Squash, what a sport....or vegetable
What do you get if you cross a hungover Dutchman, a squash ball and a dodgy right arm? Lots of morphine and an evening in A&E at Västerås hospital.
The story then. Firstly let me just say the original idea of this was supposed to be a simple squash report. That is far from what it turned out to be.
The day started like any other. I met up with the squash team- consisting of 3 very distinct characters. Myself, an Englishman (PhD immunologist) playing at one. Lars, a Dutchman (Post doc. oncologist) playing at two. Last but not least, Greg, the man from Belgium (Medical doctor, eye specialist) filling the number three spot. Now not only are we all geeks, all immigrants and all pretty average at squash. We were on a mission- to keep our necks at the top of the squash table. This was going to be a tough task as we were going to play one of the best teams in the league, in their own back yard (well squash court at least).
During the hour drive up to Västerås, the team mulled over some squash tactics. Mine and Greg’s plan was to hit 33 winning nicks, comfortable 3-0 victories, then go bowling (in the same sports complex as the squash courts). Lars meanwhile was recovering. You see, this was no ordinary day. I forgot to mention Lars was not meant to be playing. Oh no. The young Dutchman had intentionally sampled some whisky delights the night before and was coming only to inspire us, especially being the team captain and all. Our ‘first choice’ number two was a mature Ture, who gave us a wealth of experience, a guaranteed victory no doubt. Yet the atmosphere was dry, something felt wrong. And indeed there was. A phone call later and ‘a f**king hell, this is not good’ from the flying Dutchman, now meant Ture was unable to play, leaving his spot open to the albeit slightly hungover Lars.
How hungover you ask? Well lets just say, he drank half a litre of energy drink then fell asleep- I then gave him a litre of water, 50% of which turned in to a whisky water mix, from the fumes radiating from his mouth hole. So the Dutchman’s tactics- to breathe all over his opponent, comatosing him, resulting in a win by default. A full proof plan or so it seemed.
Just a brief word of how the (squash) system works: your team turns up, there’s 5 other teams present, you play 2 matches against 2 different teams, have a shower, then go home. No beers/alcohol (unless you get drunk before hand, Lars) and no real social scene- it’s potentially not as fun as it should be, but I digress.
So the team was playing Enskede (in the first match) and Västerås (in the second). You could cut the air with a knife, I mean championship points were at stake and a huge pressure for the virgin…….the squash virgin. Yes, Greg was indeed playing his maiden match in this crucial tie. Not fazed, a smooth, confident Greg, with his David Ginola looks, casually glides on to the court, hitting perfect lengths and widths in the warm-up. Meanwhile, a hungover Lars, having no kit, was forced to purchase new shoes, new shorts and a new T-shirt. Now sponsored by Yonex, the smart looking Dutchman is also a fine business man- knocking off 200 crowns off this rather extortionate purchase. Ready for battle, the Dutchman starts the heckle the opponents, striking fear in to their very hearts.
Greg, displaying a fine performance was finding his range nicely: keeping his opponent guessing, punishing him in the back corners, pouncing on every loose ball. Demoralized by his stylish looks and unassuming presence on the court, Greg took hold of the match to come out a comfortable winner 3-0, having his opponent all over the place, diving around the court and wishing he hadn’t left his house that morning. A wink and smile later from Greg and up next was the professional looking Dutchman.
After reinforcing his tactics, the Dutchmen didn’t get off to a bad start, forcing his sober partner to make basic errors as the whisky poured off the toned Dutchman’s body. The momentum changed though for poor Lars. After narrowly losing the first, it got worse for the Yonex rep. A drastic change of tactics was needed. No longer could we count on his alcohol content to get the opponent drunk. The squash would have to do all the talking. We can skip a few details, but lets just say the squash didn’t say too much after the tactical change. Exhausted from the alcohol pouring out of his system, Lars’ last gasp effort to salvage the match was in vain, the outcome a sobering 3-0 to his worthy opponent.
