James Willstrop was born in Norfolk in 1983 before moving to Yorkshire. He is a former world junior champion, became world No 1 in the January 2012 rankings and has won over 80 caps for England. He writes a regular column for the Yorkshire Evening Post.
Rod Gilmour is a sports journalist at The Daily Telegraph. He has written on squash since 2008 and will relish the day when the IOC vote the sport onto the Olympic programme.
Shot and a Ghost
A year in the brutal world of
professional squash
By James Willstrop
Copyright © 2012 by James Willstrop and Rod Gilmour
Smashwords
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First Printed,
2012
ISBN: 978-0-9571391-1-4
Cover
design: Ed Way, spraydesigns.co.uk
Front
cover image: Steve Line / Squashpics.com
For
more information on authors:
James
Willstrop
www.willstrop.co.uk
Rod
Gilmour
www.gilmourmedia.com
Printed and bound
in Great Britain by
CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, Surrey CR0 4YY
Table of Contents
Acclaim
Cast
of Characters
Preface
Prologue
Chapter
1
Chapter
2
Chapter
3
Chapter
4
Chapter
5
Chapter
6
Chapter
7
Chapter
8
Chapter
9
Chapter
10
Chapter
11
Chapter
12
Chapter
13
Chapter
14
"There aren't many sports book that I read and feel the sportsman himself jumps off the pages. James' book shows the stresses of top level sport on and off the court. A great read"
––Matt Pinsent, BBC Sport and four-time Olympian
"Willstrop is a very different sort of British sporting hero: a militant vegetarian, lover of musicals, obsessive-compulsive with a constant need to wash his hands and a man who had been coached from childhood by his father. Yet he is also one of Britain's finest ever racket sports players and in this fascinating autobiography, he reveals his journey from the cold municipal courts of Pontefract, through crippling injury and personal despair to the world No 1 ranking in squash. A sportsman who deserves greater publicity than he gets"
––Patrick Kidd, The Times
"What a great insight into a young champion's mentality. Often we get a chance to read the biography of old pros or successful business people who have been there and done that, but to get a chance to read about the challenges and achievements of a young man that is still at it is fascinating. The honesty and openess of James on relationships, his likes and dislikes and his periods of self doubt are very refreshing. The way in which he conducts himself is inspiring, particularly at a time when we are all looking for true role models for our young. I feel James fills this void!"
––Tony Smith, Warrington Wolves head coach
Malcolm (Malc) Willstrop – father, coach.
Vanessa Atkinson – girlfriend, former world champion and world No 1.
David Campion – half-brother, coach and England Squash assistant national coach.
Mick Todd – Pontefract Squash Club owner, and my manager.
Nick Matthew – Yorkshireman who became world No 1 in 2010. Double world and Commonwealth champion.
Ramy Ashour – Egypt’s young sensation. A revelation with a racket in his hands. He has to be seen to be believed.
Pontefract Squash and Leisure Club – Yorkshire club with a healthy junior programme where I learnt my trade.
Literature has long been a source of fascination to me. Deep down, I have always harboured ambitions of writing a book. Sitting here now, having actually finished it, before my squash career has even ended, is a sobering thought.
It was at breakfast one morning at the Kuwait World Open in November 2009 that The Daily Telegraph’s Rod Gilmour mentioned the idea of writing a diary over the year, having read my Yorkshire Evening Post columns.
I was keen and met him at the Tournament of Champions in New York in 2010. If it were to be written in my name, then I wanted to write the book myself, a huge undertaking (just how big, I had little idea) rather than have it ghostwritten. Today’s bookshelves are rife with prematurely written autobiographies about the rich and famous. As I am neither, my motives for writing a book are rather different.
I was quite sure that people wouldn’t want to read much about my formative years frolicking around naked in Uncle Mike and Aunt Julie’s paddling pool. Instead I resolved to limit the content to the topics I felt would really interest people: what it feels like to play a World Open final, the pain of a hard training session, or a response to the loss of a special person.
I found myself naturally drawn to including flashbacks to give the narrative some context. My mother, Lesley’s death in 2000 was devastating and it was a natural reaction to write about her and my memories with her. She features prominently and I hope that the excerpts I have included give balance to the book. It is safe to say I withheld nothing of my feelings regarding her decline, or anything else for that matter.
I may regret being so candid about so private a matter, but it felt right at the time, and it was an immensely cathartic process that, in hindsight, I would have benefited from years ago. Many of us hide behind masks, which cover all the insecurities, doubts and even delights of our lives. I, like many, tend not to show outward emotion but find it much easier to write honestly.
We all deal with the trivialities of life from day-to-day, whether it be playing squash, working or socialising, but there are always times when we have more significant matters to deal with: failure, a sudden parting of ways, or death – the ultimate parting. I didn’t see the point of continuing a project of this kind if it didn’t convey raw truth and integrity.
Rod and I agreed that, with his experience, he would be ideally placed to scrutinise and edit my work and I would like to thank him for helping me to realise this long-held ambition, and for giving great commitment to this project. His has been a serious effort.
11 February 2011
British National Championships quarter-finals.
Sportcity, Manchester.
‘Match to Kemp. 11-7, 11-6, 10-12, 11-8.’
