I play squash. I obsess about it. I train.
I play. I wake up mornings and play till its time to go to work. I spend money
on court fees, racquets and gear. Money which should rightfully be spent on
more productive things or earn a sensible interest in a bank account. I have no
idea why I do this. I am not particularly good at it. I am not quick enough on
my feet,my head isn’t still and my reflexes are slow.
And I think its okay.
I do it cos I enjoy it. I enjoy learning
about it. On days I can’t find a partner, I go and knock the ball on the wall.
On good days, the ball will fly sweetly off my racquet armed with a pace and a
direction I don’t remember giving it. I like working at it and getting better,
bit by bit. It’s a better other people don’t see. I do and that’s enough. It’s
not a better nearly enough but the fact that I it is better wakes me up on cold
mornings.
Some day I’ll play with the gift so many
people seem to have – moving with languid ease and have the ball sing off my
racquet. That day is seven years away, give or take a day.
And that’s okay.
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