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The sound the racquet makes as it collides with the floor is one of pure joy. The echo—a hilarious reminder of just how fragile this 300-pound combination of carbon fibre and plastic is. I feel its bounce radiating as it clatters, clatters and clangs and tippers out, resting in the corner, a child in time out. The striped walls of the squash court are illuminated in a way that is downright offensive to my hangover but it’s the best cure. The sweat draws the toxins from the body like a sauna and the movement reminds the mind of what it’s capable of. It’s a snap back into reality once the eyes adjust. A stark reminder of life, life being lived. Yes, tiredly and painfully but lived.

Squash is a game of violence; cruel in a way where, most of the time, you’re forcing your opponent into a corner or making them run for a shot that’s so unrealistically obtainable that it seems like cheating. Not to mention the speed at which the rubber bullet of a ball flies around the court, smacking the wall, smacking the racquet, smacking the forehead of that guy from Rome who, after beating me, asked politely if I had any diagnosed issues. Not only is it violent, it’s sexy. Sport in general is sexy but few in the category are sexy outside of the imagination. Rugby for example—extremely attractive to think about, delightful to watch, yet lacking in excitement to play. That is because there’s no time to look at the cake in tight shorts when you’re being tackled to the floor. No. Squash is sexy because you spend an hour getting drenched in sweat, panting, rallying, working the room, dominating the ball. The shorts are short, as they should be, and any item of clothing worn is coming out drenched. The amount of sweating you do while playing is quite alarming. The first time I played I found the experience to be much like being in a sauna, beads rolling off my nose, a tap of lukewarm saltwater released onto me. Any anger in you permeates into that little ball. It absorbs bad energy like a healing crystal charged under the moon. All the evil is drained from you and you’re left post-game clutching each other—the respectful hug after each match is essential to show sportsmanship, dont trust the folks who just want to tap racquets. If you’re not ready to embrace, to absorb the warm body of an opponent, then you’re not ready for squash. 



Best of five and I’m down by one. The racquet throwing is regarded as cheating so wouldn't have counted even if it had worked. However, this knowledge doesn't stop me from continuing to try it. Jamie, my opponent, tells me I'm getting better, that If I locked in I could be as good as them one day. Smug bastard, I love it. Jamie and I met at the pub, where I meet all of my friends. I think it was The Dolphin in Hackney but I hope it wasn't. It was for sure somewhere queer as folk, where the T Boys run circuits, the dolls spin the decks and the dykes make eyes at you from across the room. It's hot it's threatening and the bathroom stalls and jammed with ketamine sniffing twinks giving each other blowjobs. Heaven. Jamie caught my eye because they’re one of those white vest, chainlink, Solomon, backwards cap, jockstrap, probably-too-skinny types that saunter when they walk. With a gender-bending, straight-talking attitude to match. Time to lock this down and win to prove my worth. 

I see the ball, am the ball, smacking the wall again and again, it feels glorious, the blood throbs through me. My limp wrist firms as I take shot after shot. As the beads fly from my face I let out ravishing screams of defeat. The points are invisible judges, rising higher and higher above me, the feeling of justice slipping away. The jury is out, they hate me, they see my crime as my identity, they’re sending me away and they’re laughing. Jamie wins again. 

There’s a rage that gets left in childhood, one of misunderstanding and shame, this feeling, if you can harness it, is fuel for the game. It forces your eyes to focus and your reactions to sharpen. The way a cat does when it falls from a ledge and lands on its feet. The racquet pings into arousal and collides with the ball with an elegance that you’re shocked because, well, where did I learn that move? The rage is focused, unlike plain anger, it’s deep within you, influencing your behaviours from somewhere so hidden that a therapist would spend hours digging and digging just for a nugget of understanding. For me, this feeling is intrinsic to my life, it guides me, or rather I follow it with little understanding of where it’s taking me. Like a god, I have blind faith in it. Rage is my god. 
 Before you laugh, or feel I'm some perverted monster, know that we all have this rage. It comes from being little, finally conscious in the world, and learning that there will always be conflict and trouble when we try to achieve our goals. Whatever they are there will be something or someone stopping us. And that fucking hurts. 






















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