Last up was Mike (yes I’m going to write in third person now). Having built up a fearsome reputation from the previous match, the Englishman’s opponent didn’t know what hit him. Drilling the ball in to the nicks, keeping his opponent is a state of confusion, the poor opposing Swede could only pray to his Ikea meatballs for some divine inspiration. It didn’t come. The onslaught was relentless. Drawing in a record crowd (of about ten people, enough to fill a small seminar room), the whisper of excitement about this foreign player was filling the court. Keeping his ego down, the Englishman casually controlled this impressive display with soft touches of inspirational accuracy, and hard hitting power strikes, devastating his opponent. The only outcome, a deserved 3-0 win for the skinny little Englishman.
So, the dream still alive, a hard fought, yet brilliantly executed 2-1 win over the Stockholm meatballs was concluded. The weak link in the team, still trying to break in his new shoes wanted revenge. Like a finely tuned killing machine, the Dutchmen was studying his prey. Ready to proverbially pounce like the slightly drunk animal he is. After a motivating team talk- including how we really should go bowling, up next was the big one. Not since the Jamaican bobsleigh team, had there been this much anticipation from the leading two teams in the league.
However, soon we realized, the dream would be almost over. Remember the start of the day? Remember how the Dutchman was never supposed to get in that car, remember how he had no kit and had to spend almost three months salary on a stylish pair of shoes? Well fate has a funny way of biting you in the arse.
After a confidence boosting win, the foreign Uppsala team was ready for the next challenge. One of which in the history of squash, will go down as the most painful match ever played. No, not because of the tension, the unimaginable talent of the Uppsala players, oh no. For one fateful shot served to be the end. Yes, the end of a certain Dutchman’s shoulder.
For you see, the second match felt wrong. Greg was up first, his confidence apparently sky high, yet his demeanor warranting a note of caution. Up stepped the casual number three, but something had changed, the wind in his sails had gone. Could it have been the extortionate coffee he’d purchased just moments earlier? Could he have peaked too soon, or was it simply fate? Could he see the inevitable future? Either way, Greg, now playing with tension in his arm, fought and struggled with his annoying opponent. After an onslaught of heavy hitting from his opponent, the first game slipped away from young Greg. Not to be deterred, the number three pulled his finger and thumb out of his arse in the second, strolling to a disturbingly easy win. What was this? Were times changing? Was squash this easy? The answer, like when asked to get married folks, was a no. Bad times were just around the corner. The third game started much as the first, a backlash of shot making from the opposing Swede. Time after time of great length and near perfect drops, lead the man from Belgium astray. The calmness had gone. The squash had left the building and Greg, distraught from his opponents consistent game, had to endure the pain of losing his (squash) virginity in a bad way, going down 3-1 in a close encounter not of the third kind.
What happened next was far far worse. Not only was the Dutchman sobering up, new ideas swirling round his head on how to beat his opponent. He had also got used to his shoes. Not so bad you might say, but after a quick hammering in the first game, early in the second Lars made a fruitful error, one that cost him dearly (well 400 crowns to be precise). After a lengthy hard fought rally, the sweat pouring off the two challengers, the clever opposing Swede lobs the ball blissfully to the backhand of the courageous Dutchman. Not to be out done, he swings above his head, the ball aimed at the nick, when suddenly a scream. No, the ball hadn’t found the nick. It wasn’t a scream of despair, oh no, it was a horror scream of agony. For you see, Lars had done something bad, no, not breaking my borrowed racket, much worse…..Lars had dislocated his shoulder. Yes, his squash arm had popped right out of its socket.
Off to Västerås hospital it was. Well, not for the number one, the young, much in need of a haircut, Englishman Mike, was left to salvage the remaining points from the tie. A victory here for the Uppsala team could at least keep them in touching distance with the Västerås lot. Having his teammates on his mind, a determined Englishman was going to fight to the end, if death was the outcome, then so be it. In the name of the injured Dutchman, Mike bravely stepped up to the glass court. His opponent? A giant of a man, a hard hitting monster of awesomeness. This was going to be a tough ask of the hobbit sized Englishman. Having been deserted from his half injured team. This lonesome warrior took charge of the game, punishing the Swede in the corners, destroying all hopes of a 3-0 Västerås win. With his teammates close to his heart, Mike took one for the team, playing out of sheer pride, eventually winning 3-0, just in time to shower, do his hair and rush down to the emergency ward.