The crowd applauds the result, reacting enthusiastically to the compère. Quite rightly, Jonathan Kemp’s surprising but deserved win over me is lauded.
I come off court and slump in my chair. My head is in my hands. My dad Malcolm stands by, not quite knowing how best to approach the situation. He recognises there is more going on in my head than just losing a squash match. I don’t enjoy it any more and I‘m genuinely glad I don’t have to play in the semis. During the intervals Malcolm asked me to hang in there. The only reply I could muster was: ‘Why should I when I don’t actually care?’
Not long ago, neither of us could ever have imagined such a phrase escaping my mouth. Squash has always been such a positive part of my life. I remember coming to the Nationals and the British Open as a kid and dreaming about one day walking onto this stage to play. I would talk endlessly to my parents about being a top squash player.
During the school holidays I regularly surfaced at the crack of dawn to watch footage of Pakistan greats Jahangir and Jansher Khan, Canadian magician Jonathon Power and Britain’s former world No 1 Peter Nicol, any videos I could get my hands on. Yet here I am, on the big stage, my perspective clouded and contorted. Too many matches, too many flights, not enough training, not enough rest. It is hardly surprising that it has come to this.
Children come for autographs and a few friends come down to my corner. I can hardly find it in myself to respond. I can’t get out of Manchester fast enough. But not before the press arrive. They have to kneel as I’m sitting on the floor against a wall behind the court. And it’s clear to them that I want to pour my heart out. Shattered physically but even more so mentally, I am on the verge of a complete breakdown. I say exactly how I am feeling.
‘I’ve had enough – I’m just not enjoying playing at the moment.
‘There’s no point in carrying on like this – maybe I need to stop playing for a while.
‘It’s unnatural for me not to like playing. The only reason I’m putting the effort in is to do justice to all the people who have come to watch me play.’
Three days later I’m back playing.
28 January 2010
Grand Hyatt, 42nd and Lexington, NYC, Room
3067. 5:30am.
The room is black. I twist and turn and plead with myself to fall asleep. Why is sleep always so difficult? Some say a conscience inhibits sleep, and maybe they are right. I am left with my thoughts. A sudden jolt, like electricity, runs through my body as I remember that I am playing tonight at the best squash venue in the world, Grand Central Terminus in New York, against Ramy Ashour, Egypt‘s star and one of the finest players to ever hold a racket. It’s the Tournament of Champions final. I wonder if there is ever a day when an athlete ceases to feel this excitement ahead of competition. Perhaps when he does, then it is time to give up.
I sense excitement upon waking but it is quickly eradicated by a horrible counterblow, a feeling of doubt I know all too well. I remember I jarred my ankle during the previous day’s match: the same ankle on which I had surgery last April. I wiggle it in bed. No chance of sleep now, it’s the ankle and it’s stiff. Please no, not again. Let me not have done it again. All that work and time, and just as I was beginning to forget, could it have come back to niggle away in my head? Doubt, doubt, doubt.
I could ring Ali, my physio back home, as it’s the middle of the day there. Or I could take a sleeping pill so that I can catch another few hours’ sleep. I consider this mini-conundrum and then decide against both.
I suddenly remember that I haven’t written my column for the Yorkshire Evening Post. It’s no problem, I’m awake anyway, need something to do to occupy the time, and I haven’t missed the deadline. I take my computer out and reel off 400 words in no time. Result. That’s that done.
I still can’t sleep, and so I lie there thinking about tonight. I feel terribly fortunate to be able to go out into one of the great iconic venues of the world and play, battle, and try to beat somebody. It’s a circus, but what a thing to be able to wake up and do. I think of all the awful jobs people undertake, and then I consider the fascinating homeless characters in Grand Central, and the day that they face. I feel fortunate.
I stumble to the window of my hotel room, preposterously doing a kind of test movement on my ankle, almost like a lunge. I say out loud: ‘What are you doing, you clown?’ and I realise that there is no way I would have done this had I not been alone. I open the window and invite New York in. Taxi horns bellow and tell me indirectly of people’s troubles. An ambulance siren announces itself to midtown’s constant and always changing flurry of people, who rush like ants and dart and dodge to temporary destinations. New York has the ability to make one feel so alive, yet there are reminders of the harsher side of life. It is a side of life even the most wondrous city can’t hide.
It’s 7:45am. I give up on sleep and ring my dad, Malc. I know he’ll be up. ‘Not sleeping. Early breakfast?’ I inquire. ‘See you in five minutes.’
I look forward to breakfast with Malc, partly because I like eating, but also because I enjoy his company. People have all sorts of ideas about him; he is controversial, a one off, but he is mostly enormous fun as far as I’m concerned. There is an image he projects to people on the outside which contrasts to the character I work with on a day-to-day basis. People have ideas about him locking me in a cell if I don’t win, and if anyone suggests it to be so then I tend to promote the idea for laughs.
If anything I am the critical piece in the jigsaw, and he is the one who lends a logical and sensible point of view if I am found lacking. I gather my additionals (soy milk, coffee replacement stuff, porridge toppings) and meet him in the lobby. We talk about anything, and there is a palpable tone of excitement in his voice which tells me that a day like this is about his life’s work, not just mine.
