Adrian Grant is the first Black player to crack the PSA top 10. A groundbreaking achievement. He had an illustrious professional career that spanned from 1997 to 2016. And is currently the CEO of Kanso Sports.
I started playing squash when I was eight years old, but squash wasn’t my obsession. Not then, I was just a kid doing everything; athletics, football, rugby, basketball. I loved sports, but squash only came into my life because my dad played. My mum worked nights, so he’d take me with him to the club. Other dads did the same, and we kids would get bored waiting. At first, we played football on the squash courts, which the management didn’t like at all. Eventually, we picked up racquets. That’s how it started.
Back then, it wasn’t about ambition, all that mattered was having fun, and being with friends. But the more I played, the more I realized I was good at it. I had athleticism from all the other sports, and that carried me through. Soon, I was entering tournaments, winning events across the country. My dad and I would go on little road trips, sometimes sleeping in the car instead of a hotel. It was bonding, and it was tough, but it was also fun.
My dad and I would go on little road trips, sometimes sleeping in the car instead of a hotel. It was bonding, and it was tough, but it was also fun.
I got selected to play for England as a junior, and by under-19s, I was winning European Championships. Still, I wasn’t the type to stick posters on my wall and dream about being number one. I wasn’t that kid, I was just enjoying the journey.
When I was seventeen, everything changed. My dad sent me to Dubai for two years. He knew I needed discipline, to live and breathe squash, to step out of my comfort zone. So I left London and moved into a Muslim family’s home in the desert. Dubai wasn’t Dubai back then, it was sand and wide open sky, not skyscrapers. I trained in sand dunes at 4 a.m. because it was too hot later. Old-school Rocky stuff.
It was hard, and I was homesick. But the people I was around kept me going. They became family. And when I came back to England, I was different. I was disciplined, focused, and ready.
I later then moved to Leeds, to the England Institute of Sport, surrounded by players chasing the same goals. It wasn’t easy, a South London kid living in the North, but it made me better. That’s when I stepped up another level. Soon after, I went pro.
I was lucky to train with the best players and coaches in the world, people who gave me their time and belief. I reached number nine in the world. I represented England more than seventy times. I won two World Championships, eight European team titles, and a Commonwealth Games gold and silver.
I reached number nine in the world. I represented England more than seventy times. I won two World Championships, eight European team titles, and a Commonwealth Games gold and silver.
It wasn’t the Olympics, we obsessed over back then, something I wish I’d had the chance to play in; but I was satisfied with my career.
Looking back, one of the moments that shaped me came at the World Junior Championships in 1999. I was 18, and we were playing in Princeton. England weren’t supposed to win. Egypt were the powerhouse, their juniors already ranked on the men’s circuit. But we did it. Against all odds, we won the title. I’ll never forget standing on the podium, holding that trophy, when Princeton offered us scholarships on the spot.
I’ll never forget standing on the podium, holding that trophy, when Princeton offered us scholarships on the spot.
At the time, I had no idea how prestigious that was. I was just focused on the medal. None of us took the scholarships. People in the U.S. hear that story now and call us idiots. But that moment set the tone for me. Turning it down meant I had to make it as a pro. There was no fallback. And I did.
Of course, being a Black kid from England in a sport like squash wasn’t simple. I didn’t come from privilege. My parents worked multiple jobs. I borrowed equipment at times. I didn’t look like the typical squash player, and squash was and still is a very traditional sport.
When I first came onto the scene, I kept a lot of things to myself. There was no digital platform to talk about experiences, no social media. Some things happened on court and off it that I just swallowed. Frustration, yes. But never thoughts of giving up. If anything, those moments made me more determined. My father, from the Windrush generation, protected me, guided me. He gave me words I still hold onto. Representation matters. Not just as a slogan, but as proof. Proof that the story can be anyone’s.
I was the first Black player to represent England. At the time, I hated that label. It felt like it singled me out again, like it had when I was a kid.
I was the first Black player to represent England. At the time, I hated that label. It felt like it singled me out again, like it had when I was a kid. I even fought with my agent about it. I didn’t want to be the headline. But now, I understand. Used the right way, it inspires. Back then, I wasn’t ready for it. Now, I know it matters.
Squash itself is one of the most diverse sports globally. Players from Egypt, Nigeria, Asia, the Caribbean. But when I was growing up, walking into junior tournaments outside of London, it was a different world. Different class, different culture. I embraced it, made friends I still have today. But I know what it felt like to be the only one.
That’s why I believe in community. Community is the backbone of any sport. Without it, there is no pro scene, no investment, no future. This is why I’ve given so much of myself after retiring from actively playing squash. Coaching at Columbia. Running my own academy. Helping kids get into Ivy League schools. Sitting on the board of the Squash Education Alliance (SEA), which uses squash as a tool to open doors for kids from underserved communities. Squash gives these kids an education, a family, wellness, and hope.
Community is the backbone of any sport. Without it, there is no pro scene, no investment, no future.
Today, I’m CEO of Kanso Sports, building footwear for squash, pickleball, paddle, badminton. I’ve stepped into the wider world of racquet sports. The scene in the U.S. is booming. Pickleball is a monster. Paddle is growing too, and squash is still there, still powerful, and now it finally has a spot at the Olympics. The platform we’ve been fighting for is finally here.
But I keep asking: what happens after? The Olympics will bring eyes. More than squash has ever had. But if we don’t use that, if we don’t build a legacy beyond the games, we risk losing everything we’ve waited for. It’s not about making squash cool, or sexy, or marketable. It’s about connecting it to fun, to joy, to community. That’s what brings people in, and keeps them.
It’s not about making squash cool, or sexy, or marketable. It’s about connecting it to fun, to joy, to community. That’s what brings people in, and keeps them.
If I could talk to my younger self, I wouldn’t change much. The struggles gave me resilience, discipline, determination. They made me who I am. But if there’s one thing, I would’ve shown my vulnerability more. Back then, the culture was “man up, chin up, shut up.” I carried a lot of weight in silence. Sometimes it affected my performance. Sometimes it stopped me from enjoying moments fully. Now I know, vulnerability is strength. Sharing lifts the weight. That’s what I’d tell the younger me.
I would’ve shown my vulnerability more. Back then, the culture was “man up, chin up, shut up.” I carried a lot of weight in silence.
When I think about legacy, it’s not about rankings or medals. It’s about impact. I wasn’t here just to play the game. I was here to move it forward. If one kid believes in themselves because of my journey, then I’ve achieved something.
Everyone has a gift. Mine was squash. But the real gift is what the game gave me. Discipline, resilience, a platform, and the ability to pass it on.
When I walk into a room at SEA or StreetSquash in Harlem, sometimes I don’t even have to say a word. The kids see me, and their eyes light up. They see themselves, and so much possibility. And that, for me, is more rewarding than anything. More than winning a medal. More than selling a shoe. Because when I’m gone, those kids will carry the baton forward.
That’s legacy!