What was next to come is as close to human torture as could be defined. Never have I seen a needle that long, you could almost use it as a pole vault. Never have I seen someone take so much morphine, yet still be in agony. Never have I seen nurses at a hospital bring sandwiches and a cup of tea to their patients. Never have I seen a man lye on a hospital bed, face down, arm hanging off the bed, with 5kg of weight attached to it. Never have I seen this someone with this weight, lye there for over an hour and never have I seen someone be soo sick from the morphine comedown. Trainspotting eat your heart out.
After my arrival to see this poor broken man in pain, my first question to Greg (who was waiting patiently by his side) was ‘Did they cut his new shirt off him?’ Appropriate you may ask, but that would really be a kick in the teeth, to lose the squash match, lose your arm out of your socket, then lose your awesome new T-shirt- there is no justice in this World. Luckily, the shirt was still in tact, a shame that the arm was not so well off.
So after 5 hours, 28 mg’s of morphine, 10 mg’s of valium, local anesthetic, 5 kg of weight, about 5 litres of watery vomit, 3 nurses, 2 doctors, two ham and cheese sandwiches, 1 cup of tea, 400kr and still a joking Dutchmen, the day was over.
After a loss of one arm, one match and some money from Lars’ wallet, the team came home with mixed fortunes. We had all our body parts in tact. The puke bags provided by the hospital were most excellent and the damage from the loss of one match was not the end of the World. Our pride was still in tact, the team slightly weaker next time, all wish the courageous Lars a speedy recovery. On a personal note, I’d like to thank Greg for staying with Lars and looking after him for the whole time in the hospital. Being a Dr. himself, Greg was cleaning his wounds, checking his blood pressure and sorting everything out. Lars ended up sleeping the night at ours, on the doctors’ advice: ‘the morphine/sedative effect may stop his breathing’…….’yup, you’re good to go home’. There’s nothing quite like good news………
The story then. Firstly let me just say the original idea of this was supposed to be a simple squash report. That is far from what it turned out to be.
The day started like any other. I met up with the squash team- consisting of 3 very distinct characters. Myself, an Englishman (PhD immunologist) playing at one. Lars, a Dutchman (Post doc. oncologist) playing at two. Last but not least, Greg, the man from Belgium (Medical doctor, eye specialist) filling the number three spot. Now not only are we all geeks, all immigrants and all pretty average at squash. We were on a mission- to keep our necks at the top of the squash table. This was going to be a tough task as we were going to play one of the best teams in the league, in their own back yard (well squash court at least).
During the hour drive up to Västerås, the team mulled over some squash tactics. Mine and Greg’s plan was to hit 33 winning nicks, comfortable 3-0 victories, then go bowling (in the same sports complex as the squash courts). Lars meanwhile was recovering. You see, this was no ordinary day. I forgot to mention Lars was not meant to be playing. Oh no. The young Dutchman had intentionally sampled some whisky delights the night before and was coming only to inspire us, especially being the team captain and all. Our ‘first choice’ number two was a mature Ture, who gave us a wealth of experience, a guaranteed victory no doubt. Yet the atmosphere was dry, something felt wrong. And indeed there was. A phone call later and ‘a f**king hell, this is not good’ from the flying Dutchman, now meant Ture was unable to play, leaving his spot open to the albeit slightly hungover Lars.
How hungover you ask? Well lets just say, he drank half a litre of energy drink then fell asleep- I then gave him a litre of water, 50% of which turned in to a whisky water mix, from the fumes radiating from his mouth hole. So the Dutchman’s tactics- to breathe all over his opponent, comatosing him, resulting in a win by default. A full proof plan or so it seemed.
Just a brief word of how the (squash) system works: your team turns up, there’s 5 other teams present, you play 2 matches against 2 different teams, have a shower, then go home. No beers/alcohol (unless you get drunk before hand, Lars) and no real social scene- it’s potentially not as fun as it should be, but I digress.
