into our relationship, which will likely not survive even peacemaker Ted's arbitrary words. "In matches where there is no referee it is the players' res-ponsibility to come to amicable conclusions when interference occurs. In practice most players will give their opponent a stroke if they believe they are at fault, or suggest a let if there is doubt in either of their minds." Quite.

I apologised to Ted for bothering him on such a trivial issue. "Not at all," he said. "It's what I do and I absolutely understand, these are very important matters." He explained that for the WSF, calls and inquiries such as ours were not uncommon. "We even get them in Spanish," Ted said.

Indeed, so commonplace are squash court dustups that the WSF engages a rules specialist solely to answer queries from nutters the world over before they kill each other.

My former partner remains unrepentant. And after dropping many a tight game on a dodgy call, I've tried to explain to my wife how wronged I was. But she thinks my squash obsession is dreadfully boring with the suggestion, that only married couples can get away with, that I am too.