Malc can’t be everywhere, at every tournament with me. Squash players – Malc has been a coach for over 50 years and played at county level – haven’t the financial capacity to cart their coaches about as golfers and tennis players do. He endures the disappointments and enjoys the success as much as I do, so to have at least made a final with him here is very special.
At noon I meet with England coaches Stafford Murray and David Pearson to look at the stats on wonder kid Ramy. It doesn’t get complicated but it clears one or two things up in my head, offering facts rather than speculation. Stafford relays the information to me: where Ramy makes his errors, where he hits the most of his winners and how he responds to a certain length of rally. Stafford has the videos to back his facts and we watch one or two clips. Malcolm, David and I then discuss with Stafford a plan of sorts. This collective discussion between two world-class coaches, a world-class player and an experienced performance analyst encapsulates perfectly what world-class sport is all about. There are no egos here. Each person in that room wants one result, and that is for me to win tonight. Each party is willing to discuss and listen. I am pleased that Malcolm and David have a relationship in which they share ideas and work together, despite being very different, and this is quite rare amongst top-class coaches.
Closing in on match time, I find I can do nothing that demands any deep or challenging thought. I struggle to read, so I stick to the TV. Everybody Loves Raymond will do for now. Until the adverts come on that is. Advertising on television in the States is a disaster. Not only do the adverts interrupt programmes painfully often, but they are tacky and so litigation obsessed it is mystifying that anyone can do anything but laugh at them!
The afternoon before the match is a pressing passage of time, when the brain is less occupied, and as it gets closer thoughts focus more on it. The nerves kick in. I remember playing Australian Anthony Ricketts, my close friend and training partner at the time, in the British Open final in 2005 and the overwhelming feeling was sheer terror. Even walking to the venue made my stomach sink. I spoke to him afterwards and he said he felt similarly awful that day. I learned I wasn’t the only one; every player feels the pinch.
I eat, shower and talk to myself. Sport can make a person live life in such a ridiculous manner: lying about all day, not sleeping and having conversations in the shower. I think good, happy thoughts and about hitting brilliant shots. I get ready, check my stuff at least four times. Four red shirts, two shorts, socks, wristbands, bandanas. There’s too much here but I make sure. Water bottles, drinks, energy gels.
I stop and think for a moment about having to take an energy gel if I hit a physical wall in two hours’ time, and I shudder. Momentarily considering Ramy’s bag-packing routine, I absurdly conclude that it won’t be as clinical as mine: we played in Egypt in September and in between games, amid chaos on a Cairo outside court, he asked to borrow my towel as he’d forgotten his own!
My girlfriend Vanessa and I walk down through the Grand Hyatt to the shopping precinct and the rush hour buzz of Grand Central. Confronting this in itself requires a level of athletic and mental aptitude. There are swarms of people all going in different directions. We dodge and weave through the crowds. The odd person glances at my racket bag, but whilst it is slightly unusual in most railway terminals in the world, it is not here.
As we come back together we talk for something to do; she keeps me relaxed; she’s been there before, winning the World Open, holding the world No 1 position. She knows the butterfly feeling rather well.
We walk towards Vanderbilt Hall where the glass court shimmers, and the people gather there behind the front wall, for the free view, like at a rock concert. Vanessa heads to the bar; she is naturally drawn to such things. Can I come too? Let’s forget this squash lark, put me out of my misery and make mine a double ...
I shoot through the crowds to the warm-up area, behind the scaffolding at the back of the court. Ramy sweeps past me with his hood up over his head, storming through a back door to find some corner of a rush hour affected Grand Central Terminus to warm-up. We half nod, knowing we can rely on each other to play cleanly tonight.
The atmosphere in Grand Central is simply electric. I stand waiting to be announced and I can’t believe my luck to be playing in the final here for the second time, on a sporting occasion of gargantuan proportions. I wonder how it all came to this, and briefly think about playing squash as a child at Pontefract, the club in Yorkshire where I first started to play the game. My God, these are the moments to enjoy. Peering over the stands I take a look at the crowd, waiting to be entertained under that iconic chandelier in the Beaux-Arts Vanderbilt Hall. I shiver with anticipation.
* * *
I am behind all the way in the first. The pace at which he plays always takes my breath away and requires some getting used to, but I quickly adapt and I recover to take the game 12-10. The backhand length is flowing and I’m not leaving the ball too short, which means that he gets no angles to attack. I play positively to the front court, giving him plenty to think about and me plenty to be positive about. There is little physical damage and the momentum is all mine. Malc is thrilled that I manage to steal the game after an early points deficit. He reinforces to me that containment is key, punctuated with subtle spells of consistent attack. Sounds easy.
And in the second it is. This time I control the game, winning 11-5. It is smooth, it is effortless and, as had been the case all week, it happens without me thinking. The third is the closest and most entertaining of the match, in which he reapplies the pressure, throwing the kitchen sink at me. He plays his shots with style – hurtling around the court with ease – but only wins it 12-10, a huge positive for me. If I can push him so close through his strongest spells it is a great sign. He has to reach this level twice more to win the match, knowing that my resistance shows no sign of waning.
