Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Backhand

By Ivy Pochoda, WISPA No. 85

Ivy Pochoda

When I was twelve, I rocked the right wall. Except for the fact that I am left handed, this might sound commonplace, unremarkable, or even boastful. But to be a junior with a dominant backhand was certainly something—at least in my mind. Where I learned to play squash, we did a lot of feeding and a lot of “three quarter court.” We did almost all of it on the right wall, which meant my backhand. I derived a particular pleasure of being able to dominate in the Girls' 12 and Under division by force of what is always considered the weaker stroke.

But then a slow erosion began. I'm not exactly sure when it started—the switch to “softball” or the lack of technical coaching in college—and soon whenever the ball was hit to the right side of the court I would experience, to borrow a phrase, the goalie's anxiety at the penalty kick. I'd panic. I became so unwilling to play on my backhand side and even to be on that side of the court, that whenever I was forced to do so I refused to pivot my left leg across the court to hit the ball. Everything was pulling me to the left—and the results were disastrous.

I have to admit that I have a strange and particularly childish relationship with my left and right. I heavily favor the left side of everything, but reserve a serious degree of pity for the right side because it always has to come second. Thus when I put on my shoes, left one first, I simultaneously apologize to the right shoe and my right foot for coming last—again. I am convinced that my left-hander's guilt dilemma has contributed to my struggles with the right side of the court.

I might have been able to overcome my self-consciousness about my left and right if I had been able to play squash unobserved by the outside world. But my backhand began to beg comment from all ranges of the squash community and I became more embarrassed by my deficiency. I started to experience a schism on court between my squash and my backhand. My squash was good, my backhand was a whole different story, and everyone noticed. A columnist from this magazine wrote an article on the future of US Women's Squash, which culminated with a list of the three future stars of the US women's game. I figured third—no problem. The first player was hyped to become the first US player to break the WISPA top 10—a bold assumption. The second player was touted as a future US National Champion—a reasonable assumption. And finally, I was assigned a promising future in the women's national rankings if I could sort out “a problem backhand.” The shortcomings of both of my peers went unmentioned. My backhand, not yet in its worst stage of disrepair, could not be left alone.

After watching one of my matches at my first international tournament a year later, a fellow player, not a top flight player by any means, walked up to me and boldly said, “If I were playing you I'd play to your backhand.” She had a point. She still has a point. But I never would have taken it upon myself to say to her, “If I'd been playing you, I'd move you around since I find you remarkably slow.” It wouldn't have been very sporting. In an athletic environment where I've never encountered players drawing attention to each other's weaknesses face to face, the comments on my backhand were fast and furious. Now, when I return to America after several months in Amsterdam, I'm often greeted by the question, “How's the backhand?”

All of the above makes it look like I was a casual bystander at the disintegration of my squash. This is not true. I have worked on that stroke with dedication. Many coaches have made me offers to fix it, which I have taken. But for some reason I don't have an athletic mind. To my last coach's dismay, it took me forever to distinguish between “hitting across the ball” and “hitting through the ball” (the latter is the correct technique). Like a hydra-headed monster, one problem would disappear and another would pop up in its place. But I haven't given up. Like the best Buddhists, I know that there is enlightenment to be attained—and for me it will come on the right wall. This quest has become the Holy Grail (to mix religions and metaphors) of my squash career.

When practicing, I'm starting to get it right. I love checking for a reaction in my opponent's face as I, the girl with no backhand, manage to pass him or her on the right wall. It's an internal fist-pumping moment. So it can be done. I know the rules. I just need to remember all the pointers given to me throughout my quest:

Turn the shoulder. Step forward, not across. Dip the left shoulder down. Don't flip over the racquet head. Drop the racquet head. Bend at the knees. Don't get too close to the ball. Don't step into the back corner. Hit under the ball. Hit through the ball. Don't drop the wrist. Don't open the shoulders. Keep still.

When I get all that under control, I'll start dealing with that pesky tin!