Victory

VICTORY ...

CLASSICS

Melody Francis, a top junior from Australia, received top marks at school for this personal/reflective essay on a squash match ... read on and you'll see why ...

I am 16 years old and I have been playing squash since I was 9, seriously for the last two years.

I am ranked 5th in my age group nationally in U17's, I have played overseas twice in Malaysia.

I am part of the Australian National Talent Squad to play in the 2007 World Junior Women's Championships in Hong Kong.

I am coached by Terry White former coach in Amsterdam, Co-owner of Gladstone Park "Squash City" and Melton Squash Courts.

I am in Year 11 at Sunbury College. I hope to graduate and go to Yale University in America in the next 2 years.

I want to be a psychologist or a physiotherapist.

I definitely want to play professionally, and of course go to No. 1 in the world...

My idols are Sarah Fitz-Gerald and Vicki Cardwell.

My sponsor is

“One more!” The confident declaration passed through my lips, as I strode from the court. Sitting down on the bench, I knew, I had this one. My heart was pumping and I was breathing heavily. There was the glean of sweat on my arms and legs, the constant reminder of the heat and humidity.

The adrenaline was rushing through me, flooding my senses, lifting me up, I was riding in the winds of success. Oh, how I love that feeling, this exhilarating sensation is the reason why I play-

“Are you listening to me? Do not relax! This is not over yet, you still have one more game!” My coach’s voice, demanding and strong, pierced through my thoughts, I blinked and then nodded.

“Good,” with a nod of his head, he thrust my water bottle at me. I grabbed hold of it with my shaking hands and took a mouthful of the cool, refreshing water. It was a temporary relief from the stifling heat that was slowly enveloping me. Picking up my towel I methodically wiped at my face, arms and legs, a pointless attempt to mop up the sweat.

I glanced over to my opponent with her coaches, who were frantically waving their arms about and jibbering, a small smile came to my lips, it was the smile of the hunter who knows they have their prey cornered.

Determined, I stand up and walk towards the court, my arena, my second home. Those simple red lines running starkly along the austere white walls. I can hear the sounds of the other matches going on around me, the steady, almost rhythmical beat of those small black rubber spheres pounding unmercifully into the hard unforgiving surfaces. I reach out and place my hand on the small round doorknob, allowing its metallic cool to seep into my palm, before I rotate it clockwise and enter the court.

I head towards my trustworthy racquet, my old friend, the extension of my hand. It is the paintbrush that I use to create art on court, and at times the sword which faithfully attacks and demoralizes my enemy. It feels light and stable in my sure grip, I can do anything with my racquet in my hand. Its carbon fibre body and synthetic strings seem to sing, humming in anticipation of what is to come.

I pick up my eyewear, a necessary precaution against the flying missile which could so easily take out an eye, I palm the black sphere, I can feel the rubbery texture beneath my fingertips, I run the sensitive tip of my finger over the two yellow indentations, the badge which represents the level of skill.

Behind me I hear the excited cheers of support from friends who are seated in the plain wooden bleachers, sweltering in the heat, crushed in like sardines in a can. Their yells are drowned out by the deafening roar from my opponent’s home crowd as she strides back on to the court.

“Were they always that loud?” The disconcerting thought raced through my head, planting with it the first seed of doubt. A sickening feeling starts to grow from the pit of my stomach. I take a deep breath…one…two…three…exhale. Still struggling to shake the unsettling feeling, I head towards the service box. I felt like I was swimming upstream surrounded by the cries of the opposing crowd. Each one hammering into my hard wall of defence, chipping away, slowly, breaking into my well of confidence and pulling out the plug.

I bounce the ball once, twice, three times, I can feel the vibrations through the racquet, the sound brings back a small amount of composure. I glance back at my opponent and am met with a steely glare of a hunter, no longer the prey, she transforms in front of me, I now can see the height of her muscle definition, I can see her calf and thigh muscles tensing and relaxing as she jogs on the spot.

As the dismay grows, I turn to serve. I steady myself, thinking only of getting a good serve and of how fresh and ready my opponent looks…Stop thinking negative. I serve the ball, a nice, clean, well timed shot and head towards the T, “racquet up, on toes, watch opponent, check, check, che”-nick.

The whole world stops as I watch the ball slowly roll back to my feet. I can almost smell my own fear, if only it was not being drowned out by the overpowering sense of smugness from my opponent. My mind becomes a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts which rampage recklessly this way and that, the disarray of my mind quickly translated into my shots and movement.

