Jahangir Khan, the King of Squash

JUNE 1987

In 1979, a 15 year old bursts onto the international squash scene and conquers the game forever.

This young player from Pakistan dominates the flashing, subtle and perhaps most gruelling of all racquet sports

It is a pleasant November evening in Cairo, but at the city’s new International Squash Centre the atmosphere is tense. The final of the 1985 world open squash championship is about to begin. Inside the brightly-lit court the world’s two best squash players warm up for the match, whacking practice shots at each other. Both Pakistan’s Jahangir Khan, the favourite, and New Zealand’s Ross Norman have powered their way to the finals without dropping a game. Khan, though, had been dogged by injuries: a bruised knee in an early round, an injured chin in the quarter-finals. Will this be Norman’s night?

Khan races ahead in the first game with ferocious drives that zoom past Norman’s lunging racquet. But Norman steadily draws closer. Then comes an exciting 95-stroke rally. Twisting and whirling, sprinting and stretching, the two men fling themselves all over the court, lashing the rubber ball with such force that it dissolves into a black blur, then delicately caressing it for a feather-light drop shot. Suddenly, a superbly placed backhand by Khan ends the marathon rally and the crowd leaps to its feet in applause. Minutes later, 22-year-old Khan takes the game.

In the second game, Norman draws first blood with a cunning drop shot. Continuing to play brilliantly, he wins it. As Khan piles up a 6-0 lead in the third game, he seems confident that the worst is over. But Norman storms back, winning the next five points. Undaunted, Khan appears to tap a

hidden source of strength. With three beautiful strokes, he takes the third game, then overwhelms Norman in just ten minutes to win the fourth – and the championship.

That decisive victory made Khan the first man ever to win the world open squash crown five times in a row. From April 1981 to November 1986, when he lost to Ross Norman in the 1986 World Open in Toulouse, France, he had won all the 500-odd matches he played.* “Jahangir Khan,” says British sports commentator Richard Eaton, “is the world champion of world champions.”

Until recently, Khan’s achievements would have stirred few people, for squash was largely an elitist male

preserve. No longer. During the past decade, the game has boomed worldwide, and is now a sport played by more than 20 million men and women in more than 100 countries. It is widely played in Australia, New Zealand, Europe and Southeast Asia, and is one of the fastest-growing sports in Canada. In Australia, nearly 500,000 people play squash regularly.

A fast and exciting ball-and-racquet game, squash is played in a rectangular room about one-quarter the size of a tennis court. Its mood is gladiatorial: two players bang a four-centimetre-diameter ball off four walls and floor, using all their strength and cunning to keep it out of the opponent’s reach.

Squash has caught on because it’s suited to busy lifestyles. It’s easier for a novice to play than tennis, and provides a good workout in just half an hour. At its higher reaches, though, squash stretches mind and body to their limits. It calls for speed, stamina, a talent for delicate shot-making and, above all, a single-minded determination to keep going through a blur of fatigue.

Why is Jahangir Khan so superior in this flashing, high-velocity game, perhaps the subtlest and most gruelling of all the racquet sports? For one thing, he’s superbly built: 1.78 metres tall, 67 kilos, with arms, chest and legs that are rock-hard and wrists like steel. His ancestry helps, too. Khan’s forebears were Pathans – proud Muslim tribesmen of the mountainous Afghanistan-Pakistan border. Pathans have a reputation for being trigger-happy, but Khan’s relatives were far deadlier with squash racquets than with guns. His father, Roshan, uncles Hashim and Azam and cousin Mohibullah dominated world squash in the 1950s and ’60s.

But Khan’s most precious asset is an extraordinary desire to excel. “Squash has more naturally gifted players,” admits his coach, Rahmat Khan, “but no one who works as hard, no one else who, even when on top, never lets up.”

ITS MOOD IS GLADIATORIAL: TWO PLAYERS BANG A BALL OFF FOUR WALLS AND FLOOR

TO BE A CHAMPION

The Jahangir Khan story begins in Karachi, Pakistan, on December 10, 1963. The baby in a family of four children, Jahangir (Urdu for Conqueror of the World) was born with a double hernia, which eventually required two operations to repair. Doctors warned his parents not to let him play strenuous games.

But by the time he was ten, Jahangir

was regularly banging squash balls against the walls of his Karachi home. Since this didn’t seem to hurt him, Roshan took his son to the Fleet Club in Karachi and taught him the basic squash strokes. “But don’t run about too much,” he insisted. “You mustn’t exert yourself.”

Jahangir soon got around his father’s restrictions.

While Roshan napped at home during hot afternoons, Jahangir was at the deserted Fleet Club squash courts, playing by himself. His shots lacked power, his legs tired easily, but already he was determined to become a champion.

At 14, Jahangir became Pakistan’s junior squash champion. Soon after, he went to London and decided to stay with his 28-year-old brother, Torsam, a squash professional. Although Torsam had never been able to surpass tenth in world ranking, he was convinced that Jahangir could. “I’ll make you world champion one day,” Torsam promised.

The brothers worked well together. In October 1979, Jahangir travelled to Australia to compete in the world amateur championship in Melbourne. Only 15, he astonished everyone by winning. He was the first unseeded player – and the youngest – to become world amateur champion. “It was all due to Torsam,” Jahangir says. “Every day he’d call from England, ask who my next opponent was, then tell me how to play him.”

