Trainswatting

I was able to dig up the article I did many moons ago for a now-defunct paper on the squash tournament that goes down in Grand Central in about an hour. The article was published four years ago, but I was struck by how it presaged this very blog in a number of ways.

For one, the title of the article was “Trainswatting.”

For another, I spent a large chunk of the piece railing against an inconsiderate user of cellphones:

Nicol takes the first game 15-10, and the crowd hustles to the makeshift Guinness bar for more booze. The drunk behind me fails to return; as game two begins, his seat is occupied by the Biggest Jackass in the World.

“Hey Dad!” the Jackass yells into his cell phone, completely oblivious to the fact that no one else is talking above a whisper, much less shouting into their cell phone. “Here’s something you’d enjoy…I’m watching PROFESSIONAL SQUASH. At GRAND CENTRAL STATION!”

People shoot glares his way, but the BJITW is oblivious. Seconds later, he’s on the Motorola again.

“Hey baby,” he coos. “Guess where I am…watching a PROFESSIONAL SQUASH MATCH at GRAND CENTRAL STATION!”

Nicol goes on a run and is up 9-5, as the Jackass tells his squeeze about his job interview, something about “swapping an option on a currency.” Unhappy with another call, Nicol glares at the ref and then, to the delight of the crowd, puts a hand on the court’s door, as if threatening to step outside and throttle the judge.

Jackass dials again.

“Yo. I’m watching squash in GRAND CENTRAL STATION,” he says. “It’s awesome. Hold on a second…Hello?”

Cell phone call-waiting. I had no idea. [Editor's Note: Gimme a break, it was 2004.]

“Grand Central Station,” he says as the circle of perturbed people around him grows. “Watching a squash tournament. A PROFESSIONAL SQUASH TOURNAMENT.”

Finally, a neighbor leans over and, with stunning diplomacy, tells the clod to can it.

“Oh! I didn’t know!” he bellows. “Just like golf!”

The Jackass then clomps heavily down the aluminum stairs, before an usher stops him and instructs him to wait until the point is over.

The tournament final was a pretty good one, with #3 world ranked Englishman Peter Nicol facing off against #2 ranked Aussie John White. Never having seen squash outside of a salad bar before, I was struck by how big a role the players slamming into each other plays; as they’re lunging at full speed in a small box, a referee is constantly called on to determine right of way and award the point to the one he deems to be the non-offender, or call for a do-over (known in squash circles as a “let.”)

Nicol took the final, then told me about his plans to sample a little nightlife.

“I live in London, but New York’s just too fast, too busy, too many people,” he says. “Now I love it. It’s an intimate space, but it’s full, and it’s a good crowd to play for.”

He says he’ll celebrate the win – which includes a crystal cup and about $6,800 – over cocktails and jazz at Birdland. “Just a few friends,” he says. “Have some food, a few drinks, stay up until dawn.”