Never Play Against an Old Guy

Sources by gentlemanlyfarmer

Back in my post-graduate days, the Gentlemanly Farmer was mainly sedentary. But once in a while, the fancy would overtake me, and I would gently make my way to the old post-graduate gymnasium to give exercise the old post-graduate try.

I quickly realised that I wasn’t much for serious exercising (I ended up proving the old theorem that lifting 4kg weights in front of human colossi is, in fact, rather emasculating), but enjoyed playing the odd game now and then.

Now, I wasn’t much for the odd game, but I could pick up a squash racquet and not embarrass myself too much. The trouble was that this was a nice big American gymnasium full of nice big American colossi, and not a lot of them played squash.

So I stood there at the courts, waiting for someone to appear, and lo (and perhaps even behold) someone did.

It was the Old Egyptian Doctor.

OED shuffled in slowly, two knee braces, two elbow braces, two wristbands, a headband, a pair of protective goggles. He was exceedingly polite, and I was wondering how many points I should “give” him so he wouldn’t feel too bad as he lumbered to his inevitable defeat.

I let him serve first. I didn’t want to go down the backhand rail (that would have embarrassed him right off the start) so I gently hit the ball up the middle and stood behind him waiting for the weak reply, ever so graciously letting him have the T.

Except his weak reply never came. No, the ball just died a quick, merciless death in the corner.

I was a little shaken, not quite comprehending what had happened. I put it down to a mistake, so when he served to my forehand side I once again put the ball back in the middle, and once again it died a swift death in the corner with nary a sound.

Finally on the fourth point I had had enough and I sent the ball down the rail, moving instinctively to the T expecting him to rotate over to retrieve the ball off the back well. Instead, he reached out before the ball even had a chance to get by him, and again, the poor little round thing was dispatched to the corner.

Now I was upset. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m upset (no, really, you wouldn’t, my old coach in college had me forfeit a game because I threw my racquet around with all the reckless abandon of callow youth).

I blasted the return down the wall, expecting OED to relinquish his T-position, but he didn’t. He just plucked that little thing right out of the air, like he was out skipping dandelions, or whatever it was that people his age did in the springtime.This time I was ready for the corner-death. I just about managed to dig the ball out, but before I had the opportunity to luxuriate in my handiwork, I was sent to the opposite corner. And again, I just about managed to dig that out, only to be sent to the other corner. And this went on for a bit, before I decided that enough was enough, and I sent the ball on a low-percentage suicide mission to that tiny spot right above the bottom tin, and it was perfect! I had won the point! Incredible! OED looked at me and smiled, obviously impressed by my superior athleticism and go-for-broke/devil-may-care nonchalance. And then I realised, while I had been been running to the four corners of the court, coming up with expert digs and that one final incredible shot…

…he had been standing at the T the whole time.

And so, when he returned my serve, I sent the ball into that spot above the tin, only this time the suicide mission was unsuccessful, and the ping echoed around us, a stark reminder of my failure.

Just like that, he was back on serve. And so on we went. We played furiously, the rallies were long, except, somehow, more often that not, I was the one running around, and he was the one standing at the T, actually winning the points. I was mashing the ball, I was going for winners, I was angry, and he just quietly, efficiently, kept hitting the angles. I was pounding away like a sledgehammer, and was killing me with a thousand quick, silent strokes like a modern-day Scaramouche.

When it was all over, I gave him a sheepish handshake, and he gave me a hearty pat on the back, complimented me on my tenacity, and suggested we meet up again for another game. I told him I would love to battle with him again. I walked out of the gymnasium, my pride carefully tucked between my legs.

I never saw him again.

I did, however, learn an important lesson, one that I have tried to impart to those young bucks raring to go on the squash courts and golf courses and tennis courts around the world. You see that old guy standing there? The one with the horrific half swing, and weak serve, and knee braces? The one that comes up to you and suggests that you play for a little money, just to keep things interesting, and then plods along with that metronomic half-swing, hitting every fairway and every green along the way as you outdrive by him 50 yards, only it’s 50 yards to the right, and you end up having to fork over all your life savings to him because you wouldn’t humour the old man and keep things interesting? The one that sends you crashing to the four corners of the squash court? The one that always comes to the net when hitting the slice approach shot to your backhand? Yes, I am talking about him.

Take it from me: never, never ever, ever, not ever, not now, not tomorrow, not at any point in the future, near or distant, and trust me on this, never play against the old guy.