Flip Flop Squash

by Tracy Gates

I lift a flip flopped foot over the seat and hop on the back of the scooter. I am wearing cut-offs, an MSRA tank top, and a Wilson backpack that has two Prince Tour handles sticking out. My 'chauffeur' revs the engine and we rumble down the drive, make a right turn at the large palm tree , and zoom up the road past lush green flora, coral and baby blue cottages, and red bougainvillea. I breath in the loamy, sea-salty air and can’t believe I’m here. On the island of Bermuda, on my way to play squash, having one of the best weekends of my life.

home base for NY, NE teams

Ironically, the weekend before had racked up with one of the worst (on a purely hedonistic level, of course). I found out that my squash club’s days were numbered and the sailing trip I’d been looking forward to for months was postponed due to a little tropical storm named Tomas. I could wait and go a week later when the weather cleared, but I’d miss the whole point of going to Bermuda in the first place—the third annual Bermuda-New England-New York tourney which I’d been invited to attend a few months earlier. For about twenty-four hours I tossed around what I wanted to do more—freeze my butt off on a boat for four days in the middle of November or lie on the beach in the sun in between matches. It may seem like a no-brainer to you, but I’m oddly tempted by potentially uncomfortable adventures; however, I couldn't see letting my teammates down so late in the game. Guilt is a powerful incentive. It pressed my finger to the ‘buy ticket now’ button for the airfare to Bermuda.

Sometimes guilt is a good thing. When I hopped off the scooter in front of the low slung home of the Bermuda Squash Racquets Association, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and the burgers on the outdoor grill were already sizzling. This is a club that knows how to treat its visitors right. It’s also a club I would’ve loved to have brought home with me—especially now that I’m about to lose mine. The BSRA is not fancy; it is homey. After greeting Dave the burger flipper and club manager, you walk down a few steps into what could pass for your friendly neighborhood pub, complete with tables where you can pull up a chair, a drink, and a few friends. Instead of dartboards, though, plexiglass lines the walls and the melodic thwak of the squash ball echoes in stereo. Two courts on one side, two on the other—one of which is an exhibition court with stadium seating.

To get to the courts, you take the stairs by the bar — oh, right, the bar . . . they call it the 5th court. There’s only one beer on tap—Carlsberg, but many bottles & cans in the fridge, including the cheerful yellow-canned Boddington’s which I believe all respectable squash clubs should serve, along with a 5th court to be served at. — So, back to the stairs. As soon as I began descending, I felt as though I was going back in time; the humid, slightly sweet smell of sweat permeates the narrow hallways outside the courts’ entrances and it was exactly the quality of air that my dad’s equally cozy club, North Shore Tennis, had back when I was a wee thing—well, a teenage wee thing. If you’re not into sense memories, however; a quick trip down the carpeted hall leads you to the air-conditioned locker and weight rooms. The courts, themselves, run a little warm, but, hey, this is Bermuda.

You’d be better-advised to hang out in the in the pub—I mean the viewing area, in between your matches. This area is ideal for socializing and watching your mates' games. If you pull your chair up right, you can watch two matches and order another pint all at the same time. Swivel around and you can watch two more. This place has it 'made in the shade'—which was part of my concern before getting there. Why go to as beautiful a place as Bermuda only to play squash inside? I need not have worried. While we did spend a few hours each day (Thur-Sat) at the courts, it was both a highlight of the trip, as well as only part of three very packed days. I’m not sure if it’s squash players in general, Bermudians in general, or the captains’ good taste in teammates, but if I had to hang out with this crowd every weekend, I wouldn’t be unhappy. Squash is an excellent common denominator.

With four teams (two Bermuda, one NY, one NE), each team played each other once over the weekend. Guys vs. guys. Girls vs. girls. (I’m not opposed to this, but I’m voting for mixing it up next year, and play according to ability, not gender.) While many matches seemed more congenial than cut-throat, there were some amazing ones to be witnessed. It’s particularly gratifying to see a guy with gray hair, say, out maneuver one half his age. And now we know that “you’ve got an easy one” are fightin’ words when our number one man from New York made his Bermudian opponent jump all over the court in order to capture (by one match) the tournament crown for Bermuda.

Swimming at Horseshoe Bay

It was sad to see such a fun and friendly tournament end, but the New York and New England teams still had breathtaking beaches to see, winding roads to ride, and around every corner another rainbow to gawp at. Throw in an evening of fine dining compliments of the Bermuda Department of Tourism, the finals of the World Rugby Classic, a few pitchers of “Dark & Stormys”, some dubious dancing, and very little sleep and I’d say I got more than my money’s worth.

By weekend’s end I was just getting into the Bermudian groove. But before I knew it I was on the plane, back to the almost winter winds of NYC, and now that heavenly squash weekend feels like a distant memory. Part of me wonders, how could next year’s tournament possibly equal this one? But that’s the beauty of it; like every great match, it’ll be different. Same place, same time of year, but a whole new adventure. Maybe I’ll see you there . . . I’ll be the one in flip flops.

For  photos of the teams, Bermuda, etc., visit my blogsite, www.squeakyfeet.wordpress.com

Master and Professor

by Tracy Gates

The guy hops around the court like a jujube on caffeine. Bearing a passing resemblance to Tintin (le coiffeur, anyway), he windmills his arms, darts his eyes from left to right, and talks a mile a microsecond. But I hang on every word, every wild gesture, because these fifteen minutes every Thursday have become the most valuable of my week.

