The Ref’s Chair: or, The Vector of Competing Values in Interscholastic Squash (Part 1)
There
has been much discussion in the wake of the men’s team nationals about
the values of intercollegiate squash and the state of the game as it is
played in that milieu. Statements by the College Squash
Association and U.S. Squash, along with assorted other postings on this
and other websites, are testaments to the passion surrounding this
conversation. Underlying all of those decrees and
disclaimers lies one fundamental question: what values do we want
our sport, and those who compete in it, to demonstrate? What are
the best mechanisms to inculcate those values? What, if anything,
should be done in instances of conduct that strays from that shared
value system?
This
past February, at venues not too far removed (geographically) from the
site of the CSA Championships, among contestants not too far removed
(chronologically) from the young men of Rochester and Yale, I glimpsed
two other scenes that dramatized the vector of competing values.
And both situations took place around one of the most challenging
locations in our sport: the ref’s chair.
(Note:
For the sake of simplicity, I will intentionally conflate the roles of
marker and referee, knowing full well that in principle these are
distinct but complementary tasks. My conflation actually echoes common
practice in interscholastic squash, where the roles tend to be more
fluid. [That lack of clarity could be the focus of a whole different
column, but we will leave that thorny question for another day.])
The
first situation was one of the strangest scenes I have encountered in
fifteen years’ affiliation with high school squash.
The
context was straightforward: the number one contest within an
interscholastic squash match between two New England prep school teams,
henceforth referred to as Tigers and Bears. The stakes were
small, as the overall match status was a foregone conclusion – the
Tigers were in the process of securing a 6-1 win. Nor would this match
affect the prospects of either the individual competitors or the two
teams, whose end-of-season tournament categorization had already taken
place. (NEISA sorts teams into three divisions for the
end-of-season tournament.) But the subtexts for that three-word
utterance were multiple and, at a time in which “values” are coming
into focus throughout the ranks of amateur squash, much more meaningful
than a single refereeing decision.
The
conversation between player and referee related to an unusual
call. The Tiger had played a half-volley boast on his forehand
side, resulting in a neatly placed nick in the front left part of the
court and thus, apparently, earning him the point. But the Bear
in the ref’s chair had seen an extra bounce, apparently believing that
ball had headed downward off of the player’s racquet before beginning
its progression toward the side wall.
The
Tiger, unsatisfied with a decision by the boys officiating his match,
had opened the door of the court for unimpeded
communication.
“The
ball bounced,” explained the Bear in the ref’s chair, who then looked
to his left for confirmation from the Tiger who had recently toppled
him. (Opponents officiate together in interscholastic squash,
either before or after they have played each other.) His
officiating partner shrugged, with no clear-cut view of the path of the
ball before and after striking.
Part
of the problem here was terminology. The ref demonstrated fluency
in English but lack of familiarity with the terminology of the sport.
He should have said “down” in order to clarify the nature of the bounce
he had seen (i.e. after the ball had been struck).
The
Tiger, who displayed a competent but not advanced grasp of spoken
English, attempted to argue his own perspective. “So what if ball
bounce,” he insisted, apparently assuming that the officials had seen
the ball as “not up” and reminding the officiating team that he was in
fact allowed, under the rules of the sport, to hit the ball after it
had bounced once.
“Teach
me squash,” said the young Egyptian, who towered, physically and
reputationally, over the American youth who had rendered the
decision. “Teach me squash.”
But
the miscommunication ran much deeper than simple questions of physical
fact or technical language of the sport. Because the whole
encounter meant something different to all parties. For the ref
and marker, as well as for the Bear waiting on court this whole time,
pleased for a chance to catch his breath and forestall his eventual
defeat, this was a sporting pursuit akin to so many other prep school
contests waged that Wednesday afternoon. (In an archaic but
effective bit of logistics, New England prep schools generally compete
on Wednesdays and Saturdays after shortened class days, so as to avoid
missing school for sports.) These individuals, as capable and
committed as they might have been, were amateurs who approached the
match as we coaches ask our teams and players to do: as a chance
to work hard on behalf of our teams and our schools. They used the
sport, in other words, as a means to demonstrate the things the really
matter: sportsmanship, perseverance, loyalty, etc.
This
approach is part and parcel of the ethos of interscholastic
sports. The same values that are said to have propelled the
English officers’ victory at Waterloo and professed, and pursued, in
sporting realms where the individual contests are simply smaller battle
fields.
But
the Egyptian player, halfway through a one-year stint at boarding
school that he had used as a springboard to admission to a U.S. college
– he will play in the top three at Franklin & Marshall, according
to his coach – did not approach this match, or the sport more
generally, from that amateur’s perspective. As his coach shared
with me, he has a “tournament” mindset, meaning that practices and
interscholastic matches are merely incidental to what he sees as his
primary purpose: to establish himself among the top ranks of
juniors in this country. Viewed through that lens, any
individual match is valuable only insofar as it helps him to improve
his skillset or standing. And this clash did not qualify in
either aspect.
Failing
in his tauntingly worded appeal – “teach me squash” is not likely to
invoke sympathetic officiating at any level – the Tiger threw the rest
of that game and the next that followed, making half-hearted swipes at
the ball and regarding anything longer than a one-shot rally to be
beyond his level of expenditure that day. Going into game five,
and hearing sufficient exhortation from his teammates, along with
quietly delivered words from his coach, the Tiger summoned enough
energy to finish off his opponent and finalize the team match.
And the boys who had been tasked with officiating this mess of a match
gladly vacated their chairs and delivered the scoresheet to the host
coach, who dutifully noted the scores on a nearby whiteboard and, later
on, entered the results into the U.S. Squash database.
Anybody
reading the score line would have assumed that the Bear had played the
match of his life, or that the Tiger had been battling illness or
injury. What happened, of course, was that the values of one
player failed to align with those of his opponent, his ref and maker,
his own and the opposing coach, and the small but curious crowd of
spectators. And the competitors charged with adjudicating this contest
had been caught in the void of misaligned values.
One
decision, two versions of the point played, and a whole array of
assumptions and goals on the part of everyone involved: sometimes
we invite our developing players to adjudicate much more than the
simple “facts” of their match.
