Dan Reeves

It was an ordinary summers day in the middle of a six-week holiday. I'd read a couple of chapters of some book or another, cooked myself a sausage sandwich and now I was off out to play Dan Reeves at squash. Little did I know that this would be my last time on a squash court, perhaps ever. A few days earlier Reeves had beaten me by the embarrassing scoreline of nine games to nil. His unfair playing of other opponents in preparation of our match meant that my playing partner who was fairly equal in a talent to me had accelerated far beyond my feeble skill level. I seethed as I walked sweatily from the court. His puppyish bounding excitement infuriated me and when he rubbed my nostrils in the pungent stench of his victory by phoning someone to boast my temper boiled over and I emptied my water bottle into his groinal region. The leisure centre manager walked in seconds later and I had to explain that I had been beaten by the gangly wet one and apologise for causing a dangerous dampness to the floor.

This game would not be a repeat of the former embarrassment: I had a teeth-clenching determination that his superior skill would struggle to overcome my tireless determination. The match started well enough. I won a game, which already meant that I had done better than the recent encounter, and then I had lost a game. The scores stood even as we entered game three at one game apiece - we proceeded to match in this game and the score stood at 3-3. My hand was dripping with sweat and my desire for victory in a sporting arena had rarely been higher as drew my racket sharply back to send a backhand crashing into the wall. As my racket went back I knew I made contact with more than just air, but I completed my shot to ensure that the point was won.

I turned to find Reeves having some kind of fit on the floor. I was pretty scared as he gyrated like gerbil who'd stumbled into an electric fence. He finally lay still and started to groan and I saw that blood was pouring from his nose. I went to grab him some tissues (and my camera - this moment needed recording) and returned. Once I made sure he wasn't going to spasm again and had taken a quick photo I went to get help. The manager came to our assistance and I couldn't resist the wisecrack, "He was beating me again" even though this wasn't actually true - I had just taken the lead. The floor was mopped up and Reeves seen to and I picked up my racket ready to resume, but reluctant Reeves resigned from the match and handed me a hollow (although I grabbed it with both hands) victory.

It turned out I had hit him so hard that I'd collapsed the middle bit of his nose - the septal cartilage (the bit that separates the two nostrils). It was now lying in one of his nostrils and stopping oxygen flow; he had to have surgery to have it reconstructed and take quite a bit of time off work. We both agreed that whilst this was inconvenient, at least it made a good story to tell and here it is: told. What was he doing so close to me anyway?