I’m no athlete, not by any means. But I do stop by the gym from time to time, mostly to drench my bad conscience and fight away an emerging back ache, inherited from my father. This day I stood by the squash courts, answering a text message from a friend when one of the ongoing games caught my eyes and ears.
Squash-guy 1: “Oh, come on - that one was definitely out of bounds.”
Squash-guy 2, with slightly raised eyebrows and an indifferent look: “Yeah well… anyway, have to go, got a meeting at one a’ clock”.
Squash-guy 1: “You wanna call it a quits in the middle of a set, come on”
Squash-guy 2, crooked smile, shrugging his shoulders: “Sorry, gotta leave now or I’ll be late”
The two combatants leave the court, racquets in hand. They pass by where I’m standing and enter the locker room. I follow them inside just before the door closes.
Squash-guy 1, an athletically built man in his thirties, receding hairline, droopy eyes, takes a seat quietly by one of the lockers. Squash-guy 2 stands in front of the locker next to him, rapidly removing his shorts and polo shirt. He’s tall and has a very straight posture that gives him a somewhat military look. His hair is cut trimmer short.
Squash-guy 1: “So, what a game huh? I mean, I definitely thought I would lose in the end of the first set. It’s funny how you’re always on top of your game in the beginning of the matches and then I take over…”
Squash-guy 2 just turns his head and give him a stiff smile, puts on a towel and heads for the showers.
The facial expression of Squash-guy 1 quickly alters when Squash-guy 2 is out of the room. From confident to haunted in the matter of hundreds of a second. He stands up, grabs a towel, and suddenly directs a suspicious glance in my direction. I look down and nervously begin untying my shoe laces.
A few minutes later both Squash-guy 1 and 2 are putting their clothes on, not exchanging so much as a glance. Squash-guy 2 is just about to leave the room, gym bag and cell phone in his hands when Squash-guy 1 opens his mouth: “Hey… look, I just think it’s funny that every single time when you’re about to lose a game you have to rush off to a meeting. Just saying..”
Squash-guy 2 looks stunned, he raises his eyebrow to the point that they’re almost touching his hair line, abruptly turns around and leaves the room.
Squash-guy 1, picking up his bag, again angrily looks right at me:
“What the hell are you looking at?” he says.
Me: “Oh, nothing.”
Squash-guy 1 leaves the room furiously shaking his head.
