The Squash Match.

‘The young guy’s a far better player,’ the barman said, his opinion seemingly based on a single rally as he collected glasses from the shelf of the large window overlooking the squash court, ‘but the other bloke wants it more.’ It may have been the snap judgment to end all snap judgments, but I suspected he’d seen both men play before and had an eye for talent. I didn’t contest his opinion, focusing on the fair-haired Adonis as he moved with an easy grace around the court. His opponent, the man I’d arranged to meet, was shorter in stature, dark where the other man was fair and, crucially, at least ten years older than his opponent.

His whole presence sent out a signal that he was a man entirely at ease with himself. Average height, smartly dressed in plain white shirt and shorts, everything about him suggested the air of a man who played to his strengths and had worked hard to eliminate any weaknesses. He moved with an easy grace, covering the court quickly without any hint of strain and yet managing to be in exactly the right place to return his opponent’s shot. The other man was at least ten years younger, deeply tanned, a great shock of fair hair and an air of confidence that had appeared invincible when the match had begun as he hit a succession of booming forehands, gliding around the court with athletic ease.

My attention wandered as I ran over my plans for the meeting. I’d never possessed the ability of contemporaneous activity. One thing at a time.

When I returned to the window I could immediately see how the game had taken a different tack. The dark haired man was clearly in the ascendancy. Shrewd shot placement ensured that his younger opponent was doing all the running. Each rally was prolonged, but it was the younger man who was working hard. The man I’d come to meet was practically strolling around the court, nothing flashy just concentrating on dominating that crucial central area.

Forehand followed by backhand, a line drive close to the wall sending his opponent dashing to the rear of the court, followed by a dink to the front wall, it was a master-class in control.

I could clearly see occasions when a winning shot was available, but the opportunity deliberately passed over in favour of drawing the sting from the opponent. It was clever play, this deliberate and calculated concentration on the outcome of the match as a whole, even if it involved the forfeiture of the odd minor victory along the way.

I watched with increasing fascination as the younger man began to falter. Lactic acid build-up in his legs made him falter and stumble and on one occasion stop dead in his tracks as the ball passed by no more than a yard from his rooted stance. Eventually, his legs refused to obey the commands from his brain, even his racket must have felt as heavy as lead as he could barely summon enough strength to return serve.

The points rolled by until the match ceased to be a contest and became a rout. The younger man could barely raise his racket before his opponent’s returns zipped past him or landed that tantalising fraction of an inch out of his reach. I was reminded of a great cat toying with its prey, a graphic demonstration of absolute superiority that bordered on cruelty.

The match was effectively over and surely both men on the court knew it too.

I walked back to the bar, ordered another drink, took a seat with a view of the stairs leading from the changing rooms.

When they arrived I allowed them time to have a welcome drink, chat briefly and then shake hands, the younger man noticeably subdued and making only a token attempt at conversation. As he left, his conqueror moved across and sat down opposite me. He shook hands, a firm dry grip, a man confident of his own ability.

‘I saw you watching,’ he said.

I nodded, sipped my drink.

‘I like to win.’  His voice was a deep baritone, rich and resonant. He looked at me, eyes that demanded everything and revealed nothing.

‘So I noticed. I felt sorry for your opponent by the end.’

‘Why?’ His surprise appeared genuine. ‘Why?’ His surprise appeared genuine. ‘He had the same chances as me, but he didn’t have the same will to succeed, That is his fault, not mine, but not something for which either of us should feel regret.’

I nodded, building on my initial impressions before committing myself to the purpose of the meeting.

This man projected solidity and an overwhelming air of confidence. He would be ruthless, I’d seen that at first hand on the squash court, but he wouldn’t have risen to his management level without that.

‘Are we going to do business?’ His question hung in the air. I glanced around before replying; there was no-one else within earshot, two young women in sweat-soaked sportswear were chatting away in a corner booth, but otherwise we were alone.

‘I hope so,’ I said, ‘that’s the plan.’

He smiled. ‘I’m assuming you have the necessary finance in place?’ His question was rhetorical – I wouldn’t be here unless I had the means to do the deal.

‘Of course. Cash on the nail.’

He smiled again. This was a cash business, credit terms were never offered. Ten minutes later we shook hands. Three keys of smack at a rate I judged to be fair. Negotiation had been tough, but both parties appeared satisfied with the outcome. It wasn’t my money at stake, but I still had to account for every penny. The dealer’s bosses demanded rather more from his negotiation skills, his health, even his life, was at risk if the deal went wrong. The men who control the sale of class A drugs aren’t known for their easy-going natures. This was the first step towards building a relationship. I needed to take a step further, engage with the men who imported the drugs, but that was for another time. This man would have to vouch for me if I hoped to go higher. I’d taken the first step on the ladder today.