Nevertheless my lungs and legs burn after the second interval. Two minutes is not enough rest and the lactic acid is exacting. Time for an energy gel to give me a boost, perhaps mentally more than physically. I gulp down drinks and steady myself for a big push. Malc raises his voice so that I can hear him over the noise of an inspired New York crowd. He calmly implores me to ‘stick with it, and have faith.’ I notice a camera in my face and hear shouting from the audience as I fret about for towels and drinks.
Before I know it the score stands 6-1 in my favour, a score indicative of a spell of play that I can only describe as ‘dream squash’. I am accurate and he hits the tin. Then comes a difficult spell and I’m remembering that the man I oppose is one of the only players in the world who can hit five winners in a row in the blink of an eye. If he does that now it is 6-6, so I resolve to think about each point in turn, playing as tightly as possible without becoming edgy in attack.
For some strange reason I recall an instance when Chris Walker, the former England international, when 2-0 up against Aussie Rodney Eyles, said in an interview that he committed the ‘cardinal sin’ of thinking about the next round, before winning the match. How this comes in to my head I have no idea, but it does. I decide not to commit this cardinal sin and steer clear of any thoughts of winning. I close the game out 11-4 with a forehand volley. After all the hard work, it takes me a few seconds to accept another major title is finally in my hands. It’s been a long time coming, since 2008 in fact. I almost lose myself right there and then but Ramy is behind me and we shake hands after which I thrust my racket and arms into the air in jubilation. It’s good to hear the crowd respond.
I give the longest speech in the history of tournament speeches, but I make no apology: there are many people I feel compelled to thank, and I don’t get a platform like this in which to do so every day. What is more, half of them are here, which makes it feel like the most precious of all my tournament wins. After all the many disappointments, it is wonderful to enjoy the champagne reception afterwards and at dinner we talk about the people who have doubted (a group in which I probably include myself) and criticised, the people who have said I am too nice to be a winner, or that I can’t win being a vegetarian.
At about 2:30am it is time to leave. On the hotel room bed lie the trophy and the winners’ cheque. Now is the time for proper reflection. I sit on the bed, wondering what on earth I do now. Kit, dirty and clean, lies strewn about. My mind is busy and remnants of adrenalin still surge through my body. There is absolutely no way I will sleep so I settle for this curious, lonely sensation, grateful that I am feeling an emptiness having won and not lost. The post-tournament comedown has fully taken hold; I have a sore throat coming on, an imminent infection which is a result of the intensity I have maintained for several days now. I replay what happened over and over and over. I look at the clock, which says 5:30am. A little later, I finally drop off to sleep, but not for long.
31 January 2010
After opting to stay an extra day in New York we saw West Side Story on Broadway. Interestingly, despite his very macho image, Mick Todd, my manager, is fond of musical theatre. I was brought up on the stuff as a child; my parents took me on regular visits. I developed an obsession for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat by Andrew Lloyd Webber, and since my childhood have probably seen it a dozen times, also playing the part in a school play.
I still have this fascination with the theatre now, and I’m sure that is because I was so exposed to it as a child. Each time I visit New York or London, I try to go. It is unlike film as a form of entertainment; there is a magic at the theatre that is hard to capture in film. Of course, the theatre has camp connotations as a means of entertainment, but I have never been frightened of letting my feminine side in.
If most people tried the theatre or ballet, casting aside any preconceptions, they would like it, or at least appreciate it, if it was thought hip to do so. Mick and I once saw Mamma Mia together in London. Apart from Abba’s music, it was one of the less good musicals we had seen but we sat there with all the middle-aged women. It occurred to me how incongruous this may seem, but it was natural to us. I thought back to my blissful childhood evening at Pontefract Squash Club when I was running riot, and remembered how circumspect my feelings were towards Mick, a grunting man at the bar who drank beer with lots of other men and shouted at little children. He was different to my dad, who was well spoken and encouraged politeness and respect. In essence, Mick and myself, and perhaps my dad, are all very, very different, yet we get on famously.
I talked a lot to Mick about this at a tournament once, when he was accusing me of being overly cynical, and we mentioned our differences. He is confident and positive, I can be shy and negative. He likes pubs and blokes, I like poetry and music. He likes people, I like hotel rooms. There doesn’t seem to be acres of common ground, yet the relationship we have formed recently has become warm, and he is now one of my closest pals.
6 February 2010
Had a dream last night that Vanessa and I had moved house from Leeds to a rundown neighbourhood, an awful place, and there was a cricket ground behind the main street. Malcolm, who couldn’t believe we had moved there, thought we had lost our minds. Vanessa and I went in to the cricket ground where Cameron Pilley, one of the top Aussies on tour, was batting and Amr Shabana, Egypt’s four-time world champion, was bowling. Pilley was hitting Shabana all over the pitch for fours and sixes but in my strange dream he was beating him 12-10, 11-4, so it was a mixture of squash and cricket. I wondered for a minute what Shabana was doing. I wouldn’t have thought he would have even heard of cricket, and they certainly don’t play it in Egypt. It doesn’t strike me as being a game suited to the Egyptian way, and it was no surprise that an Aussie was hitting him all over the ground. No sooner had I thought that than Shabana came off retired hurt.
