by Richard Eaton
Sometimes, suddenly and unexpectedly, everything changes. Especially did this happen to squash four decades ago in England.
Back then a top level match could often develop into a lengthily drawn-out zig-zag - sometimes described politely as mesmerising, though often it could be anaesthetising - with repetitive patterns caused by the then smaller headed rackets, bouncier balls, a procrastinating hand-in hand-out scoring system, and top players who honed themselves into marathon stamina athletes.
These strange and unhelpful characteristics increased steadily throughout the seventies - until early in the year of 1981 a transformation occurred, triggering changes which ultimately altered the nature of the sport for ever.
It started with a three-act drama involving the same two leading characters. They were a 34-year-old champion who had a superbly honed body and a style evolving into its third incarnation - one of perpetually fluid movement, consistent accuracy, and tenacious mentality - and which were all set against a little-known lad only half his age.
But in spite of this colossal disparity in experience and reputation it was the lad who caused the earthquake which immediately changed the sport and ultimately led to its transformation.
This of course was Jahangir Khan, a teenager once said to be too physically weak to become a professional, but who built himself into extraordinarily powerful physical condition which increasingly enabled him to overcome any odds.
On this occasion they had been heavily against him being able to outlast Geoff Hunt, the undisputed world number one, at a British Open build-up event in Chichester.
But Jahangir did. He produced a fifth-game finish which reduced the sport's most notable athlete into a state too drained to contest the final three rallies.
An exhausted Hunt struck the last three service returns into the tin, perhaps purposely, because after a match of fully two hours and 11 minutes it was days before he was able to recover adequate movement to resume his preparation for the imminent British Open.
However when act two of this two-man drama arrived - appropriately on a stage, at the Churchill Theatre in Bromley - the shaken favourite somehow found the durability to take a heroic revenge.
Hunt did that with a phenomenal title defence - recovering from 1-6 down in the fourth game of a British Open final after the youthfully mobile Jahangir had seemed likely to force the struggle into a final game and drag the historic title agonisingly from the champion's reach.
Instead the phenomenally tenacious Australian held off the ambitiously mobile young Pakistani during 20 minutes of peril, painstakingly eroding that five-point deficit and somehow snatching a historic success with a record eighth British Open title.
The circumstances in which Hunt achieved all that could hardly have been more dramatic, whether for their actorly setting, for their ambience, or for their unpredictably elliptical plot, because they happened in the most commercially conspicuous venue the ancient tournament had yet seen.
This was the year Dickie Henderson and Una Stubbs had also appeared on the Churchill's stage, playing in Cinderella. The previous year Harry H Corbett had trod these same boards as The Court Jester.
On this occasion however the swings of fortune and the drama were played out before a sell-out crowd containing an enthusiastic Tommy Steele, the singer who had not only been a ground-breaker himself but a leisure-time squashie too.
During the brief weeks in which Hunt and Jahangir emerged as era-defining combatants, a dialogue had emerged which depicted the character contrasts - the veteran v the upstart, the successful hero v the little known aspirant, and the cultural contrast between what were then the greatest two squash-playing nations, Australia and Pakistan.
And so it seemed as if the old order had been restored. But it was brief. Only seven months later, but fully three and a half thousand miles away, it was brought to an astonishing end.
Not only did Jahangir overcome Hunt again, he did so in an era-defining World Open final at the Columbus Centre in Toronto in November 1981, capturing the title for the first time, and effectively concluding the top seed's top level career.
As at the British Open Jahangir went game down, though this time his comeback began earlier, in the second game, and incredably thereafter he lost a mere five points.
Although Hunt had won the World Open in each of its first four manifestations, on this occasion the physical cost was so great that it rendered him unable to make a top level challenge again.
It was remarkable that Jahangir had been able to achieve this, not only because of the greatness of the player he overcame but because he himself had been suffering from an injury which almost prevented him from playing.
Jahangir had been unable to lift his playing arm above shoulder height in his first round match, and thereafter it needed regular physiotherapy. It had been touch and go whether or not he would be able continue, but by the time of the final Jahangir was fortunate that his injury had improved just enough.
During the era-changing match which followed his coach Rahmat Khan could be heard advising him against attempting winners unless the state of a rally absolutely demanded it.
And although Jahangir lost the first game, he was able to keep Hunt working hard.
This helped the young challenger start the second game well, and when he went on to win the third game with a ferocious cross-court backhand dying to a perfect length, it was evident that the balance of the match was altering.
Hunt typically kept fighting hard, seeking ways to change the pattern of the rallies, slowing them down with lobs and clingers when he could, but to no avail. Jahangir remained fiercely consistent.
When his great moment of triumph arrived, Rahmat entered the court, and the two knelt in thanksgiving on the floor of the court. Supernaturally, or with an eerie coincidence, the breakthrough victory had been achieved on the same day on which Jahangir's brother Torsam Khan had died two years previously. On returning home the World Open trophy was placed on Torsam's grave in Karachi.
It had been the death of Torsam, on court in Australia, which had changed Jahangir's life.
"I did it because of him," he said afterwards.
"It had been Torsam's aim to make me world number one. He had told me that 'this is my last tournament - let me go to Australia for this and then I will concentrate on you. You can do it.'
"But he didn't come back," Jahangir whispered. "In my mind I could see him coming for me. We were very close."
Later he added:"It was a shock. I didn't play for three or four months. But my family convinced me to try to fulfil his ambition. So I promised to try. I wanted to progress as quickly as possible to show the world that I could do it. It was a responsibility."
The spiritual consequences of the era-changing victory were thus extremely evident. The temporal ones, especially for squash as a sport, were also profound, as its momentum increased while the eighties unfolded.
Firstly, Hunt had ended that final with hints of discomfort, the symptoms of a hip injury which later required an operation. He was never quite the same player again.
In complete contrast Jahangir went from strength to remarkable strength, remaining unbeaten for more than five and a half years, and for much of that time he never remotely looked like losing.
The predictability which this excellence created, plus the game's repetitive patterns, appeared increasingly as a significant shortcoming in a what was a steadily expanding commercial world. Experimentation and change was needed.
Meanwhile Jahangir's work rate remained legendary and his consistency machine-like. "I believed in training and I put in a lot of hours each day I worked harder than the other guys," he said.
"My whole life was organised for that performance on court. Mentally I was strong. I would train at what I had to do in a match. If you are winning all the time it is not easier - if you lose it is easier to be motivated.
"You learn what you have to do to improve. And I worked hard for my brother, my family and my nation."
But the world was changing. Amidst those advances there were determined attempts to change the squash world.
First came the abandonment of the traditional hand-in hand-out scoring system. Experiments with 15-up point-per-rally scoring were followed by the 11-up used today.
This not only shortened matches, it encouraged more creative tactics. It made for a better spectacle. So did the advent of synthetic rackets with larger heads and wider sweet spots.
By the next decade came an acceleration of sports science knowledge.
It became far more sophisticated and insightful rendering obsolete the hitting, training, eating, and living patterns used by players of the eighties. Notably this enabled Peter Nicol, among others, to prolong a fine career in a way players could never have done before.
And by then the revolution which Jahangir helped squash start had changed the game completely
