Nanaimo Squash Club

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Night Crowd
A Gentleman of the Evening

Captain Backhand has given his opinion on the merits of the lunch time squash crowd, and while his words are not totally lacking in charm and humor, I feel compelled to offer a rebuttal on behalf of the evening crowd.

Captain Backhand pooh-poohs the upstairs post-game socializing, dismissing it under the heading of ‘beer’. Of course he does, because it is only possible in the evening.

I would submit that after an evening squash game, there is a natural sequence of events – a decent cool down, including a post mortem of the game, a little stretching, a leisurely shower and then a sit down at the bar with an ice-cold beverage and some civilized conversation.

The ambience is sublime – everyone relaxed after a day of work and a game of squash, the game on the TV, the happy burble of the beer taps, the clinking of ice cubes in glasses, the occasional innocent flirtation, the occasional not so innocent flirtation, and the conversations in which we solve the problems of the world.

Why just the other day, a Nanaimo city counselor dropped in to see me. The poor fellow was in quite a state – red faced, sweaty, papers scattered about him – clearly in an advanced state of stress.

“What on earth is the trouble, my good man?” I asked, and bought him a beer.

“This convention center is going to be the death of me.” He said, with his head in his hands. “We’re deciding whether or not to re-do the referendum. I’m looking at the budget”. He waved his hand at his pile of papers. I huffily moved a couple of sheets out from under my beer glass.

“Well”, I said, eager to cheer the man up and get him on his way, “We have a wonderful cross-section of Nanaimo business and working people right here. Why don’t we just put the question to the bar right now. You’ve got 2 minutes (and not a second more) to give us your latest budget figures, and we’ll ask the bar whether we should re-do the referendum. “

He pulled himself together long enough to give us the budget numbers, and I put the matter to the vote. “Five to three in favor.” I said.

A look of calm came over his face, he thanked me profusely, crammed his papers into his briefcase, and headed for the exit. At the door, he turned and said, “You wouldn’t consider running for Mayor…” He stopped short when he saw the look on my face – the one I usually reserve for squash opponents who have hit a lucky frame job into the nick – and hurried on his way. I hope he made it down the stairs without falling down.

Just then the phone rang. It was for club president Carlos Acosta.

“Stephen” said Carlos. “How are Laureen and the kids? What’s up – it’s got to be after midnight there in Ottawa.”

Carlos turned to the bar – “Can you keep it down a little? I’ve got the PM on the phone. Again.”

I responded by lowering the volume on the TV by just a fraction. There are only so many interruptions a person should have to put up with.

I couldn’t help overhearing bits and pieces of the conversation.
“Same sex marriage” said Carlos. “I TOLD you to leave that issue along didn’t I. Will you ever listen?”

“Afghanistan? Man, you’ve got to find a way to get out of there gracefully as soon as it’s politically feasible.”

“You’ve got to show some balls on that Softwood Lumber Agreement, Stephen.”

“Stephen. Stephen. Listen – I’ve got to go”.

I will close with a couple of analogies:

If I could compare squash to dining, then a lunch time game is a sandwich washed down with a pop, while an evening game is a full three course meal.

If I could compare squash to lovemaking, then a lunch time game would be a sweaty, hurried union in the back seat of a Volkswagen. Not that this sort of thing can’t be fun, especially if the Volkswagen is a baby blue convertible, is parked in a semi-public place, or is actually moving, and…, or…lady gymnast…I digress.

But surely this doesn’t compare to the more complete pleasures of the evening squash game, which would be a proper affair, complete with summer sunset, soft music, a fireplace, a nice bottle of wine, a bearskin rug, an aerosol can of whipped cream, and one cigarette to be shared by two.

Sincerely,
Major Forehand