Not sure what to make of it all but I hoped my dreams of Shabana’s downfall might ring true today as he was my opponent in the semis at the Swedish Open. The court was dead as a doornail, perfect for the shot-player (the ball stays further up the court on a deader court, making good shots even better), so I knew I would have my hands full but I had plenty of confidence in my own ability. As I had envisaged, it was a shoot-out. I saw his ears prick up in the first as the rallies were short and his attack as lethal as ever in propitious conditions for the world’s greatest shot maker. However, I recovered well and played some impressive stuff. The racket was working well and there were no errors. I turned it around to win 3-1, my second win over him in two weeks. I carried the form through from New York and I now face another showdown with England No 1 Nick Matthew, a big rival and fellow Yorkshireman.
Had a chat with Malc at dinner where we broached the subject of his writing. It is an unusual situation for someone to be the foremost writer on squash and having, at the same time, to write about a relation, something that has not always sat comfortably with me I have to admit. I remember one blazing row concerning an issue in Bermuda at the breakfast table, to the horror of onlookers. Poor little James, they probably thought, with his misanthropic grump of a father, but I had my say.
Malc has a distinct way about him, a way by which it is impossible not to be enlightened or interested. If he talks, people listen; when he regales an audience, people are either amused or horrified. He divides opinion, and is sometimes teeth-clenchingly controversial, but he is always, always worth listening to. You either love him or hate him. There is little middle ground; his writing is never watered down. He says things exactly as he sees them and there is so little of this attitude in modern society that it can be fortifying to many, offensive to some.
I love to read his articles; they are informative and interesting, and very well written, but I often struggle when reading pieces he has written about me. I am aware that people think he is biased. Mick and Malcolm have had several heated conversations about this over coffee before training in the mornings. Mick thinks that there is an element of bias and he also speaks from the point of view of many others who think so in the public. I have to say that although I don’t feel particularly comfortable when he writes about me, I have scoured many of his articles and whilst he can write positively about me at times, perhaps it is justified in his eyes. I am, after all, one of the best players in the world. Is it acceptable to ask him to avoid writing about me? I am also the one player who is likely to live up to the standards he most condones, having been raised and influenced by him all my life.
He is very often at the tournaments I play where we work together, and is always coaching me, and therefore will be more inclined to write about my match than what is going on the court next door.
He always comes up with solid answers to any hint of criticisms of his writings.
‘I don’t just praise you. Check my articles, look at what I have said about Shabana in the past. I have written full features saying how great a player he is. I said recently that Ramy was the most outrageous racket player the world has ever seen. If a father was that concerned about preserving his son’s reputation then I wouldn’t say that about one of his closest rivals. I say good things about Gregory Gaultier and Nick, although I have often not liked their disposition on court. So it is not just you I praise, but if I like what you do, then I’ll say so.’
There have always been players Malc has not taken to, which isn’t particularly remarkable because it is a trait of Malc’s to not like people, but it could affect me if I have to play such an opponent. He often gets ideas about people in his mind that stick, and are unchangeable. I lose count of the number of people who come up to me and say, ‘Oh your dad’s not talking to me, has he got a problem with me?’
‘Probably not’, I reply. ‘He doesn’t like many people, so I wouldn’t worry yourself. Just ignore him! Then he might respond.’
He doesn’t feel he has to talk to people and can appear rude to many, which is ironic considering he is hell bent on teaching kids first and foremost good manners and respect. Should he dislike someone, whether justified or not, he won’t go out of his way to talk to them. If he is neither here or there with someone, he still probably won’t talk to them, but if he likes someone, then he is on their side and they won’t be rid of him. I have to say, in many cases, his inclinations towards certain people are sound.
Some have said that to have Malc on your side is to gain two points a game. People seem much inclined to want to please him, such is the respect he commands; I have heard similar said about Brian Clough, and the comparisons are palpable. I often tease him, telling him how, like Clough, he is an eccentric fool. He pretends to hate this accusation but I know he secretly loves it.
To the people close to him though he is witty and bright, and in some respects the picture I have painted in this chapter is not a fair reflection of him. He admits that he has made mistakes, as anyone has, but hopes he may have learned from them. I for one have been given tremendous support by him over the years. He has encouraged, yet never pushed, and always supported me. We get on well now because of this. It makes achievements in New York even sweeter. It’s a wonderful way to thank him for his efforts.
7 February 2010
Play Nick Matthew today in the Swedish Open Final. The billing has received more attention than usual as a reaction to our British Open Final in Manchester last year. The last 16 match in Saudi in December was our first meeting since, and as was alluded to in the pre-match introduction, many of the players turned up to watch; whether that was because they thought there was a decent chance of a fight, or whether it was because they assumed they might see a quality game would have been a subject of conjecture, but in any case it created interest. I have seen press releases of late which anticipate the British National Championships next week, highlighting the fact that our rivalry is ferocious and that the British Open was contentious.
If people sit up and listen because of the controversy then perhaps it can only be good for the game. Not every player gets along with every other and the press in squash circles, as good as they are, have tried in the past to hide any differences players harbour in order to preserve a clean image. Very little in modern life has a clean image nowadays, and certainly not if it wants to get noticed. Nothing and no one is perfect and exempt from the proverbial gutter, and the last thing the press at large want to put in their papers is how nice everyone is.
