Squash Magazine: Ivy Pochoda: Makes Sense to Me

It Makes Sense to Me Little Things Make All the Difference By Ivy Pochoda, WISPA No. 85

I wanted to be at home more than anything, it was getting there that was the problem. I might touch the telephone pole at step three hundred and fourteen and then, fifteen paces later, worry that I hadn't touched it in exactly the right spot. It needed to be touched again. I'd let my mind wander for one brief moment and then doubt had set in, causing me to question not just the telephone pole but also the lawn ornament back at step two hundred and nineteen. I'd have to go back and lick that concrete mushroom one more time hoping that its guardian wouldn't rush out of her house shouting, “Get your face out of my toadstool.” —David Sedaris “A Plague of Tics” When I first read the above passage by American humorist David Sedaris, I was at a loss to explain what in the world the author was talking about. What could licking a ceramic mushroom have to do with arriving home safely after school? On a second reading, I was struck by a terrifying realization—Sedaris' description so closely mirrored my own fragmented mind, that I had initially been unable to recognize the resemblance. Like Sedaris, whose slavery to his own wishful thinking commanded that he lick light switches, press his nose against car hoods, tap his front door with his elbows, align the appliances in his kitchen, and ensure that the television antenna was in a perfect V, I too struggled to come to terms with my own plague of rituals. I will, no doubt, have trouble justifying that the pre-match preparation of my early squash career was normal. For me, there is an obvious, rational and important connection between tearing toilet paper in a straight line and having a successful day on court. Repeatedly using the same stall in the bathroom also promises to yield good match results, as does making sure my tied shoelaces do not come into contact with my socks. During the match there are balls to bounce on the red line before serving, hands to wipe in specific places after bad rallies, and the art of knowing when my opponent is about to call “change” during the warm-up so that I can beat her to it. As you will undoubtedly know, the latter ritual demonstrates an on-court assertiveness that will turn the tide of the match in my favor. It's simple when you think about it. So great was my belief in the power of ritualistic thinking that I had a sneaking suspicion that if I managed to string enough rituals together in a row, I would stockpile enough good court karma that I could hit 27 balls in a row into the tin and still win. In all my years of junior and collegiate squash I never stopped to question my habits—for it was obvious that I was a pawn in the hands of some unknowable squash deity who demanded certain rituals be carried out before I was allowed to win. I knew that I might as well not get on court if I had forgotten to stack the books on my desk in size order (largest on the bottom) or if the right shoe of any pair of shoes in my extensive collection was sitting to the left of its partner. My mother warned me early on to avoid the pattern of magical thinking. I remember nodding my head in agreement, knowing full well that silently chanting Ancient Greek conjugations on the way to retrieving the ball out of the back corners would not make me hit the ball any better. But how could I explain that these things demanded to be done? If I began to run my hand along the banister as I descended a set of stairs, there was nothing on this earth that would have induced me to remove my hand from that banister! I'd rather default. One day I was struck by how closely a senior WISPA player watched the ball as she prepared to hit it. Her face contorted with concentration, as she twisted her neck out of its socket to follow the ball down the wall. I mentioned my observation to my coach, and hoped that I didn't look anywhere nearly as silly when I hit the ball. “That's real focus for you,” my coach replied, before asking me if I ever considered how strange I looked chatting away to myself between points. So I decided to make a break with magical thinking and to concentrate on what I was doing on court. After a small struggle, I managed to put the days of obsessive toilet paper wasting in pursuit of the perfect rip behind me. I stopped caring whether my opponent stepped on court before I did, or if I left the house without straightening my rugs. And for a while I had myself convinced that it was just me and my racquet out there, unencumbered by my myriad nervous habits. But what I realized is that the concerted effort I made to eradicate these habits has simply taken their place. The practice of consciously not thinking magically has become the new cornerstone of my magical thinking. And each time I challenge the squash deity to watch while I leave the disordered books as they are, I'm hoping that he or she will interpret this as continued belief. In essence, I'm carrying out the practice of magical thinking in absentia. And as long as this is not interfering with my preparation or play, I can't find anything wrong with it.

It Makes Sense to Me

Little Things Make All the Difference