My heart is pounding in my ears, my thoughts are careering around in my mind, “What happened? What am I doing? Why can I not hit the ball?”

The raucous cheers from the opponent’s side are deafening, they leech into my mental defences even more, shaking the foundations that took years to develop.

A nice, easy shot comes my way instantly my mind turns negative.

“I will never get this up.” Timidly, I swing and make unsteady contact with the ball, immediately I know the outcome…TIN, a frustrated cry erupts, releasing some of the growing tension.

“Eight love, game ball”, the scorer calls out, marking down the respective score on his sheet.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I think to myself. I can taste the salty sweat on my lips, I can feel the heat, the sweat, the anxiety and anticipation fills the humid and tense air, the sweat stings at my eyes. The sound of the impatient bouncing of the ball from my opponent who is waiting in the service box fills my ears. I sneak one quick look at the crowd, the seating is filled to capacity, video cameras steadily recording, storing away moments of time to be viewed and scrutinised in the future.

I turn back and prepare myself, the serve strikes the front wall and comes towards me, I eye the black missile and smack it down the wall, my opponent pounces on it like a cat and drives it back down the wall, I do the same, minus the feline similarity, again she drives, confidently I head back, my racquet feels sure in my grip, bang, another solid drive, as fastidious as I am, I was pleased with that shot, but the sneaky cat gets it back, replying with an equal, if not better shot, once again I drive it solidly down the wall, the slight vibrations and the cleanness of the shot are relaxing.

The trickle-boast came from nowhere I watch helplessly as it hits the side wall, then the front, moving effortlessly with incredible speed, I run towards the front, still watching as it bounces once, in desperation I reach out, stretching to my limit, my muscles burning, screaming at me to stop. I watch as the ball bounces the second time centimetres from the front of my racquet.

Like a horror movie the scene unfolded before my eyes. My breathe catches in my throat the emotions well up inside of me. The colours of anger, despair, frustration, sadness and anxiety all mix together into a palette of swirling black.

I trudge over to my seat, breathing had become a chore, my confidence departing with each and every laboured breath. I watch as my coach kneels down in front of me on the dirty tiled floor, he looks me in the eyes and says,

“Do you want this?”
“Yes!”
“Are you tired?”
“Yes!”
“Well, so is she. You CAN do this!”
“I know I can.”
“Then do it!”

“OK,” my answer was filled with determination. Everything becomes quiet, my world shrinks, encompassing only me, my racquet, the ball and the court, my only thoughts are determined.

As I go on the court for the final game, the atmosphere sharpens, the air is thick with boiling anticipation, the climax is building up, slowly, to the final eruption.

The game starts, as I move around my muscles protest, but I block it out, the steady, deep burn is a reminder of how much I want to win. It is just me and my racquet, placing the ball where I want it, moving my opponent around the wooden floor, manipulating her, forcing her actions to comply with my will.

I get her out of position again and again so she is forced to defend, each time…bam I pounce up and kill the rally, executing her hopes in simple, quick movements. Like a chess game we both move each other around, each trying to outsmart the other. Like two warriors locked in deadly battle, defending, attacking, avoiding the ‘do or die’ moment, I am not going to be the one to die.

Each rally was brimming with determination, fear and anxiety played no part now. Our only thoughts are focused on keeping that little sphere above the eighteen inches of tin. The rallies grow longer, the shots tighter, forcing the opponent to scramble to get the next shot back, all loose shots were punished unmercifully.

“Eight – seven,” the scorer struggled to yell over the screams of the crowd, I was deaf to them all. The gasping of my breath and the sweat dripping off me was all I took notice of. I ignored my screaming muscles and filled my consciousness with the pounding of the ball against the floor and walls. My heart thunders in my ears, I feel sick from exhaustion. I serve the ball, hopefully the last one. Once again we settle into another long rally, neither wanting to risk going short, my shot forces her to jag one loose.

“Gone,” I whisper. Bang, forehand kill drive, my favourite shot, does not even bounce.

The cheer started as a rumble and erupted as we shook hands. Relief flooded over me as the scorer read out the match scores.

“Nine-five, nine-six, seven-nine, love –nine, nine-seven!” I stumble off court, grinning stupidly in my euphoric exhausted state. All I can hear is the cheering, I am blinded by the flashing cameras, the taste of water flowing from the cool bottle is a godsend.

“Time to head home,” the words of closure from my coach.