Publicity more often than not grows from seeds of controversy and negativity. Unfortunately if celebrity couples are happy and enjoying life, they will stand to receive less attention. Should such couples be in the midst of a divorce settlement, and at loggerheads, then ears will bleed as the story repeats itself incessantly in the many worldwide publications that are shoved in to our faces.
‘People are never more interested in you than when you are up against the wall.’
The British Open final wasn’t a high point. Losing was awful, like it always is, but I made it clear I was unhappy with Nick that night, and so at the time much was made of it. Nick and I have always been different animals and this manifests itself no more than on the court. His attitude that evening was unacceptable to me and I have never been the type of player to go for the ‘what goes on court stays on court’ theme.
The line of thought where players do and say what they like on court, only to be normal and friendly off it afterwards, is something to which I can’t subscribe. There has to be one standard, one which is fair and respectful, but which doesn’t compromise a player’s aggression and competitiveness. People don’t need to swear and shout at each other and start blocking and cheating in order to show passion.
It doesn’t mean sacrificing toughness or manliness. It doesn’t mean not contesting a decision with a referee. It doesn’t mean not taking space on a shot when there is an open court (different to blocking). It doesn’t mean being bland and dispassionate, and it doesn‘t mean not questioning an opponent’s pick-ups. All of this is very much part of each individual player’s personality; as long as a certain level of respect is retained, each player can give off their own signals in any way they please.
If a player is insistent on being pretentious and vicious on court, then I would rather keep to those same principles off it.
People have accused me of being too far on the other extreme, and some have frequently called me too nice. Perhaps they are trying to say that nice people don’t get anywhere in life.
Whether it is a good or bad thing, in the immediate aftermath it doesn’t feel natural to me to respond as if everything is normal off the court with a person who has treated me with disdain and arrogance on it.
I’m afraid it makes it worse still when a player shows disrespect to his opponent in a big match only to speak highly of them in press interviews and speeches afterwards. This amounts to insincerity. If players want to act so belligerently then so be it, but let’s keep a distance from each other and not pretend afterwards.
A similar but less disconcerting incident played out with Frenchman Gregory Gaultier a few years back at the US Open, when I had beaten him in an acrimonious match where he accused me of blocking. For a time after I didn’t want anything to do with him and he wondered why. As with Nick, and to be fair we have had few problems since, as time passes relations repair because we spend every other week with each other.
There was nothing that the audience would have deemed abhorrent in Manchester. There were no head butts in the warm-up or anything like that; it was more to do with the comments during the most contentious stages which bothered me. I’m not a sledger and I think it’s fairly low, but I would rather be sledged at constantly throughout the match, rather than at specific stages. I can set my watch by certain players and their rants, and they creep in when I gain the ascendancy or retain parity.
Nevertheless, like it or not, my annoyance came over in the press interviews, and why shouldn’t it? It’s how I felt about the match. I glanced over the coverage the following day and found nothing of the comments anywhere. I discovered later that they thought it had been a heat of the moment thing and they didn’t want to print words that later I might regret.
The press seem to be intent on preserving a clean cut image, when it really doesn’t do us much good. After concentrating on projecting a clean image for so long, we are further away from getting Olympic recognition than ever and the media are barely interested, so this seemed the perfect opportunity to run with it: two rivals from the same county whose relationship is now caustic. It appeared to be a solid chance to court controversy and attention.
Football, the highest profile game of all, is governed by bad behaviour, fall-outs and corruption. There is certainly no outward intention for the ugly game to retain any sort of clean image, yet does it do the sport any harm?
Rod Gilmour, writing for The Telegraph, did publish what I said in the interview alongside Nick’s comments. My dad also had his say of course, and he piled in to Nick in his article for SquashSite. I couldn’t help but agree with him on this occasion.
I went to Cairo the following Friday in pieces, mentally and physically. My body was achy and crooked, my feet blistered, and I had no inclination to play squash. I was desperately disappointed to lose another British Open having had match balls.
The trip will not go down on my list of highlights as a squash player. I had no will to practice or exercise, and even less to communicate.
Perhaps I should say a word about the squash in that British Open final, though, which was excellent. It was the first all-English final for 70 years, in a tournament previously seen as the de facto world championships before the World Open first surfaced in the late Seventies. It was a sell-out and the atmosphere was electric. We played for two hours and two minutes, well over the average time for a PSA world tour match (it is worth also noting that the men and women’s tours now play point-a-rally to 11). By the end of it I had lost my second British Open final in succession. I was so, so close but eventually succumbed 8-11, 11-8, 7-11, 11-3, 12-10.
Nick said he didn’t play well, I thought I played out of my skin. It was desperately tough, two players not ready to give an inch. I have enormous respect for Nick’s squash and his dedication to what he does. The match itself was brutal; I didn’t recover for weeks, and if it had all been about that it would have been a monumental occasion for both of us. Unfortunately it was memorable for the wrong reasons.
In Cairo it appeared that word had got around; people asked how I was, and they asked what all the problems were about. I had calls from my brother David, and as part of the England national coaching team he asked how we could resolve this problem before the World Team Championships, due to start in a matter of days.
