The Box

“Match.” 

This single, defining word spits from the referee’s mouth, cutting through the back glass wall. The consonants, loaded with meaning and despair, push their way into my ears. They immerse and embed themselves into my eardrums before registering in my brain.  

My chance of success is gone.  

My movements run with autopilot. Having done the same routine countless times, I barely think as I go through the customary motions that are expected of a good sportswoman after a match: A handshake and smile. Quick strides to the door before participating in a lighthearted conflict with my adversary about who leaves the court first, including a flurry of “Go ahead,” “You first,” “I insist,” “No, please.” Eventually, one of us surrenders with a laugh and exits the battlefield.   

The friendly gestures and expressions feel sharp and bitter as they leave my body. It feels like an act, tasks on a checklist.  

After crossing the glass door, I respectfully shake the hands of the two referees.  

“Thank you for reffing,” I tell one. “Thank you for reffing,” I repeat to their counterpart.  

I force myself to walk to my opponent’s corner. The gaze of her parents and coaches raise to meet my eyes. “Good match,” I squeak out with a false tone of neutrality, bumping fists with my conqueror’s supporters.  

“Great playing,” they repeat back with a humble smile.  

Especially with the rawness of my loss, my mind seems to zone in on the gleam in their eyes and the curve of their lips that seem to hold suppressed judgment. Perhaps they viewed me before my loss as a strong, gallant warrior—confident and self-assured until helplessly defeated. Maybe they are suppressing their laughs at my lack of skills and speed, waiting to mock me until I turn my back.  

If I had hit harder, run faster, not made that one mistake, got my shots to hit the right targets, if I had just won, they wouldn’t have anything to criticize me on. Instead, I could look into their eyes knowing I had earned their respect for my athleticism, determination, skill, and ability. Not only had I lost the match, I lost the opportunity of gaining the appreciation of my talents from others. I lost my chance for validation.  

I smile politely before retreating to my own territory, the feelings of exhaustion overwhelming my body. My throat screams to be replenished, my clothes feel soaked and sticky against my skin. The journey to my seat feels excruciating as I force my body to keep moving despite the Jello in my legs.  

Finally, I reach my relief. I sink onto my chair, grimacing at the feeling of my sweaty legs sliding against the plastic beneath me. I take a breath and inhale the sour, heavy air of my atmosphere. One singular breath before the tornado of my emotions sweeps all the oxygen out from around me.  

“I’m proud of you, Migyu. You gave it your all.” I turn to see my mom holding out my water bottle with a kind expression. Like a tall tree protecting me from the burning rays of sunlight, her presence engulfs me in a comforting, familiar shade.  

Despite her care, I fail to meet her gaze. I don’t want to face her pitying glances, serving as reminders of what could have been. What could have been a bright smile is now pursed lips. What could have been a shining brightness in a proud mother’s eyes is now knitted eyebrows. What could have been squeezes of delight and celebration is now empathetic pats on the back.  

I struggle to fight back against my brain imagining the possible thoughts that could be running through my mother’s mind as she stares at her daughter, crumpled and small.  

A failure.  

The word finally hits me. That dreaded word that makes my throat squeeze and my eyes prick. I resist. I resist. I resist. I refuse to lose any more battles.  

“Omma, I can’t do this.”   

The tears that burst from my eyes are uncontrollable, a rush of water finally breaking through the dam. I become surrounded in darkness as my eyes squeeze shut. The sweat running down my forehead leaks down my face, creating a burning mixture of liquids in my eyes.  

“I can’t do this. I’m done. I made a complete fool out of myself,” my mind spins to churn out all the self-deprecating things I can think of. “I’m irrelevant. I had no idea what to do in there. I can’t keep up,” I say to myself, but also to my mom. If I can put in words the complete loss I feel within me, maybe my mom can fix it. Maybe she can help me heal. Maybe there’s a secret solution that can fill this gaping hole within my stomach.  

Despite my desperation to hear her words of reinforcement, I know that nothing she says will restore my pride. To me, all her soothing words are just masks for her disappointment.  

There’s little time left to wallow as there are still commitments left for me to fulfill. I take a deep breath and chug my water in an attempt to soothe my burning throat before plastering a smile on my face. I approach the referees’ bench, where my opponent is waiting.  

The hardest part about losing a squash match is having to referee the next match with your opponent. This exact moment is what I dread every tournament: acting as though there is nothing eating away inside of me while simultaneously sitting down next to the one responsible for causing such pain. Both of us pretend not to notice my red eyes, snot dripping down my nose, and hoarse voice that contradicts the exterior of sportsmanship and calm I try to uphold.  

Playing the part of the respectful, calm sportswoman would be so much easier if I had just won the match like I was expected to. If I had just played real squash, my opponent could be the one struggling to hide the crippling effects of failure. Not me.  

My mind drifts as I watch the match I am officiating. As with any squash match, the glass creates the effect of artwork on display: the players exposed to judgment, vulnerable to the possibilities of criticism, respect, applause. All within a frame of wooden planks, white concrete walls imprinted with stains of ball markings, and red painted lines dictating one’s destiny.  

Suddenly, my back straightens in my chair as I watch one boy chase determinedly after the ball. He splits and swings across the court, running and reaching and defending and attacking and never giving up.   

My eyes scan the surfaces of the court as I ponder over the duality of what lies within. At times, the box that lies before me has served as a welcoming blanket, encompassing me in a tight embrace. Keeping me safe from all the cold that is outside.  Yet, cozy blankets always feel so comforting until that split second, when your body gets too hot, your skin itches, and a flame ignites within your chest. In a matter of milliseconds, your body goes from feeling safe and warm to wanting nothing more than to get the blanket off, to escape the wrath of its cavern, to escape the dreaded box.  

This box, its concrete walls filled with success and heartbreak, has been my home, my hell, my dreams, my life since I was a mere nine years old. This box is where I come from.  

“Great point, boys!” Someone in the crowd shouts, briefly disrupting my internal conversation before the sounds of the ball bouncing off the walls begin to drown into a hypnotic rhythm once more.   

Like a childhood best friend, squash has supported me through my journey of discovering who I am. It has helped me understand what it feels like to be victorious, to be great at something, to be wanted, to be celebrated. To walk out of a court with people hugging my sweaty body, telling me how amazingly I played. I have become addicted to chasing after the feeling of being blanketed by words of affirmation. I have become greedy for the words, “I’m proud of you.” The validation of success only makes the losses more painful, as the memories of celebration serve as reminders of what could have been.  

Squash has been my bully, manipulating and toying with my self-esteem. It has opened my eyes to what it means to compare yourself to others, to undermine your own accomplishments because “others have achieved more.” Squash has introduced me to the crippling pain of having a single loss erase hours and hours of training and sacrifice.  

Squash is a toxic friend constantly pushing you down, while simultaneously offering a hand back up.  

The match in front of me ends, forcing me out of my thoughts. I watch as one boy exits, his mouth pressed in a straight smile, despite the waning brightness in his eyes. I feel the warmth of his sweaty hand as he shakes my own and thanks me for reffing. And then I watch as he turns away and crumples in his chair.    

I start to pack my bag, the fibers in my limbs itching to get out of the claustrophobic atmosphere around me. My mom’s arm links with mine as we walk to the exit and into the outdoors.  

I can finally breathe without the particles of sweat, success, and failure polluting the air. I can finally breathe before my next match, when I must open the glass door to the pandora’s box once more. When I must confront what lies inside.