Of course the fight against sporting prejudice is one that we are all too familiar with here at NSC in our eternal quest for new members. I won’t soon forget the day I happened upon our leader and President, the fine man that is, Tony Fitterer. He was curled up in a dark corner of the club, surrounded by a mountain of empty beer bottles, muttering incoherently about the injustice of it all and something about our desperate need for new members. “There there old chap” I soothed, before carrying him back to the bar, there to revive him with one of my patented “fixer uppers” (triple vodka, squeeze of lemon and a dash of ginger ale). I must say I was deeply moved by our President’s suffering. It was clear to the Captain that the club was in grave danger and it was within the week that I had launched the most successful membership recruitment campaign in the history of the club: The N.S.C. Family Breeding Program.

It was clear to the Captain that the club was in grave danger and it was within the week that I had launched the most successful membership recruitment campaign in the history of the club: The N.S.C. Family Breeding Program.

The campaign kicked off with an email to all members offering 2 free beers, (domestic or draught) at the NSC bar if they would consider supporting the club by conceiving a baby and future member. It was an anxious few months for the Captain while he waited for his labors to bear, (if you’ll excuse the pun) fruit. One couldn’t but notice that Messrs Bassett, Rutherford and Nagakawa appeared a bit worn out and seemed to lack their usual vim and vigor, (at least on court) and how the Captain’s winning percentage soared! James Plomonden seemed strangely reluctant to execute his famous front court lunge, tongues were wagging when Carlos Accosta was observed knitting a cradle cap on the bleachers outside court one and when Carlos Sperling entered the change room humming “Jack and Jill” it began to look promising indeed. Furthermore, it was impossible not to notice that some of our lady members appeared to be “gaining weight,” though your captain has long since learned to keep this observation to himself.

I’m reminded of the advice my great Aunt Myrtle gave me shortly before she fell off her perch, “Be careful what you ask for, dear Backhand.” Certainly the campaign has been a rousing success, our club is swollen with members (insert your own joke here), the junior program has a wait list of over a hundred, and our President is a beaming vision of conviviality. It’s the greatest population explosion since the Chinese revolution, and yet the Captain cuts a sad and disgruntled figure. Why you ask? Good grief…the place is awash with babies! Court 4 will shortly be converted to a full time crèche complete with 60,000 plastic balls, qualifications for the job of club pro now includes an early childhood education diploma, and the men’s change room, where once a bastion of male sporting ritual is now full of screaming infants, soiled diapers and once proud men sadly reduced to the cooing, nursery rhyme singing version of the modern father. The captain is deeply disturbed! I first met my father when I was presented to him for inspection on my 18th birthday, and not a bit of harm did it do me! Ah well….changed times indeed.

Cheers,
Captain Backhand

migraine inducing effects of Blake’s famous yellow “lucky” shorts

As you know, Blake Olsen’s thrashing of the Captain at our last tournament has been widely attributed to the migraine inducing effects of Blake’s famous yellow “lucky” shorts. Careful observers will have noted that Blake’s shorts appear somewhat faded of late; the result of the Captain’s cunning ploy to sprinkle industrial strength bleach on the offending item while its owner was in the shower. A brilliant solution perhaps, but one that leaves the Captain perilously short on excuses for future crushings at the hands of young Olsen.

As you can see your captain is not one to court conflict. Where a creative and kindly solution is available your captain will seek it out. All of which explains his current consternation at the troubling case of Harold Trenchard. It’s not the first time that Trenchard has offended against what we in the “Moral and Ethics Committee” call “reasonable behavior”. Some years ago he appeared on court in a pair of neon green shorts that caused a number of his opponents to experience minor seizures and a permanent blurring of the vision. More recently, a distraught Jon Richard, having searched high and low for a T-shirt to which he was deeply attached, was aghast to look down from the balcony and spot the brazen Trenchard, clad in his beloved T-shirt, and sweating like a Kentucky thoroughbred.

But wait there’s more. Only under intense pressure has Trenchard dispensed with his yellow “Corona” squash bag following a directive from the “Morality and Ethics Committee” that he was sending a questionable message to the juniors and all who struggle with the ravages of alcoholism, (gentlemen, you know who you are). I myself have “learned” that Harold’s squash bag was a personal “trigger” and largely responsible for the binge drinking which has prevented me from fulfilling my full potential on court.
All of this however, pales into insignificance before his latest indiscretion, namely his bizarre and inexplicable decision to wear white gloves on court. His defense has consisted of some lame excuse about sweat and grips and a desire to avoid knocking out opponents with his flying racquet. Admittedly sweat runs off the well-exercised Trenchard like a turbid Vancouver water shed, however his claim that he cannot keep a grip dry entirely misses the point. Is squash to go the way of golf where “Big Mama Bertha” technology allows six year olds to hit 300 yards? Or tennis, where racquet technology has advanced to the point where my great Aunt Myrtle second serves at over 100mph?

sweat runs off the well-exercised Trenchard like a turbid Vancouver water shed

Dear members, the very fabric of the game that we love is under attack. Harold Trenchard may in all other respects be a fine chap, but we must not be blinded to the threat he poses to the peerless game that is squash. The “Moral and Ethics Committee” has moved swiftly to tackle the problem and we are confident that Harold will comply with our request that he dispenses henceforth with the gloves and voluntarily enrolls in our upcoming weekend intensive: “The Moral Squash Player” presented by the NSC club Chaplain, Father Patrick O’Flannagan.

Cheers,
Captain Backhand

There is no finer company than a gathering of slightly inebriated squash players.