‘I don’t know. I’ll get on with it, and so will he. We aren’t going to be walking around holding hands.’ I didn’t know what else to say. ‘We play as individuals, and we’ll be fine. I won’t sit in a corner on my own; I’ll join in with the team when appropriate, and as much as I usually do.’
On my return from Cairo I took a call from David Pearson, national coach, who was trying to build bridges in time for the event. The funding that squash receives is very much influenced by performances at the world teams and so he was keen to rectify the problems. I told him my thoughts. He asked me what the next step was. Should we fix a meeting? I said no, and that we would both be professional and civil in Denmark. A few days later Nick called me. It was a staggered conversation, and neither of us wanted to give much. He certainly wasn’t going to say he was out of line, but rather his aim was to settle things before the event. It felt as if it had been encouraged by the coaches.
We bumbled through the world teams, but Nick got badly injured, dealing a major blow to our hopes. Of course, because we came fourth it was crisis time from every angle, everyone thinking we had no team spirit and that we were lacklustre and didn’t get behind each other. Alister Walker and Adrian Grant were also on frosty terms at that point, which added fuel to the fire. All in all the World Teams was a disaster. We finished fourth and the quicker we could get home the better.
8 February 2010
I had to retire injured against Nick, at 2-0 down. Conceding the final of one of Europe’s biggest events, one that is brilliantly organised, massively supported and transmitted live on Swedish TV, is not funny. I know it is not my fault, but I feel that I have let people down. I slept for one hour.
Back in Leeds early, I have been booked in with Alison Rose, my trusty injury-busting physio, and the race to be fit for the British National Championships is on. She has a day and a half.
I first met Ali at the English Institute of Sport (EIS) in Sheffield in 2003. Strong-minded and confident in her knowledge, she was at the time working as a multi-sport physio there, and I aligned myself with her immediately. I have seen many physios during my career; some good, some excellent and some useless.
I immediately took to Alison’s ‘hands on’ methods. It was clear that her commitment and conviction carried through to each of her patients. Unlike many physios that I had come into contact with during my time, short cuts were out of the question. Some physios would make it their prerogative to see as many patients as possible within the hour, offering a diluted service. Some, when they had run out of ideas, would panic and wire patients up to an ultrasound machine hoping for results. Alison has never given me anything but her full attention.
Alison often administers painful massage to her patients, and I can attest to having been in considerable pain during her sessions, to the point where I’ve drawn blood on my arm from biting it so hard. I have often exclaimed that I can see a dark smile on her face in reaction to my agitated vociferations, as she relentlessly ploughs her elbow into my hip.
Early on I found that my body responded to Alison’s work and we soon had a routine. We were in the business of injury prevention rather than cure, and I was soon seeing her every week when at home. Even at a relatively young age, I was knowledgeable with regard to caring for the body, and how much treatment and attention I would need to give it.
I had worked with Damon Leedale Brown since I was 16 (he was then head strength and conditioning coach for England Squash), and his knowledge of the science of training for squash had been drip-fed to me over the years. If I do continue to lead a healthy life playing this sport for much longer, then Damon and Alison, and latterly Mark Campbell, together with EIS and England Squash and Racketball physios Jade Elias and Phil Newton, are the people to whom I would owe the greatest debt. The accumulation of time spent with these five people – conversing, receiving treatments from, and asking questions of them – would be impossible to quantify. Their impact on my squash career has been immense.
I realised as a young man that if I were to succeed, being so big – at 6’ 4’’ I am the tallest on tour – and heavy and with the body shape I had been given, then the training would need to be specific, smart and tough. I also figured that reaching and maintaining fitness at world-class levels would be no easy feat with my physical constitution, as dictated by Mother Nature.
Alison may sound quite barbarous, but there is far more to her than brute force. She constantly endeavours to move on in her field; she has a scrupulous tendency to learn and not get left behind, regularly giving up paid work and, at considerable expense to herself, doing some course or other at the opposite end of the country. The word stagnant could never apply. She regularly takes on new techniques and ideas and if ever she feels that someone is better able to help a patient, she will say so. This mindset is highly unusual in any coach, physio or player – protected egos are common in sport – but she is happy to delegate where necessary.
In fact this trait is absolutely necessary within any successful operation. Consider Clive Woodward’s England rugby team of 2003, who diligently grafted and researched their way to World Cup victory. Woodward had every base covered during that tournament, prudently thinking that he was ill-equipped to lead every detail himself. He even flew over a team chef. How I would love that!
Squash is entirely different, and it isn’t financially viable to be taking chefs everywhere, but I endlessly endeavour to utilise advice from many solid sources, and have gathered a team of people who offer different influences around me. There are six or seven who are always there for me, who are experts in their fields, and because of this support I give myself a solid chance of becoming the best. At the EIS in Sheffield one of many quotes on the walls reads: ‘It’s amazing just what can be achieved when nobody cares who takes the glory’.
As a child Malc ran everything to do with my squash. I was coached by him and guided by him, but in a healthy way. He realised that hitting the squash ball was his area of expertise, but he knew that up to date training methods, or nutrition perhaps weren’t. He steadily relinquished his role as I grew older, not easy for any coach at first, and why should it be when they nurture and are successful with a player, only to see university graduates in the form of sports scientists and psychologists, with far less background in squash, come along and share the limelight? I can see why coaches might feel threatened and cynical, and I have done myself, but the least you can do is listen.