So the team was playing Enskede (in the first match) and Västerås (in the second). You could cut the air with a knife, I mean championship points were at stake and a huge pressure for the virgin…….the squash virgin. Yes, Greg was indeed playing his maiden match in this crucial tie. Not fazed, a smooth, confident Greg, with his David Ginola looks, casually glides on to the court, hitting perfect lengths and widths in the warm-up. Meanwhile, a hungover Lars, having no kit, was forced to purchase new shoes, new shorts and a new T-shirt. Now sponsored by Yonex, the smart looking Dutchman is also a fine business man- knocking off 200 crowns off this rather extortionate purchase. Ready for battle, the Dutchman starts the heckle the opponents, striking fear in to their very hearts.
Greg, displaying a fine performance was finding his range nicely: keeping his opponent guessing, punishing him in the back corners, pouncing on every loose ball. Demoralized by his stylish looks and unassuming presence on the court, Greg took hold of the match to come out a comfortable winner 3-0, having his opponent all over the place, diving around the court and wishing he hadn’t left his house that morning. A wink and smile later from Greg and up next was the professional looking Dutchman.
After reinforcing his tactics, the Dutchmen didn’t get off to a bad start, forcing his sober partner to make basic errors as the whisky poured off the toned Dutchman’s body. The momentum changed though for poor Lars. After narrowly losing the first, it got worse for the Yonex rep. A drastic change of tactics was needed. No longer could we count on his alcohol content to get the opponent drunk. The squash would have to do all the talking. We can skip a few details, but lets just say the squash didn’t say too much after the tactical change. Exhausted from the alcohol pouring out of his system, Lars’ last gasp effort to salvage the match was in vain, the outcome a sobering 3-0 to his worthy opponent.
Last up was Mike (yes I’m going to write in third person now). Having built up a fearsome reputation from the previous match, the Englishman’s opponent didn’t know what hit him. Drilling the ball in to the nicks, keeping his opponent is a state of confusion, the poor opposing Swede could only pray to his Ikea meatballs for some divine inspiration. It didn’t come. The onslaught was relentless. Drawing in a record crowd (of about ten people, enough to fill a small seminar room), the whisper of excitement about this foreign player was filling the court. Keeping his ego down, the Englishman casually controlled this impressive display with soft touches of inspirational accuracy, and hard hitting power strikes, devastating his opponent. The only outcome, a deserved 3-0 win for the skinny little Englishman.
So, the dream still alive, a hard fought, yet brilliantly executed 2-1 win over the Stockholm meatballs was concluded. The weak link in the team, still trying to break in his new shoes wanted revenge. Like a finely tuned killing machine, the Dutchmen was studying his prey. Ready to proverbially pounce like the slightly drunk animal he is. After a motivating team talk- including how we really should go bowling, up next was the big one. Not since the Jamaican bobsleigh team, had there been this much anticipation from the leading two teams in the league.
However, soon we realized, the dream would be almost over. Remember the start of the day? Remember how the Dutchman was never supposed to get in that car, remember how he had no kit and had to spend almost three months salary on a stylish pair of shoes? Well fate has a funny way of biting you in the arse.
After a confidence boosting win, the foreign Uppsala team was ready for the next challenge. One of which in the history of squash, will go down as the most painful match ever played. No, not because of the tension, the unimaginable talent of the Uppsala players, oh no. For one fateful shot served to be the end. Yes, the end of a certain Dutchman’s shoulder.
For you see, the second match felt wrong. Greg was up first, his confidence apparently sky high, yet his demeanor warranting a note of caution. Up stepped the casual number three, but something had changed, the wind in his sails had gone. Could it have been the extortionate coffee he’d purchased just moments earlier? Could he have peaked too soon, or was it simply fate? Could he see the inevitable future? Either way, Greg, now playing with tension in his arm, fought and struggled with his annoying opponent. After an onslaught of heavy hitting from his opponent, the first game slipped away from young Greg. Not to be deterred, the number three pulled his finger and thumb out of his arse in the second, strolling to a disturbingly easy win. What was this? Were times changing? Was squash this easy? The answer, like when asked to get married folks, was a no. Bad times were just around the corner. The third game started much as the first, a backlash of shot making from the opposing Swede. Time after time of great length and near perfect drops, lead the man from Belgium astray. The calmness had gone. The squash had left the building and Greg, distraught from his opponents consistent game, had to endure the pain of losing his (squash) virginity in a bad way, going down 3-1 in a close encounter not of the third kind.