It was after one such night of revelry, having bid farewell to the usual suspects, (gentlemen, you know who you are), that your Captain clambered aboard his bicycle and set off on a meandering course for home. On arrival a small problem with keys and lock ensued, but within the hour he was through the door and embracing the blissful quiet of a slumbering home. You know how it is, cherubic children tucked up in bed, a thumping wag of the tail from the family dog, embers glowing in the hearth, and the beckoning warmth of Mrs. Backhand, stirring gently in the matrimonial bed

Yes it was with a contented sigh that your Captain sank into his favorite armchair and enjoyed a short nap before donning nightshirt and cap and heading for the WC. It was then that matters took a decided turn for the worse. True, the combination of fine ales and fatigue had taken its toll on the Captain and his passage to the bathroom was a might unsteady. That said the house was dark and how could he possibly have known of the approaching hazard, namely a large, strategically placed fire truck belonging to his three year old son and heir.

To say that your Captain’s little toe connected with said truck would be to greatly understate the facts. Indeed toe and truck connected with such venomous power that your Captain claims to have experienced a brief moment of calm as his nervous system gathered itself in preparation for the storm of excruciating pain that followed. The expletive filled wailing, when it came was colossal, and within moments your Captain, in addition to wave after wave of searing pain, was contending with screaming children, barking dog and berating wife.

Perhaps his timing was slightly off, but it was the next morning, with family breakfasting around him, that your Captain chose to float his famous theory about toe stubbing being the second most painful experience known to mankind, well ahead of a passing kidney stone and coming in a close second to childbirth. He made his case with some authority having paced the corridors of NRGH while Mrs. Backhand endured nos. 1 and 3 on the all time list, and therefore felt particularly well placed to make this assessment.

Mrs. Backhand’s reaction was, shall we say, less than supportive, and your Captain had his stay in the doghouse extended by a full week. A controversial theory with the finer sex, perhaps, but your Captain has gathered up more than a few nods of agreement from the assembled chaps at the NSC bar, that famous bastion of the free thinking world.

Aye yours,
Captain Backhand

Oh yes and all the while maintaining that oh so fashionable “pale” complexion which, I’m told, is increasingly alluring to the finer sex.

Those of us who maintain our devotion to the game during the summer months recognize in one another a sense of sacrifice and virtue, a shared ethic if you will, which sets us apart and forges a unique and special bond. Though the bowels of our venerable club may lack ultra violet light, and indeed for a significant part of this summer lacked oxygen due to the collapse of the air conditioning system, (reminding your captain of the many tortuous days and nights spent in Calcutta’s infamous “Black Hole” during an unsuccessful stint in the Kings 49th infantry), we committed few will not be deterred.

Let me categorically deny that the determined and slightly desperate efforts of your Captain have anything whatsoever to do with the fact that young Blake Olsen is spending his summer in Vancouver training with some of our provinces’ top players. Furthermore, let me assure you that there is no basis whatsoever to the rumor that your Captain is tormented by his emphatic defeat at the hands of young Olsen in our recent Open Championship and that he has had trouble sleeping ever since. Those that fought along side me know that your Captain showed no trace of fear when the whistle blew and he flew over the trenches at the Somme, and there is certainly no question of him showing, or indeed feeling, any fear when he steps on court against young Olsen on his return from gaining a thoroughly unfair advantage over all of us. See you in September!

Aye yours,
Captain Backhand

It seems like yesterday when a young and dashing Greg Vander Kooi sidled up to me in the change room and asked how he might emulate my remarkable success with the fairer sex. “Wellington boots!!!” I roared “ you’ll never get back to the “T” in your Wellies!” Admittedly he did appear a bit puzzled by my clever squash metaphor, however he clearly got the message and within the month was happily hitched to the woman of his dreams, the lovely Erin Watkins.
On another occasion I was approached by a greatly distressed Steve Bassett, without doubt the most gifted all round athlete ever to grace our fine club, and a fine chap to boot. “Stevie old chap…” I enquired, ‘what on earth is wrong?” He proceeded to tell me that he is absolutely tormented by the ease with which Douglas Hardie “Nutmegs” him, (slips the ball through his legs) at their weekly indoor soccer match. “Stevie” I said, throwing a consoling arm around his shoulders, “there are great soccer players, and there are truly great soccer players…..you are a great soccer player.” He wept quietly for a few minutes, then thanked me profusely and carried on with his life, clearly the better man for my timely intervention.

He wept quietly for a few minutes, then thanked me profusely and carried on with his life

A more recent dilemma involved Gord Cote and Carlos Sperling. They approached me with a request that I conduct a full forensic investigation into a recent on court incident involving Gord’s racquet, Carlos’s face and a sizeable quantity of blood. These are always tricky situations and your Captain is scrupulous in his efforts to ensure a “fair and just decision.” The facts in this case appears relatively straightforward. Gord was “executing” a straightforward backhand during a keenly contested point, serving 8-3 in the fourth.

What happened next will haunt the lives of those that witnessed it for many years to come. Carlos was observed, suddenly and without provocation, launching his not inconsiderable frame in the general direction of Gord, before executing a head butt on Gord’s racquet, so severe that those watching were convinced the racquet would break. Fortunately Gord’s “Prince” incurred only a minor abrasion to the rim. The fact that Carlos’s face resembled a bowl of mashed potatoes drenched in tomato ketchup is neither here nor there, and I have issued Mr. Sperling with the sternest of warnings as to his future conduct.

Alastair McColl’s right eye brow committed a similar assault on my own racquet some months ago and my lawyers are currently seeking compensation for the significant emotional suffering caused to myself, (and family) by this unhappy event. McColl won’t soon forget my stern rebuke, delivered while the blood poured fresh from his wound… “good grief man,” I bellowed, “leave my damn racquet alone!”

Sincerly,
Captain Backhand