Squash Magazine: Randall Scott: Anybody Got a Spare Helmet?

On the Road Anybody Got a Spare Helmet? The day I became a hardball lifer By Randall Scott

I was exchanging e-mails with a guy from my club. See, I was on my way later that day to Meadow Mill to play my first round of hardball doubles. He sent me a reply with the words, "No one under 60 plays hardball." Several years ago, I went to the World Hardball Doubles Championships in Philadelphia. I received my first dose of Damien Mudge and Gary Waite. Tucked up in the gallery, just five feet above the back line I took my seat. I have never seen a ball hurled through the air with such vengeance and sheer will to decimate anything in its path than a Mudgie forehand, crosscourt drive. What I remember, before ducking, was an errant ball off the front wall that sailed into the crowd with such velocity you could hear the hiss from its point of origin to where it embedded itself in the drywall at the rear of the gallery. I then recall staring at the back legs of another player, not of Open status, with two of the largest purple welts, on opposite legs, right below the butt. Those things would make the strongest of men buckle and cry to god, "No mas-no mas!" From that trip I vowed, for fear of life, never to set foot on a court with a hardball. To me, the game was a deathwish and I have not really been too keen on the game since. Or so I thought. I was on my way to Baltimore, dodging the infamous kamikaze DC beltway commuter, to meet three total strangers who would, for 90 minutes, hold my life in their hands. Terrified, hell yes. A little nervous, I think I was more afraid of one of these guys being one of those hardball lifers who had taken offense to one of my stupid jokes concerning the squash fanatic. I envisioned, while barreling along the freeway, the player behind me saying, "Oops sorry buddy" with those dreaded words, "gotta learn to clear...you'll get it." Yeah, after four welts, a black eye, a shot to the groin and a brain hemorrhage. I could be in for a long night. I arrive at Meadow Mill, which has the only doubles courts in Maryland I could find, or would be allowed into, and was soon on court with Bob, Skip and Paul. I was given the right wall because it is easier for a right-hander on his first outing. Bob was my partner and away we went. First, the rules in a nutshell. Each team gets two services except on the first service of the game. The serve has double faults and is a point-a-rally game to 15. Since the little sucker of a ball flies like a bat out of hell, and the quarters are close, lets are encouraged and are rarely argued (how about that, a game where I don't argue!). Strokes are not given as freely as in softball. There are specific places to stand when your partner serves. If you don't stand there you get in the way and you can get brained. It was explained to me very simply. "Clear, clear, clear." At times it was more like "duck, duck, duck" and "dive, dive, dive." I was confused, but not apprehensive. Having three other people scurrying about on the court only a couple feet wider and quite a few more feet longer was a challenge. Trying to be in the right position on my wall where I did not get in the way of my opponent, but not being so far removed where I could not get to a shot drilled against the rail-or to the front of the court-was challenging. I upset my fellow right-waller a couple of times for basically sitting right in front of him as he was about to make his shot. It took me a couple games to get the hang of it. As a softballer I was looking for the volley and the kill. It was explained that sometimes it is more advantageous to take the ball off the back wall or send it high and deep into the backcourt. Sure enough, my overhead volley went directly into the floor some five feet before the front wall. I felt like the pitcher in the Bad News Bears movie when they played the championship in the Astrodome. He kept throwing grounders before the ump moved the mound 10 feet closer. Duh, longer court. What I found was, C-players (I was told I was playing with upper-C players) don't really smack the ball like Mudgie or Waite. Yeah, they hit drives, but it's not that frightening when you're on the court. As I explained to my wife, or to say, I tried to justify why I am risking my life for a game, there is a level of control, and as long as you are concentrating on the ball and the players, you keep balance. What I didn't tell her is the time the ball came right to me and I watched it drop at my feet because I forgot it was our return. Brain fart. Bob and I won a full five-gamer and a best of three afterward. I was hooked. I made tons of mistakes, but it was my first doubles match. The guys said I did pretty good. Great thing about it, it was lots of fun. Never thought I would have so much fun risking my life. So now I am angling my way at a tournament. Looking for the partner who can put up with me is hard enough, heading out 50 miles for a training session is another. What I just realized is all the doubles tournaments I have found are 40+. What does an under-40 guy have to do, lie about his age? The USSRA hardball nationals has 40+ as its lowest division. Can I rally for a 35+ or a U40 division for us young turks? If there was a younger division, would anyone sign-up? I can safely say, I think I conquered the hardball-embedded-in-the-brain fear. It is quite fun and should be tried by all who feel the need to exercise some awareness skills. I expect to get hit sometime. I'm not too excited about the thought, just as long as it's not while I am facing the backcourt!

On the Road

Anybody Got a Spare Helmet?