Squash Magazine: Will's World Be the Ball, Danny.

Be the Ball, Danny. Be the Ball. By Will Carlin

It seems so innocuous, doesn't it? They call it the warm-up. That sounds very yoga-like. Almost peaceful. I don't know about you, but I hear warm-up, and I have images of stretching models, padded mats, and perhaps, even, soft music. The British call it the knock-up, and that is closer to the truth both in sound and meaning. But what they should call it is the beat-up, since that is what they really are doing. Look, how would you feel if you were living your life peacefully in your home (yes, it is a box, but isn't that what many New Yorkers call their apartments?), and without warning, someone breaks open the door, bursts in, yanks you out, and starts beating you up? This is exactly what is happening on a daily basis to me and my brethren. I don't know why they do it. Perhaps it is some form of prejudice. You should hear what people write about us. I have heard everything from “pill” to “chocolate marshmallow.” When I heard that last one, I asked the guy, “are you racist or making a fat joke?” Took him a bit by surprise, let me tell you. But he wasn't totally wrong. The truth is: my clan has gotten a bit soft in recent years. We weren't always that way; in fact, there was a time when my ancestors were very solid. Some even called them hard. And way back, they were bigger, too. Those particular ancestors had a reptilian, green pallor to them, and they were tough. Triangular eyes, oversized and firm, they didn't invite messing around; if they got hit too hard or too often, they sometimes hit back. And when they did, those people who called themselves “players” often wore the remnants of their encounter for weeks in the form of a multi-colored bruise. But my family was taken off-guard about thirty years ago, when the whole world changed. These “players” started going after our elders. For a number of years, all the players started beating up only on those of us who were 70 or older (70+, to use their nomenclature). We were aghast. Not everyone was brutal, but there was one who brought a whole new level of violence to our pack. Sharif was his name, and when he started “King Khaning” our kin, we were terrified. He hit us so hard and so often that we often rolled on the court and played dead, hoping he would leave us alone. But nooooo, when any of us rolled out, he grinned, popped his huge eyes in glee, picked us up and started trying to do it again. It was devastating to watch. Over time, these players picked on different lineages as they tried to find one they liked to beat best. Race didn't seem to matter; they picked on my red, green, and blue cousins. They even went after our albinos. For a brief time, whenever one of these beatings was going to take place on television, they used only 70+ albinos who recently had gone to the dentist. I am not kidding. Something about how the fillings reflected better for the television lights. The problem was that some of the “players” hit so hard that these new fillings fell right out. On television. Can you imagine? And when we saw that, we admittedly started to cower. Over time we became jaundiced (our white eyes eventually turning yellow), and realized that our attempts at being hard and fit were futile. Oh sure, there are a few hangers on, but they are smaller in number (and in size). The great majority of us have let ourselves go. We are soft, but plentiful. And that has allowed them greater opportunity to experiment with us. For nearly a hundred years, for example, we got along fine with one eye. But about five years ago, suddenly two-eyed versions of us started to appear. We suspect that this is the result of genetic experiments. And why would they want us to have two eyes instead of one? My own theory is that it is a conspiracy to make us appeal to the “player” offspring. I am quite sure that already somebody somewhere has drawn a cute little smile beneath the two eyes, making us fun to “play” with for the toddlers. “Start them young,” they say. Isn't that special? Well, I say, “How about a little help with the jaundice? How about a little less beating? How about that?” Cute enough for the kids, indeed. Some of us still try to fight back, and some even leave their mark. It isn't like the bull's-eye bruises of our ancestors, but at least we try. In the meantime, the player offspring seem to hit us harder and harder. Some of us almost long for the days of Sharif. And all of this starts with a little something they call the warm-up. Very innocent sounding until you learn that they are loosening up to play something that was named for the sound created by smacking us into the wall. You have to admit, that is just sick.

Be the Ball, Danny. Be the Ball.