Malc, as I did, learned for himself, and he saw that other coaches, other people, could help in different ways. I have always worked with my brother David, whose training is juxtaposed perfectly against Malcolm’s work with me. It is reckless for any sportsman or woman to close themselves off to everything and to feel they know all they need to. It is quite staggering how much I have learnt and continue to learn about making myself the best possible player.
Alison asks me about my problems.
‘What have you been doing now?’ she said, half bantering.
‘Where do you want me to start? First game in yesterday’s final I lunged heavily for a low ball, and my rib muscle stung and really hurt. That seemed to subside and then I cramped in my shoulder. I took some massage at the interval and then that was OK. In the second game my inner thigh started to seize. Basically, “complete breakdown” are the words which spring to mind.’
She did all her tests on me, while I remained taciturn. All the while I’m hoping the situation is retrievable. I love the British Nationals, it’s a big event and I’d be devastated not to make it.
Alison worked with me for two hours that day, and in the meantime I applied my focus to the rehab exercises, on mats, bored through my teeth but also hopeful of their impact. I ploughed through the exercises over and over, firing up the weakened muscles. ‘Little and often’, she had said. I even got into bed in the evening, and then told Vanessa I needed to do some more, at which she laughed. I didn’t care how silly this was, though; if it would enable me to walk on to the court at the weekend in Manchester I would do the exercises all night long.
Alison had thought a pilates session would do me no harm, and since they were running one at the clinic I gladly took part. She was happy with the progress we had made in little more than 24 hours. I had been out of sync yesterday; bones were tilted in my upper body, causing much stress lower down, explaining why the adductor faltered, all no doubt related to the volume of matchplay and travel of late.
Injuries are an athlete’s worst nightmare. I will go to any lengths not to get injured, often manically concentrating on stability and core work (rehab exercises) far more incessantly than is normally required, but if it allows me to enter the squash court fit and healthy I will do what the situation prescribes. A period of injury is so entirely depressing that it makes losing feel like a night out with best friends.
People take the piss out of me for the amount of work I do off court – my warm-ups can be longer than my matches – because my paranoia does stretch to outlandish extremes at times, but I won’t be worrying about that. In this age of information, there is much an athlete can do to avoid injuries, within his or her training structure, and through the funding programme in England we have spent time learning about this side of the game.
I clearly remember my England compatriot Peter Barker being asked in an interview if he thought he had been fortunate to have, up until that time, escaped serious injuries; his sagacious response was: ‘No, I don’t think I have been necessarily lucky. The type of training I have done has allowed me, to some extent, to not get injured’. He was right: his training had been smart, and therefore his reward was a sound body. Of course, some injuries can’t be avoided however hard an athlete works and, unhappily, injuries manifest themselves through sheer bad luck. The good thing is that, being born in to an age of relative knowledge (compared to say the 1970s) gives today’s athlete advantages, from which they can do all in their power to maintain a fit, healthy and injury-free body.
In time, no doubt, we will learn even more, to the point where the knowledge we have today will seem archaic. Soon there will be iPods that do the physiotherapy for you.
13 February 2010
Over the last three days I have been concerning myself with rehab, the very dull phenomenon where one sits about in gyms and on mats doing strange exercises repeatedly in an attempt to quash the effects of an injury, and receiving treatment from Jade, our EIS physio on-site in Manchester. How I need her help now; the work she puts in for the England squash team is unfaltering. After the matches I have been enduring painful massages from Sylvan Richardson, a good friend and excellent massage therapist who works with Olympic cyclist Chris Hoy and Liverpool FC. He is the musical director of the pop band I play in, Lost For Words and a former guitarist for Simply Red.
I played Daryl Selby, my in-form England team-mate, and controlled the match fluently and accurately to win 3-1 after a tough first game. So the work has been done, and I have neatly avoided any recurrence of recent issues through my diligence off the court this week. I can do little else now but play in the final tomorrow against Nick yet again, but all I think about is the dire horror of last Sunday when I conceded in Sweden, which sends waves of self doubt and unrest within the walls of my gut. What if it happens again? People travel from miles around to watch this event and if I fall prematurely through injury (again) just think of the disappointment I will cause.
In fact these thoughts penetrate my mind so wildly that I have to stop myself by sweeping them out, replacing them with positive phrases aloud to counteract the negativity.
‘It will be fine, your body is strong, Alison and Jade are convinced nothing is wrong. Think of all the work you have given your body, which will today enable you to stay strong and not break down. And if something does go wrong, then it is not your fault; you have done everything in your power to be fit.’
I am talking to myself again. In the words of Freddie Mercury: ‘I’m going slightly mad.’
So I am consumed more by whether my body will maintain itself through a ravaging physical onslaught from Nick than the result or the squash, and I am drained by it. Just to be able to play is the only important thing and I haven’t given the slightest thought to anything tactical; the times back in September where the body and mind were fresh after a summer of training, unclogged by endless bouts of matches, when I lived, ate and breathed the game, are over for now. Any time off court is either spent rehabbing or forgetting completely about squash.