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Al-Ahram Weekly 13 - 19 April 2000 Issue No. 477 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 13 - 19 April 2000 Issue No. 477
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Books Features Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Fair play
By Fayza Hassan
"Only at a gambling table can one really know one's neighbour," my husband used to say. Not a gambler myself, I was never fully illuminated by this particular bit of wisdom, but on a different level, I can match my husband's belief with an equally incisive verity: "Only at the wheel of a car can true character be revealed." Few besmirching adjectives describing drivers' behaviour can be considered a novelty today, none in any case that I have not already used at one time or another and in various languages. Now, however, I find myself in the position of discovering an entirely uninvestigated field of car owners' wickedness, which behooves serious psychological exploration. I am referring to people's new parking habits and the aggressive tendencies that are growing by the day, in equal proportion to the diminution of available space. My father was a good amateur tennis player. Those who watched him perform on the courts of the Tewfikiya Club agreed that he had style. Of course, the game was different then. As he often commented himself, it was a "gentlemen's game." It relied on skill only to a certain point; more importantly, it involved the gracious art of playing, which made no allowances for aggressive behaviour, ruse or the use of brute force. Every winning exchange was politely saluted with a resounding "good shot" from the other side. Losing with a smile was certainly the motto of my father and his ilk, who would leave the court after their daily two sets with only a little spot of perspiration marring their impeccable sports shirts as testimony to their physical exertion.
It became clear very soon that I did not have it in me to follow in my father's footsteps. Too heavy, too slow, too lazy and not enough initiative to make a decent player, were the verdicts of the several coaches whose opinion was sought and who did not want to fight a losing battle with what they honestly believed was a hopeless case. I tended to agree with them, as I had agreed with the various ballet teachers who had given up on me. My mother, however, could not leave well alone. Sports were a desirable activity for the young and she, as a good mother, was not going to be caught short on any count where our well-being was concerned. Having consulted our paediatrician, she introduced me to golf as a last resort.
Golf was more up my alley, if any sort of physical activity was. It allowed for loitering and daydreaming; it could be played alone if need be and it did not require particularly well developed reflexes, which I knew by now I did not have. Unfortunately, I did better than expected and was soon drawn into the world of competition, the same one that I had become acquainted with at school. The craving for being the best was the same.
In those days, there were very few youngsters on the courses, golf being regarded a senior citizens' activity. It was also thoroughly gender-segregated. My partners and opponents were therefore older women, usually my schoolmates' mothers. At first, I was twice as self-conscious as I would normally have been, playing with people twice my age, to whom I normally only owed a measure of deference. I was at a loss as to how I should act with them. Should I curtsey before hitting the ball? Should I engage in conversation? Would we have to discuss their children?
Consulted, my father advised me to be my well-behaved self, only speaking if spoken to, avoiding comments and giving the older adversary every possible chance to win. I heeded his advice and acquired the reputation of being an ideal golf player. I am not quite sure, but I seem to remember having been awarded a cup for my good temper. Whenever the urge to win a point possessed me, I would conjure up the image of my father in his immaculate white trousers returning easy balls to a lesser skilled opponent.
On one occasion, however, I was cruelly punished for making a show of my good manners. I had reached the semi-finals of a competition I secretly was dying to win. Betsy, my opponent, was a young South African sportswoman who had just had a baby. She played golf, tennis, swam and fenced with equal expertise. Tall and slim, she always dressed well and was used to much attention. Before I came on the scene, she had been the youngest and best female golf player at the club. This was the first time I was playing against her and I was expecting a certain amount of hostility, at least as much as older women had expressed whenever my balls found the holes quicker than theirs.
As we teed off, she informed me that she was not completely recovered yet and might not be able to complete the 18 holes. She offered to forfeit the match since she could predict its outcome. We walked along while she described her aches and pains in detail. I did my very best to ease her ordeal, searching for her ball when she lost it, allowing her to rest between holes and conceding putts several yards long. The more she whined about her poor performance, the more I went out of my way to help in any way I could. It therefore came as no surprise that she beat me and won the coveted cup. What I considered more peculiar was that, once we had signed our score cards, she burst out laughing. "I was afraid of you," she said "but you are such a child. I managed to make you lose your concentration and instead of beating me as I certainly deserved, I had you so worried about me that you completely forgot to play. Let me tell you, dear, you will never be a great player." I was surprised and hurt and did not feel the need to curtsey this time. Furthermore, I made up my mind on that day to give up any ambitions I may have had of becoming a first class player, and finally abandoned the game altogether.
Today, when I see what sports have evolved into, the intensity and energy required from players aiming at professional status and the fierce competition that is the trademark of what used to be no more than a healthy pastime, I remember Betsy's words. She was quite right. I was never cut out to be a champion.
