The sportive spectacle of sweaty seniors’ squash - Joe Bennett

Fred and I were cheerfully working up a sweat, doing no one any harm and ourselves a little good, writes Joe Bennett.

Joe Bennett is a Lyttelton-based writer and columnist. He has been writing a column since 2017.

OPINION

Fred and I were playing squash. Though when I say squash, I wouldn’t want you to imagine the game as played on television, with youngsters lunging into corners to retrieve the ball in rallies that go on for periods of time measurable by calendar. Time was when Fred was a good squash player and I was a moderate squash player, but between us we have now lived for 137 years. 137 years have made us a lot worse at squash, but better at pretending we no longer care who wins.

If either of us is wrong-footed, the rally is over. There is just too much bulk committed. I am often reminded of a comment I once heard from a cricket umpire. A substantially built fielder had failed to stop a ball and then had taken a while to set off in pursuit of it. “I’ve seen milk turn quicker,” said the umpire.

But Fred and I were cheerfully working up a sweat, doing no one any harm and ourselves a little good. Then a string broke on my racquet. A racquet with a broken string doesn’t remain serviceable for long. Once upon a time we would both have carried a spare racquet, but we have each implicitly assumed our current racquets are our last racquets.

In a bid to borrow a racquet, Fred rang some squash-playing friends. Only Dave answered and he was at work. But his son was at home from varsity being not particularly sick, said Dave, and Dave promised to get his son to drive down to the squash club with Dave’s racquet.

The door to the squash club has an electronic lock that opens to a punched-in code or a member’s electronic tag. We propped the door open for Dave’s son then carried on playing. Just as my racquet became useless, we heard the son arrive and went out to meet him. The door closed behind us. And locked.

On our side of the door was a carpark containing us in sweaty squash gear and Dave’s son with Dave’s racquet. On the other side of the door were the squash courts, our clothes, bags and wallets and my key ring with the electronic tag on it that we needed to get back in. “Oh, ha, ha, ha,” we said. Dave’s not particularly sick son thought it was quite funny too. “Oh, ha, ha, ha,” he said.

The situation was not promising. My phone was in my car and the car was locked. Fred’s phone was inside the squash courts. And it was getting cold.

“Well, if there’s nothing else I can do,” said Dave’s son.

“You stay right where you are,” said Fred. When you’ve got little, you hold on to all you do have. At the very least, Dave’s son had a car we could get into to keep warm. He also had a phone. We asked him to ring Dave again to get him to come down with his tag to let us back in.

“He’s at work.”

“But we’re old friends.”

Though Dave’s son doubted Dave would see it that way, he rang him to ask and Dave didn’t see it that way. But he did find it funny. “Oh, ha, ha, ha,” said Dave. It is remarkable how good most of us are at bearing the misfortunes of our friends.

Fred suggested we ring Phil. Phil is the squash club secretary. We hoped he might be able to give us a punch-in code to open the door. But Dave’s son didn’t have Phil’s number. “Ring Dave again,” said Fred. “Tell him to ring Phil and to tell him what’s happened and to tell him your number and to tell him to ring you.”

It sounded too much like Chinese whispers to me, but I had no better ideas. Five minutes later, to my astonishment, Phil rang Dave’s son. When Phil stopped laughing, he gave us an eight-digit code to punch in. And lo, at the third attempt, the door opened. We gave Dave’s son $20 for his troubles and resumed our elderly squash. Dave’s racquet proved better at squash than mine and Fred pretended not to mind when I won.

Just as I pretended not to mind when we emerged from the building after showering and Fred discovered he had forgotten to lock his car, and in the little tray between the front seats lay his electronic door tag, which would have got us back in. “Oh, ha, ha, ha,” I said. 137 years.