Torsam was not able to savour his brother’s triumph for long. Six weeks later, while playing in Adelaide, he suddenly slumped to his knees, then rolled over on his side, gasping for air. He died two days later, the victim of a heart attack.

Shattered, Jahangir returned to Pakistan, accompanied by his cousin, Rahmat Khan. Like Torsam, Rahmat was a London-based squash professional, who had been ranked 12th in the world. He knew about Torsam’s dream for young Jahangir. He also knew that Jahangir’s family was not well-off. Sons represent security in poor countries like Pakistan, and Torsam’s death would be a severe blow. But Jahangir’s brilliant promise now lay in the balance. I must do something, Rahmat told himself. I owe it to Torsam.

In Karachi, Rahmat had a long talk with Roshan. “Let me take Torsam’s place,” he suggested to his uncle. “Jahangir can stay with me in London. I’ll train him and, God willing, make him world champion.”

Roshan, however, hesitated; to send

HE ASTONISHED EVERYONE, BECOMING THE YOUNGEST AMATEUR WORLD CHAMPION

his son back to London would be heart-wrenching. But England was the Mecca of squash, with training facilities far superior to Pakistan’s. “Go with Rahmat,” he finally told his son. “Become what your brother wanted you to be.”

MISSION TO SUCCEED

Jahangir began his training in January 1980. But his heart wasn’t in it. “I kept thinking of Torsam,” he says. “Every night, I cried myself to sleep. I longed for home.”

Rahmat nursed the 16 year old through this painful period and, as the boy’s grief grew less intense, Rahmat began driving him relentlessly. His goal was simple: Jahangir had to become the fittest player in squash, capable of outlasting any opponent. So, for six days a week, from morning until night, Jahangir jogged and sprinted, did callisthenics and pumped weights, practised squash shots over and over.

He soon turned professional, but didn’t fare well in tournaments. Rahmat realised Jahangir’s legs were still not strong enough. So he accelerated the exercise programme and even went so far as to climb on Jahangir’s back at the end of a long training session and make him run several hundred metres.

“Most players would have rebelled against that,” Rahmat says. “But not once did Jahangir refuse me anything. Sometimes, Rahmat would ask, “Have you had enough?” Jahangir would smile bravely and say, “Only if you think so.”

Jahangir finished his first season as a professional ranked 26th in the world. But at the end of 1980 things began to change. In December, he won his first professional title, the Pakistan open. Several victories followed, and he looked set to wrestle the world number-one spot from Australia’s Geoff Hunt. But on April 10, 1981, in the British Open – squash’s Wimbledon – Hunt beat Jahangir.

Seven months later, on November 28, the two clashed again in the final of the world open in Toronto, Canada. To prepare for this encounter, Jahangir and Rahmat flew to a mountainous region in northern Pakistan. There, amid snowy peaks and dark pine forests, Jahangir built up his stamina.

Jahangir was stronger than ever, but in an early round he injured his right shoulder. He considered withdrawing from the match, then decided against it. “Sometimes,” he says, “you have to go ahead and struggle on with whatever ailment you have.”

The gamble paid off. Hunt won the first game, but Jahangir crushed him in the next three games, thus becoming, at 17, the youngest ever world open champion. It was an especially memorable occasion in another way: it was the second anniversary of Torsam’s death. As the crowd stood up, applauding wildly, Jahangir and Rahmat knelt in prayer on the court.

A few days later, Jahangir placed the silver trophy on Torsam’s grave in Karachi. “I have completed your mission” he said softly. “I shall defend the title as long as I can.”

From then on, Jahangir swept through international squash circuits like a bushfire. He won the finals of a major 1982 tournament without conceding a point. Sportswriters labelled him ‘ King Khan’, and Pakistan issued a postage stamp in his honour. Experts called him the finest player in the history of squash.

Jahangir’s successes, coming at a time when squash was booming worldwide, helped him become the game’s first millionaire. Apart from earning tournament money, Jahangir is a partner in a company called Unsquashable International, which manufactures squash racquets, and endorses a variety of products from sports shoes to training films. But financial security has not greatly affected Jahangir’s life. His pleasures are still simple: good food, relaxing with relatives and friends, listening to pop music.

In fact, Jahangir is a modest man, as I discovered during a recent visit to Karachi. It was the holy month of Ramadan, when all orthodox Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset. “I’ll come to your hotel,” Jahangir told me when I phoned. “I can’t offer you anything at home.”

Though not ultra- orthodox – “I don’t always pray five times a day,” – Jahangir is deeply religious. “It’s God’s will,” he says about his fantastic career. “Without him, I could not have accomplished anything.” He remains close to his parents, and whenever he’s not playing, stays with them.

J ah an gir–th at rarest of creatures, a truly se rene and happy celebrity – recently married, and next month will play a series of matches against Ross Norman in New Zealand.

Not yet 24, he is likely to remain at the top for many years. When he finally retires, he wants to start squash clubs and coach youngsters in the game he loves.

“But for the present,” he says, “I’ll keep on playing and – inshallah – continue winning.”

AMID SNOWY PEAKS AND DARK PINE FORESTS, JAHANGIR BUILT UP HIS STAMINA

Update: Jahangir Khan retired as a player in 1993, and served as president of the World Squash Federation from 2002 to 2008, and later became its emeritus president. In 2018 he was honoured for Outstanding Achievement in Sport at the 8th Asian Awards.