Words: Shady El Sherbiny
Performance Builds You. Location Breaks You
I have spent more time than I care to admit refreshing my email in airport departure lounges.
It’s a strange way to prepare for a professional tournament. Your body is ready. Your racket bag is packed. Your name is in the draw. And yet, everything depends on something entirely unrelated to squash: whether a visa has been approved in time.
I remember sitting there once, passport in hand, watching the boarding call approach, knowing that players I should be competing against were already on court.
In that moment, it becomes clear that professional squash is not only a test of skill.
It is a test of access.
I grew up in Egypt, which is, without exaggeration, the most effective squash system in the world.
You don’t have to search for excellence here. It surrounds you. At your club, in your training sessions, in every tournament you enter. Players like Ali Farag, Mostafa Asal, Hania El Hammamy and Nour El Sherbini are not distant figures. They are products of the same environment.
From the outside, it looks like the ideal place to build a professional career.
In one sense, that is absolutely true. In another, it is deeply misleading.
The first thing to understand about Egyptian squash is that the pressure starts early.
As a junior, you are not simply playing to improve. You are playing to remain relevant. The level is so high that stagnation is indistinguishable from regression. If you are not getting better, you are being overtaken.
I have seen players dominate for a year or two and then disappear. Not because they lacked talent, but because the system moved on without them.
This is not a flaw in the system. It is precisely why it works. Relentless competition produces resilience. It accelerates development. It removes complacency.
To give a sense of scale, junior tournaments in Egypt can have more than 150 players in a single age group. There is no safety net. Lose in the first round, and you go home. There is no plate. No consolation draw. No second match to reset yourself - your tournament is over.
In Europe or the United States, there is often a safety net—more matches, more opportunities to learn within the same event. In Egypt, the lesson is immediate and absolute.
That does something to a young player. It sharpens you. It builds resilience. It forces you to adapt quickly. But it also creates an environment where the margin for error feels brutally small from the very beginning - it also has a filtering effect that is rarely acknowledged.
It is precisely why it produces such extraordinary players. But it is also why so many fall away.
By the time you turn professional, you are already hardened in ways that are difficult to replicate elsewhere.
If your sole objective is to become a better squash player, there is no better place in the world to be. The intensity is constant. The standard is unforgiving. Improvement is non-negotiable.
But this is where the paradox begins.
Because the qualities that make Egypt the best development system in the world do not necessarily translate into the best conditions for sustaining a professional career.
On paper, the PSA Tour is a global meritocracy: The same ranking system. The same tournaments. The same pathway to the top.
But in practice, geography plays a far more significant role than is often acknowledged.
Players based in Europe benefit from proximity. Travel is shorter, cheaper, and more predictable. Tournaments are clustered. Opportunities to compete come more frequently and with fewer administrative barriers.
From Egypt, the situation is fundamentally different.
If you are outside the top 100, you do not have the travel history that simplifies visa applications. You are required to apply repeatedly, often for short durations, with no guarantee of approval.
Even securing an appointment can become a challenge in itself. Slots are limited and often taken by agencies using automated systems, then resold at a premium.
You find yourself competing not just with other players, but with a system that is not designed with you in mind. At that point, your season planning becomes less about performance and more about probability.
Can you get an appointment? Will the visa come through in time? Are you prepared for the possibility that it won’t?
There have been occasions where I have trained for a tournament, been ready to compete, and still not known whether I would be able to board the flight.
And when you miss a tournament, the consequences are not neutral. Ranking points expire regardless. Your position drops. Your chances of entering future events diminish.
In a sport where momentum is everything, that kind of disruption is not just inconvenient - it is decisive.
Then there is the economic reality and this is often misunderstood.
It is not only about limited sponsorships or fewer opportunities. The biggest challenge, increasingly, is the currency.
The Egyptian pound has been losing value rapidly over recent years. In April 2022, one US dollar was worth 18 Egyptian pounds. By April 2023, it was 30. Now, in 2026, it is around 54. That shift changes everything for a young player.
For players coming from abroad, Egypt becomes an incredibly attractive training base. Their money goes further. They can access the best squash environment in the world at a relatively low cost.
For Egyptian players trying to compete internationally, the effect is the opposite. Every expense is external. Flights, visas, accommodation, living costs—all priced in stronger currencies. And every month, those costs rise.
There is no ceiling. No stability. No moment where you feel like you have caught up. You are constantly chasing a moving target.
Professional squash, particularly outside the very top tier, already operates on narrow margins. For many players, the choice becomes stark: continue investing financially in your career, often with family support, or find ways to generate income alongside competing.
I have done both.
There was a period where I was coaching high-level juniors for five hours a day, five days a week, while trying to compete on the PSA Tour. At first, it seemed manageable. In reality, it was unsustainable.
The physical load led to injuries. The mental strain accumulated. And eventually, I reached a point where it no longer made sense. You are effectively compromising your ability to perform at the level required, in order to fund the attempt to perform at that level.
It is a paradox.
I have stepped away from the game twice because of it.
What makes this more complex is that the comparison is always there.
In Egypt, you are surrounded by world-class players, which is both inspiring and, at times, overwhelming.
At the same time, you become increasingly aware of players in other regions who have access to different structures: club leagues, consistent match play, financial stability, and more visible sponsorship pathways.
This is not a question of talent. It is a question of infrastructure. And infrastructure shapes outcomes.
There are examples that illustrate this clearly.
Youssef Soliman, at one stage ranked inside the world’s top 10, competed without a sponsor. Mazen Hesham, widely recognised for his talent, has faced ongoing challenges linked to injury and the financial implications that follow.
These are not isolated cases. They are symptoms of a broader structural imbalance. Over time, you begin to see the sport differently.
You realise that while performance determines your ranking, it does not fully determine your trajectory. That is influenced by where you are based, the systems available to you, and the opportunities you can access consistently.
In other words, location shapes possibility.
None of this diminishes what Egypt has achieved.
It remains the most effective development system in squash. It produces champions at a rate that is unmatched. But it also creates a reality that is less visible from the outside.
One where the pathway to becoming a professional is clear—but the pathway to sustaining that career is far more uncertain.
I still ask myself the same question, almost daily. Does it make sense to continue? Because the numbers, at times, do not.
And yet, the alternative is difficult to accept.
You only have this window once. This age. This physical capacity. This opportunity to try. Even if the odds are not in your favour. That, ultimately, is the trade-off.
Egypt gives you everything you need to become great but it does not guarantee that greatness will be sustainable.
And that is the part of the system that is hardest to see—until you are living inside it.
