Bang Plan

VI

The squash center is a daunting thing to behold. Gleaming glass-backed courts form corridors, heavily decorated with championship banners that hang from the rafters. I navigate the maze a little bit, passing the massive rows of wooden bleachers and the pristine glass box court. It's exactly six in the evening, and there's a fair amount of people hitting around. I spot Mike. He's already on a court, driving the ball against the wall to himself. I quietly step towards the court he's on and size up my competition before he sees me. The first thing I notice is the grey bandana he wears like a headband, which makes his hair stand up all crazy. He's in a flattering dark-grey workout top and burgundy shorts. He has a nice racquet, and navy blue court shoes. In predictable Mike fashion, he's already wearing his protective goggles. I spot his bag outside the court. It's got the words "ETON" and "WINDSOR" printed on the straps, and a school seal on the left racquet compartment. I'm examining his technique when he senses my presence and turns around.

"Are you ready to get crushed?" He asks facetiously, rapidly smacking the ball against the ground to keep it warm. Show-off.

"Not without warming up first," I tell him cooly, shrugging my own bag off my shoulders. It's nearly identical to his, except it's branded with the Milton insignia and "WINTHROP" down one strap. The stupid bag is a reminder of the pressure my parents used to put on me to succeed at this sport, but I don't have it in me to go and get a new one. I'm dressed in my summer league go-to outfit; a bright pink tank top and a white athletic skirt. I've braided my hair and secured it with a dark blue headband. My shoes are sky blue. I look like a cotton candy machine, and he looks like a murder machine. I'm almost nervous.

I push my own eye gear up my nose and let myself onto the court. He watches as I roll the ball under my foot, and then warm up my backhand. I hit each shot with laser accuracy before hitting a cross-court shot for him to take a turn. We go through the standard warm-up. As I watch him hit his short shots at the front of the court, I remember that Sandy and Archie are together right now. I can't help but smile at my crafty success. Mike hits a cross-court to me, and I miss it.

"You won't be smiling like that when I'm up two games to nil," he smirks. I shake my head and retrieve the ball.

"As if."

We hit more, and switch sides to finish the warm up. Then, I spin my racquet to determine who serves first. He calls it down, but the notch lands up.

"That was completely fixed," he complains.

"Fine, I'll spin it again." It lands up again. Time to play.

"Love, all," I say, initiating the self-scored game. In squash, the idea is to keep the small black ball in play against the front and side walls without it bouncing on the floor twice. Think tennis, but you're next to each other in an indoor, glass-backed box. If you win a point, you serve again, switching from left to right sides of the court until you lose one. When the opponent gets a point, they can choose which side to start serving on. You score each game to at least eleven points, needing to win by two. The first player to win three games wins the match.

We play a ferocious first point, with Mike loading up his backhand and hitting tight to the wall every time. The ball always hits the back wall. I play with finesse, favoring placement over power so that the ball dies at difficult angles. Mike plays with a method of strength that's more typical of the men's game, and the English style. I play a method of technique that's typical of the women's game, and more similar to the Egyptian style because of my coaches. This makes for an interesting match. We've been taught the weaknesses in one another's games. He's well-versed in returning strategically-cramped shots, and I've spent hours practicing quick volleys and shots off the back wall. I get Mike with a shot that hits low and fast off the front wall.