Hot Times for the Bryn Mawr Squash Club

If you remember from an entry a few months ago, the squash club was coachless last semester. Over winter break I continued the search for a coach and after a bunch of rejections a club called me back to say "yea, sure, we can do it" *actual quote*. Awesome. E-mails and phone calls were exhanged, contracts negotiated and BAM, a man named Mike was deemed our coach. I tried to google Mike but got nothing more than squash results from matches he had played in. I was able to deduce that he was British, and an acceptable squash player. I e-mailed our former coaches to see what they knew about him. Wendy, our first coach, still couldn't get past the idea that Sue, the woman who was our coach for, no joke, one week two years ago, wasn't still our coach. No word from our other coach, but he dropped off the face of the earth awhile ago so I wasn't really expecting anything. 

I had no way to base this, but I decided that he was probably around 50, small, with dark brown hair. Nice guy, but quiet. Wasn't going to stay with us long after he realized how bad we were. Basically it was like getting myself prepared for a date. I was convinced that after one meeting we'd be back to square one.

Yesterday was the day we were to meet "Mike". Just as I was heading off to dinner my phone rang.

Me: Hello?

Phone: Hi this is Bill from the squash club, is this Marianna?

Me: *I thought our coach's name was Mike...* Oh hi! Yea, it is

Bill: Great, I have Mike with me, he wants to talk to you *phone fumbles as it's passed over*

Alright, that's strange. That's what you do when you call the boy you like at a sixth grade sleepover. "Hi Matt? This is Marianna from across the street, I have Kelsey on the line hee hee hee hee heee" (You can tell this story is a lie as I refused to acknowledge that Kelsey was my friend until at least 9th grade.)

So apparently Mike can't use a phone. That's not a good start. We have a lovely conversation about what I expect to happen at squash. I try and make jokes, he does not pick up on them. It's fantastic all around

Mike: So how many people do you expect tonight? You said 8?

Me: Uh, well, it's probably going to be around 5. The plague is going around school so a lot of people have called out sick tonight

Mike: THE PLAGUE?!?!?!?!

Me: Not the...actual...plague...no....

Mike: Oh, oh alright then, that's fine, you scared me there.

Oh jesus. I hung up the phone and began panicking. I would be thrilled it 5 people showed. My co-prez had called out sick and I didn't know how many people were sticking with us this semester. What if only I show up and its just Mike and me staring at each other. Then there's the whole problem that Mike can't work a telephone and believe that Bryn Mawr is suffering from an epidemic of the bubonic plague. He doesn't sound too bright. When I shared this story with my fellow squash players one responded "you shouldn't joke about the plague around the British, they take it seriously."

7:30 rolled around and I went down to the bus (we play at the 'Ford), freaking out the whole way. No one was at the bus stop when I got there. "Oh God, oh God, oh God" I start muttering. Then within a minute a hoard of squash players from past and present flood the stop (by hoard I mean 6). THANK THE LORD. Ok, I can breathe again. A few people had come last semester and I knew. Two had come second semester last year while I was abroad so I didn't know them, and one was starting new that night. Excellent group. 

We got there and started to claim our courts. Down at the first court a guy sat and just sort of looked at us before going onto another court. We didn't really think twice about it. I started making fun of my phone conversation with Mike to the group, we all laughed, har har. Carrie, who had come last year, yells at me for letting the old coach leave. "He was cute!" she exclaims. I disagree. Just as we stepped on the court the guy came back out, "I'm sorry, are you looking for Mike? I'm Mike". Silence. The Bryn Mawr Squash Club puts their racquets down and stares at the glory that is Mike. Alright, alright, he's by no means STUNNING, but he is DAMN cute. Freckles, a sweet little smile, NOT 50. We all just sort of nod. Carrie quickly forgets the previous coach. Anything Bryn Mawr has taught us about being strong women who don't cave under the presence of a man is thrown out the window. 

Mike is clearly concerned about the prospect of 7 college aged women. "Uhhh, alright" he begins...."What do you usually do". Everyone looks at me. Crap, I have to talk. "Uhhh, well....haha....that's sort of up in the air". What? What does that even mean? I try to recover "Um, well we usually stretch...then hit the ball for awhile...then play some games". Mike looks pained. He takes a deep breath and makes us go run around the court. Aye Aye Captain! We gladly run to show Mike how in shape we are. We're not. At all. Mike then has us pick up our racquets and show him our grips. I spent the last semester perfecting everyones grips. If there is one thing I have to show for my coaching it's that everyone should have fantastic grips. No one can remember how to grip a racquet with Mike smiling at us, not even me. Needless to say when he starts feeding us balls we start hitting them all over the place because everyone is looking at him rather than at the ball. Oh jeez, this might have been a bad decision. 

By the second round of balls I get my act together and hit a fairly good shot. Mike gives me a suspicious look. The rest of the girls take their shots, all of them are getting their act together, Mike begins to breathe easier. 

By the end of the night we're playing matches. Since we had an odd number one of us had to sit out each round. During my turn to sit out Mike stands next to me and says "um.....you've....played before haven't you, unlike everyone else here". A simple question. I can't handle one on one interaction with the only non-Haverboy I've seen in weeks. So I just chuckle. Silence.  Mike is confused and being the nice British boy that he is tries again to make conversation. "So, what are you studying here?" Oh no, ohnoohnoohno, not that question. I take a deep breath "uhhhhhhhhhh, uhh,  it'scalledGrowthandStructureofCities andit'sastrangemajorthat'sonlyatBrynMawr.....we call it Cities....it's like urban growth and development...?" Mike nods. We stare at the game going on in front of us. I can tell Mike is flabbergasted with how beginner level we are. He knows he's in it for at least the semester. I can see the thoughts running through his head, trying to figure out the easiest way to make a break for it. He takes a deep breath, "Alright, another court's free, come on now, I'll play you". He proceeds to kill me and make me run all over the court. It's amazing how I never run when I play against my friends because...well..I don't. I am running from wall to wall, front to back, making shots that I would have given up on before. Hey! A little bit of motivation, maybe that's what I needed. I quickly lose to him and leave the court thinking it's time to go. Mike decides we should run some court sprints before we go. We never run. Never have run. We've never even considered the possibility of running. I'm so pooped after playing one game with him that I am already dreading the walk back to the bus. But when Mike says jump we all yell HOW HIGH and start running. We quickly regret that decision. Next week we might not be so quick to obey.

We bid goodbye to Mike after that and he asks the best way to get to the train. I direct him and he goes on his merry way. As soon as he's around the corner we all start twittering like birds about our new attractive coach. "Why is he taking SEPTA" Jessica wonders "Can't he drive?" The man can't even work a phone, come on now.

We run (yes, more running) up to the bus station just in time to see the Blue Bus pull away. We'll have to wait another half hour. We all sit down on the wall and begin the wait in silence.

"well" Carrie begins "He wasn't wearing a ring if you were wondering"

I think the squash club is going to see an increased membership