Get Your Game Face On

by Tracy Gates

The guy barely looks at me. When I say something to him, he hardly responds. Occasionally, I hear him swear under his breath. He grimaces and drips sweat. If I was anywhere else I would run the other way. Instead, I run toward the ball. The guy is a friend and this is a challenge match.

Searching for Squash in Mongolia....

By Tracy Gates

My legs hurt. My butt hurt. And other parts of me were so sore, I winced whenever I sat down. Too many hours of squash? It felt like it. . . . but, no, it was too many hours of my big American butt in a small Mongolian saddle. I had ridden for hours to see the thousands of years old ‘deer stones’—Mongolia’s version of Stonehenge—and now I was paying for it.

As some of you know, I recently traveled to Mongolia to pick up my mother who has been serving in the Peace Corps for two years. In fact, I started typing this from the Peace Corps office in Ulaanbaatar or UB, the capital of Mongolia. But what does a country almost half-way around the world from New York have to do with squash? Well, besides squash butt and horse riding butt feeling uncomfortably similar, more than one would think.

Late Summer Squash and heading back to (squash) school

By Tracy Gates

A friend leaned over the railing behind the court I had just been playing on. I was sucking down water and toweling it from my arms and face. Our courts are nice and toasty in the summer.

“Pizza?” she said. “We’re going to the roof. You joining us?”

“Hell, yes.”

A shower and a quick change later and I was out in the balmy evening air gazing up at the stars—okay, star; you can’t see more than a few from the middle of New York City. But I could see the last deep purples and pinks of a fading sunset, and the bright glimmer of ship lights reflected on the Hudson River below us. My friend opened the cardboard lid to the pizza box and the heady aroma of wild mushrooms and truffle oil (we’re not in the West Village for nothing) made me thankful I had plenty of calories to replace. Ah, New York City in the summer. What could be better than après summer squash with your best squash buds?

Baby Squash

By Tracy Gates

“Is that really a smart thing to do?”

A guy at my gym asked a friend of mine this question not too long ago. She was playing squash. She was pregnant. Very.

Now how many of us have been in situations others deemed unadvisable? Motorcycling, say. Or skydiving. Or jumping from a cliff into a frigid mountain pool – at night – naked. (The first two I’ve never tried…. ) The risk, of course, is only to ourselves. This was different. I imagine that’s probably more along the lines of what this guy was thinking. But that’s not what my friend was thinking.

Some Enchanted Squash Thoughts....

By Tracy Gates

On my way to play squash the other evening, I was waiting to cross the street when a flicker of light caught my eye—like the sparkle of rain drops or phosphorescence in water. Only it wasn’t raining and the nearest water was a few blocks away in the Hudson. Instead, it turned out to be the windshield of a parked SUV and the glass was reflecting a shimmer of moving lights. They swirled and sparked across the glass and I stood on the curb momentarily mesmerized until the light changed and I stepped into the street. And then I stopped. It’s so easy to move quickly in this city, to briefly register something out of the ordinary and then continue on without giving it much thought. So I stepped back on the curb, and I looked.

An early evening breeze was blowing off the Hudson and it was ruffling the leaves of one of the young street trees. Sunlight was catching the undersides of the leaves, turning them gold before they slipped back to green and then again to gold in the wind. It was no longer a common street tree; it was enchanted. Or maybe it was nature reminding anyone who noticed that it was still there—even next to Dunkin Doughnuts.

Time for a Break?

By Tracy Gates

A few weeks ago, a friend told me he was taking the summer off from squash. I thought he was crazy.

A week later, I walked into my gym at prime time and no one was playing. I thought, where is everybody?

And then a week after that I competed in the Hyder—four matches in two days. I played squash, scored squash, and watched squash. At the end of the weekend, I was tired of squash. Not to mention that my elbow sorely needed a break. I thought, time to do something else for a while. . . . But that brought me to the big question: What??

What Does It Take?

by Tracy Gates

There are over 4,000 members of the MSRA. And 698 played on league teams this year. But only four of them won the prestigious Lehman and Fernandez awards for most improved player. As I happen to know three of them (full disclosure: as a league captain I can nominate, but I had nothing to do with choosing the winners), I have a pretty good idea what it takes—what it should take—to get this award. So listen up. Want to be in contention next year? This is what you have to do. . . .

Congratulations, resolutions, and one confession

By Tracy Gates

The end of the league season is upon us. Later this week, we will see what squashmates look like in regular clothes at the MSRA league party; we will cheer as the plaques are distributed to the division winners and finalists; and we will honor the most improved players of the season. If we don’t win anything, we will be happy that our sport comes with an occasional open bar and (mostly) such convivial comrades. Congrats to all.

Speaking of congratulations, I have a bit of a confession to make—which I don’t believe that I’ve owned up to until now.  I was awarded the most improved female player award last year. The plexiglass award is sitting on my mantle. I am very proud of it. But I should not have received it.

Winning and Losing It

By Tracy Gates

During a round of drinks to celebrate our finals win against the Harvard Club, one of my teammates mused aloud that competing was perhaps too stressful to be worth doing. This was from the teammate who had played more challenge matches than anyone else AND won most of her matches during the season.  Another teammate nodded her head vigorously in agreement. What? We’d just won the finals in our division and they were already bailing on next season??