"Within the Dutch squash I guess I'm famous," she said, sitting in the stands on a day off. "But that's obviously a very small community."
Only a couple dozen players earn annual money in the six-figure range, according to tour organizers. The top prize at this tournament was $10,000 for the men, $6,500 for the women, and it's among the richest events going. Ten grand, for comparison's sake, is less than what tennis players at the U.S. Open pocket when they lose in the first round. (The winner gets $1 million.)
Thierry Lincou, right, whups David Palmer at the Bear Stearns Tournament of Champions in Grand Central Station.
(Cary Conover For The Washington Post)
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The difference is that in the '70s tennis shook off its aura of sweater-vest hauteur, became middle-class recreation and wound up with a huge audience for televised tournaments. That never happened to squash and hardly anyone thinks it will. Among the many impediments: The game simply doesn't translate on the small screen. Up close and in person, a great squash match looks like a series of athletic miracles, one after another, but television flattens it all out. Nobody seems to be moving very fast, perspective vanishes, and the ball is so small it's sometimes hard to spot. It doesn't help that not a single U.S. player can compete with the best in the world. The highest ranked guy in the United States is Christopher Gordon, No. 94 in the world.
There was one guy at the tournament last week who said he felt famous: Jahangir Khan. Retired in 1993 and attending as a spectator, Khan is arguably the greatest player in history. He put together an unimaginable winning streak of more than 500 matches in the '80s. In his native Pakistan, he was named "Sportsman of the Millennium." Pakistanis still stop him on the street for autographs.
"I was on a postage stamp," he said during a lull in play last Thursday. "I can't say much more than that."
Grand Central, as it happens, isn't the easiest place to hold a squash tournament. In previous years, play has been interrupted by intercom announcements, barking dogs and high-pitched squeaks of indeterminate origin. This year, one player who was about to serve stopped when he heard a grinding noise close by.
"What is that?" asked an Australian named David Palmer.
"I think it's the trash being collected," answered the referee.
Play on. Those interruptions are pretty rare, and anyway hubbub is part of the point here. Between matches, a rock-and-jazz combo blasted live music, returning time and again to Hendrix's "Purple Haze" when the players took to the court to warm up.
Historically, one player has dominated the sport for years at a time, but the latest king, Peter Nichol of England, who's had a good six-year run, appears to be at the end of his reign. The 31-year-old lost last week in the quarterfinals to a guy named Anthony Ricketts, who will soon turn 25. He's a lanky Australian who plays in what looks like homicidal rage. The object of his wrath is invariably the referees, two of whom oversee each match, and he made a point of insulting or ridiculing them early and often.
"Thanks for joining us," he scoffed after one ref took an extra moment to announce the score.
This makes about as much sense as a lawyer mooning a judge during an opening statement, but hostility seems to sharpen Ricketts's game. During his match against Nichol, he was warned for what is diplomatically called "dissent," which translates roughly to "mouthing off." That merely added revenge to the list of reasons he wanted to win.
Ricketts wasn't the only player with anger management issues last week. Rebecca McCree, an intimidating Brit with a swooping backhand, made a series of gestures at the refs that looked like they must be obscene somewhere. John Power, a Canadian who resembles Rutger Hauer in surly mode, kicked his chair into a couple pieces after he lost a game. Even Botwright had an outburst. She flung her racquet into the stands after she lost her match, startling ticket holders in the back row.
None of this seemed to bother hard-core fans, who worry mostly that squash has been tagged as a genteel game for polite people. Which is what it occasionally is. In the inevitable showdown between Lincou and Ricketts, the fireworks were limited to the play, which went on for 90 grinding and spectacular minutes. Ricketts prevailed, then somewhat sheepishly apologized to the refs during the award ceremony. Lincou graciously complimented Ricketts's performance. He seemed to already have his head in the next tournament, which is in Kuwait later this month.
"I hope to come back next year and maybe win," Lincou said.
A crowd that skewed heavily toward hedge-fund managers and bond traders stood and applauded. Even though there weren't any tantrums, and, blessedly, neither player showed up in a thong.
