|
By Alan Thatcher
Contributing Editor
This meeting of Hoarders’ Anonymous is called to order.
OK. I’ll go first. My name is Alan and I am a hoarder. There, I admit it. I stand before you all today and own up to this condition. And I need help.
Like all first-timers when they confront such a condition, I don’t believe I’m a chronic case. However, those closest to me might beg to differ. I have received considerable help and counselling from my wife, who loves to drag me in front of the TV to watch those cheesey life make-over programmes.
You know the ones, where they put the entire contents of your home in the back yard and tell you how much trash it all is and only essential items are allowed back inside. They want you to realise how much useless baggage we hang on to and how much it clogs up our lives.
I must admit, the treatment is working and I enjoy that cathartic feeling of taking a carload of rubbish up to the neighbourhood recycling plant and getting rid of it.
However, I still know I have a major weakness, and that is my lifetime’s collection of squash rackets, bags, T-shirts, magazines, programmes, polo shirts, and crusty old jockstraps that are clearly a health hazard should I ever try to pull them on in close proximity of any delicate part of my anatomy. For every item of current playing equipment in my squash bag, I have at least a dozen counterparts, of varying vintages, stashed away in the loft or the garage.
As a newspaper sports journalist, I have moved around the south of England on numerous occasions as I have changed jobs, uprooting the family from Sussex to Hampshire, up to Essex and finally back south of the river (Thames) to Kent.
 It’s funny how so many of the old rackets and various items of clothing have managed to survive the upheaval of the Big Clear-Out that always precedes the Big House Move.
Somehow I have managed to hide them from She Who Sorted Out My Wardrobe While I Was In Aberdeen At The British Open In 1999 And Threw Away The Souvenir T-Shirt From The 1986 World Open In Toulouse Where Ross Norman Ended Jahangir Khan’s 550-Match Unbeaten Run.
Women just don’t understand the emotional attachment men have for this stuff. Not that I harbour grudges. Oh no. But when one of your favourite collectors' items goes missing it makes you adopt Machiavellian techniques to avoid your old rackets and other favourite if yellowing items of memorabilia going the same way.
For every old racket tells a story. And I can carbon-date their history to a distant phase of my life.
I can look at a racket and remember where I was living, what club I was playing at, and sepia-toned memories flood back of valiant battles won and lost, drop shots that clipped the tin, strokes that were never given and late nights in the club bar. This is where the memories start to blur but I can even remember how much we drank and the name of the beer.
My pride and joy is a mint condition wooden Dunlop Maxply, with one broken string. (It snapped on the very first shot the first time I used it).
It sits in the loft alongside various brands of different shapes, sizes and composition.
Remember the bendy, springy little Slazenger Whippet, made of bamboo? Well, I’ve got one.
You remember that round-headed, plastic-looking thing that Dunlop developed as the era of graphite dawned upon the sport? Yup, I’ve got one of those, too.
 Strangely, there are some odd metal contraptions. (Horrible cheap old things. Why did I ever buy it? Aah, now I remember. It was probably a freebie from a new racket company trying to promote The Latest Great Thing in racket technology. Us media types have been known to accept them on occasions.)
I’ve also kept one of the original oversize Head rackets that changed the sport a decade ago. I was given one at the Media Launch at the South Bank club in London, attended by professional players Mark Maclean and Adrian Davies.
I took it down to my local club to try out and remember the gasps from the gallery as my friends all thought I was playing with a tennis racket.
I have a further admission to make: not all of the rackets in my loft are mine. No, they are not stolen. I’ve simply been in the fortunate position of finding them a good home.
The 70-year-old squash club where I am a member is next door to a hospice charity shop, and whenever I pop in for a coffee I simply can’t resist the lure of a new item for sale. I’m sure you’ve guessed, it’s often encased in a wooden racket press or the original plastic head cover.
As I peel away the cover and admire the craftsmanship of yet another wooden racket, I go all misty-eyed and succumb to the temptation of adding to my collection. If my wife ever catches me smuggling them into the house I try to persuade her that the money goes to a good cause.
 Looking out of the window as I write this article, I am reminded of two things. Firstly, that the weather is getting warmer and that usually means one thing: The Big Spring Clean.
Secondly, I’ve got to book my flights for the annual New York v London match for the Derek Sword Trophy match.
The feeling of excitement at flying across to the Big Apple is tempered somewhat by my fear at what happens to my wardrobe if The Big Spring Clean takes place while I’m away.
The rackets are safely stashed away but my collection of old shirts and shorts is clearly in some danger, especially the ones into which I can only squeeze with the aid of industrial machinery and much breathing in.
Squash fashions, and sizes, have changed dramatically down the years. The oldest shirts in my collection used to have an M in the collar. Remember those - the tight shirts and tight shorts? How did we ever move? These are at the bottom of the pile in the loft but a few years later they were joined by some tournament polo shirts, each with the sponsor's logo and an L in the collar. Then, as fashions changed and my measurements expanded accordingly to fit in with the times, that tell-tale label suddenly started sporting an XL, and I must admit I have found surprising comfort in recent years with one or two carrying an XXL ticket.
I've still got a white Hi-Tec top to remind me of their solid support of the British Open, when crowds of 3,000 filled the Wembley Conference Centre to see Jahangir reign supreme for a ten-year span.
Remember the Blue Stratos British Under-23 finals at Marlow, where a young Rodney Martin battled with Zarak Khan and David Lloyd threatened to be the Next Best Thing for British squash? I've still got the T-shirt.
 Remember the red sweatshirts when the Under-23s were sponsored by 3M and held at Wembley Squaash Centre, with a young Christy Willstrop leading the family dynasty a generation or two ahead of stepbrother James? Yup. I've got one.
Sadly, the Marlow and Wembley clubs have both been flattened, and so many memories have disappeared with them.
But at least I've kept the shirts.
I’ve kept them all because of one thing: The Big Diet. It will happen one day, I know. And, when it does, I will be able to squeeze into all my old kit, including four pairs of decaying, split shorts (with the towelling panel down the side) to which I am strangely attached and am reluctant to recycle, and glide around the court like Jansher Khan in his prime.
And yes, I will be wielding one of my old wooden weapons to celebrate.
NOTE TO READERS: We want to hear from fellow members of Hoarders Anonymous. We find that sharing your experiences is the first step towards healing, so please feel free to write to
This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it
with your stories of hoarding squash gear and how it has affected your life. Remember, we feel your pain.
Read the Previous Issue of The First Word
A Love That Never Dies
About the Author: Alan Thatcher is a journalist, event promoter and TV commentator. Alan recently joined Squash360.com as Contributing Editor. Come back each Monday as Alan offers his unique insight into the sport. In the weeks and months ahead Alan will interview key figures in the game and share plenty of stories from down the years.
 |
