I took my family out to Mother’s Day lunch this afternoon. Went to Carluccio’s in Canary Wharf. Nice Italian, they are great with kids. After lunch I had the bright idea to go see whether or not we could gain access to the venue where Canary Wharf Squash Classic is due to start tomorrow. We wuz in luck. Let me rephrase, while the rest of my crew rolled their eyes and sighed, I was jumping for joy.
We strolled right in, entered the hall where the mighty glass court is. Way cool. OK, I accept that to anyone who is not obsessed with squash like I am it may not sound way cool. I can assure you that it is to me.
Most of the world top ten players were there. Practicing. In pairs. In threes. Hitting rails, boasting and driving, patting the ball against the wall – just like they teach you at every squash coaching session everywhere. In fact, they were doing the same shit that I had been doing on my own during a solo drill session just hours earlier. I know. You think I’m a saddo. I don’t care. I love playing squash.
There was nothing magical to what they were doing. They wore the same kind of shirts and shorts, similar rackets, similar footwear, sweated just like we do over in Blackheath where we play. (Did I mention that we went up a division this season?) OK, they are the absolute pinnacle of squash so they do it way way better than we do it. But it’s the same thing in essence.
On the way back home, I thought about artists who say they’re looking for better, more professional gigs in better, more professional venues.
I couldn’t get a gig playing squash at Canary Wharf Squash Classic no matter who my manager was, no matter who my sponsors were. I’m just not good enough to do it. In fact, I’m so bad that if I tried to charge money for people to come see me play… shit, the only people watching my games are all the other squash addicts that loiter around squash courts.
It’s a long way to rock’n'roll, someone sang. It’s a long way to doing something so well that people will pay money to see you do it.