What happened next was far far worse. Not only was the Dutchman sobering up, new ideas swirling round his head on how to beat his opponent. He had also got used to his shoes. Not so bad you might say, but after a quick hammering in the first game, early in the second Lars made a fruitful error, one that cost him dearly (well 400 crowns to be precise). After a lengthy hard fought rally, the sweat pouring off the two challengers, the clever opposing Swede lobs the ball blissfully to the backhand of the courageous Dutchman. Not to be out done, he swings above his head, the ball aimed at the nick, when suddenly a scream. No, the ball hadn’t found the nick. It wasn’t a scream of despair, oh no, it was a horror scream of agony. For you see, Lars had done something bad, no, not breaking my borrowed racket, much worse…..Lars had dislocated his shoulder. Yes, his squash arm had popped right out of its socket.
Off to Västerås hospital it was. Well, not for the number one, the young, much in need of a haircut, Englishman Mike, was left to salvage the remaining points from the tie. A victory here for the Uppsala team could at least keep them in touching distance with the Västerås lot. Having his teammates on his mind, a determined Englishman was going to fight to the end, if death was the outcome, then so be it. In the name of the injured Dutchman, Mike bravely stepped up to the glass court. His opponent? A giant of a man, a hard hitting monster of awesomeness. This was going to be a tough ask of the hobbit sized Englishman. Having been deserted from his half injured team. This lonesome warrior took charge of the game, punishing the Swede in the corners, destroying all hopes of a 3-0 Västerås win. With his teammates close to his heart, Mike took one for the team, playing out of sheer pride, eventually winning 3-0, just in time to shower, do his hair and rush down to the emergency ward.
What was next to come is as close to human torture as could be defined. Never have I seen a needle that long, you could almost use it as a pole vault. Never have I seen someone take so much morphine, yet still be in agony. Never have I seen nurses at a hospital bring sandwiches and a cup of tea to their patients. Never have I seen a man lye on a hospital bed, face down, arm hanging off the bed, with 5kg of weight attached to it. Never have I seen this someone with this weight, lye there for over an hour and never have I seen someone be soo sick from the morphine comedown. Trainspotting eat your heart out.
After my arrival to see this poor broken man in pain, my first question to Greg (who was waiting patiently by his side) was ‘Did they cut his new shirt off him?’ Appropriate you may ask, but that would really be a kick in the teeth, to lose the squash match, lose your arm out of your socket, then lose your awesome new T-shirt- there is no justice in this World. Luckily, the shirt was still in tact, a shame that the arm was not so well off.
So after 5 hours, 28 mg’s of morphine, 10 mg’s of valium, local anesthetic, 5 kg of weight, about 5 litres of watery vomit, 3 nurses, 2 doctors, two ham and cheese sandwiches, 1 cup of tea, 400kr and still a joking Dutchmen, the day was over.
After a loss of one arm, one match and some money from Lars’ wallet, the team came home with mixed fortunes. We had all our body parts in tact. The puke bags provided by the hospital were most excellent and the damage from the loss of one match was not the end of the World. Our pride was still in tact, the team slightly weaker next time, all wish the courageous Lars a speedy recovery. On a personal note, I’d like to thank Greg for staying with Lars and looking after him for the whole time in the hospital. Being a Dr. himself, Greg was cleaning his wounds, checking his blood pressure and sorting everything out. Lars ended up sleeping the night at ours, on the doctors’ advice: ‘the morphine/sedative effect may stop his breathing’…….’yup, you’re good to go home’. There’s nothing quite like good news………
