I never thought a 40-centimeter room, a black rubber ball, and a sweaty Tuesday afternoon would rewrite my understanding of “lucky.” But life has a funny way of using the smallest objects to teach the biggest lessons.

Six months ago, my mate Dave dragged me to the local squash courts. “You need a hobby that isn’t doomscrolling,” he said. I was 38, working from home, and my cardio consisted of walking to the fridge during Zoom calls. I agreed, mostly because Dave promised coffee after.

I was terrible. My serve hit the tin more than the wall. My footwork looked like a toddler chasing pigeons. But something about that tiny court felt good. No phone, no notifications. Just you, your opponent, and a ball that seemed personally offended by physics.

Fast forward to a Sunday morning in March. The community centre was running a “Bring a Beginner” social round-robin. Dave couldn’t make it, so I got paired with a guy named Marcus. Early 50s, full beard, laughing eyes, works as a school janitor. He’d been playing since the 90s and had the calm of someone who’d seen every ricochet the game could throw.

We warmed up. I was nervous. Marcus just grinned and said, “Points don’t matter today. Just don’t hit yourself with the racquet. I did that once. Took a week for the lump to go down.”

Third game, I got cocky. I chased a drop shot, stretched, and flicked my wrist. The ball rocketed off the front wall and came back straight at Marcus’s face before either of us could blink.

It hit him square in the left eye.

Time did that slow-motion thing you hear about. His racquet clattered. He dropped to one knee, hand over his eye. The court went dead quiet except for the hum of the lights. My stomach fell through the floorboards.

“Marcus, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” I kept repeating. He didn’t answer for three seconds. Longest three seconds of my year.

Then he moved his hand. His eye was watering, already swelling, and he couldn’t open it properly. “Can’t see much,” he said, voice steady. “Everything’s just… dark and floaty.”

We stopped the game. Someone called the centre manager. Someone else brought ice. I was spiralling, imagining every worst-case scenario. Marcus just kept saying, “It’s alright. These things happen. Let’s get it checked.”

At the hospital, the triage nurse took one look and sent us straight through. The doctor was calm and clear: blunt trauma to the eye. They couldn’t see the back of it because of blood in the eye — a vitreous hemorrhage, she called it. “The squash ball is the perfect size to hit the eye directly,” she explained. “We need to make sure the retina is still attached.”

I sat in that waiting room chair feeling like the worst person in Sydney. I’d invited myself into this man’s Sunday and given him a hospital trip.

Marcus came out with a plastic eye shield taped over his face. “No squash for six weeks,” he said, then paused. “So… coffee?”

We got coffee. He told me about his two daughters, about how he took up squash after his wife passed because the court was the only place his head went quiet. He told me the eye doctor said the retina looked okay on ultrasound, but he’d need to sleep sitting up for a while so the blood could settle. “Apparently I’ll look like a vampire sleeping in a recliner,” he joked.

Over the next month, I drove him to his check-ups. I learned what “head elevation” and “no heavy lifting” actually mean when you’re a janitor with a mopping bucket. His school organised a roster so he could do admin tasks. Our squash group took turns mowing his lawn. The community centre waived his membership for the year.

People showed up. That was the thing that kept getting me.

At the four-week review, the ophthalmologist smiled. “It’s clearing nicely. I can see your retina now. No tears, no detachment. You’re one of the lucky ones.” Marcus’s vision was back to 6/9. Not perfect, but he could read, drive, and, most importantly, see his grandkids’ faces.

Last Sunday, we went back to the courts. Marcus wasn’t playing yet — doctor’s orders — but he refereed our beginner games and heckled me for my “creative” footwork. He brought a box of protective eyewear he’d bought online. “House rule,” he said, handing out pairs. “If you’re on my court, you’re wearing these. I don’t care if you look like a science teacher. I like my retinas attached to my eyes.”

We all wore them. We looked ridiculous. We also played three hours without a single injury.

Here’s what that squash ball taught me:

1. *Accidents don’t ask permission*. You can be careful and still have bad luck. The measure isn’t whether something goes wrong — it’s what happens next.

2. *Community is a verb*. It’s the centre manager who knew which hospital had an eye clinic on Sunday. It’s the teenagers from the under-15s squad who took Marcus’s bin duty at school. It’s Dave, who showed up to every appointment even though he wasn’t even there when it happened.

3. *Protect the thing you need*. Eyes, friendships, your peace of mind. Wear the glasses. Send the text. Say sorry fast and mean it. Book the check-up.

4. *Grace is a skill*. Marcus had every right to be angry. He chose to be human instead. I’m trying to learn that one.

I still think about the sound that ball made. But now I also think about the sound of eight beginners laughing because we all look like we’re about to use a bunsen burner, not hit a forehand.

Marcus is back playing next week. Cleared by the doctor, eyewear on, shield off. He says he’s slower, but his drop shots are meaner. He says the six weeks off gave him time to plan the school’s new recycling program. He says I owe him coffee for life.

I say that’s fair.

So if you’ve made it this far into my essay-length post, here’s your takeaway: call that mate you haven’t seen. Wear the safety gear, even when it feels uncool. And if life hits you in the eye, look for the people who bring ice and stay for coffee.

They’re the ones who help you see clearly again.

P.S. The community centre is now running free “Eyewear for All” mornings once a month. If you’re in Sydney and want to try squash without the hospital trip, message me. We’ve got spare goggles and very patient beginners. Racquets provided. Judgment not included.

#MiaKhalifa