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**forotis** · 05-21-2009, 08:49 AM

Let me preface this by saying my life is a series of humiliations, and I wouldn't have it any other way. This is my one experience with squash:

I'm in a hostel in Surfer's Paradise, Australia, where I see what I think is an indoor racquetball court (I'm American, I should mention). I convince my friend Dustin to come play racquetball with me, explaining that this is a game where the more welts you give your opponent, the better you're doing. We ask for the racquets and the racquetball at the front desk. The lady at the front desk, who has short red hair and wears a nametag that reads "Max," says, "You mean squash?" I say, "Sure." She gets out the equipment. The ball is considerably smaller and not blue. Hmm, I think, crazy Australia!

We enter the court, and I give the ball a nice, firm hit, just trying to start an easy rally with Dustin, a beginner. The ball bounces off the wall, hits the ground with a thud, takes a couple tiny bounces and stops dead 10 feet in front of us. That's weird, I think.

I grab the ball to take it back to the front desk; Dustin follows me. Max is on the phone. She sees us out of the corner of her eye. If she'd been chewing bubble gum, she would have blown and popped a bubble here. But she wasn't, and she didn't. Still. When Max finally comes my way, I politely explain, "I think your ball is dead." With a face of stone, she replies, "You have to hit it." I explain what I mean. At this point, she asks, "Have you ever played squash before?" I say, "Yeah, it's the same as racquetball, right?" One corner of her mouth curls upward.

After a brief and emasculating lesson on how you have to "warm up" a squash ball, Dustin and I head back to the court, determined to jack the crap out of this thing until testosterone oozes from our pores. After full-arm swinging at it for about five minutes, we realize that we could be drinking instead of pretending we play squash. We sulk back to the front desk with our equipment, with only the promise of a Toohey's Old in our immediate future softening the blow of the wry "Thanks, boys" from the mouth of Max. The end.

05-21-2009, 08:49 AM	#13
forotis Join Date Oct 2005 Posts 400 Senior Member	Let me preface this by saying my life is a series of humiliations, and I wouldn't have it any other way. This is my one experience with squash: I'm in a hostel in Surfer's Paradise, Australia, where I see what I think is an indoor racquetball court (I'm American, I should mention). I convince my friend Dustin to come play racquetball with me, explaining that this is a game where the more welts you give your opponent, the better you're doing. We ask for the racquets and the racquetball at the front desk. The lady at the front desk, who has short red hair and wears a nametag that reads "Max," says, "You mean squash?" I say, "Sure." She gets out the equipment. The ball is considerably smaller and not blue. Hmm, I think, crazy Australia! We enter the court, and I give the ball a nice, firm hit, just trying to start an easy rally with Dustin, a beginner. The ball bounces off the wall, hits the ground with a thud, takes a couple tiny bounces and stops dead 10 feet in front of us. That's weird, I think. I grab the ball to take it back to the front desk; Dustin follows me. Max is on the phone. She sees us out of the corner of her eye. If she'd been chewing bubble gum, she would have blown and popped a bubble here. But she wasn't, and she didn't. Still. When Max finally comes my way, I politely explain, "I think your ball is dead." With a face of stone, she replies, "You have to hit it." I explain what I mean. At this point, she asks, "Have you ever played squash before?" I say, "Yeah, it's the same as racquetball, right?" One corner of her mouth curls upward. After a brief and emasculating lesson on how you have to "warm up" a squash ball, Dustin and I head back to the court, determined to jack the crap out of this thing until testosterone oozes from our pores. After full-arm swinging at it for about five minutes, we realize that we could be drinking instead of pretending we play squash. We sulk back to the front desk with our equipment, with only the promise of a Toohey's Old in our immediate future softening the blow of the wry "Thanks, boys" from the mouth of Max. The end.
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