I sit between my fellow Penn companions, and the three of us wait suffocating in the tube. I am feeling blue because all I want to do is play, but it may just be because I am stuck in between my cerulean friends. Placed on the pavement, we all stare at the tan walls straight ahead yearning to meet the concrete with our rubber skin.

The competitor picks up our tube, slightly tips it horizontally, and the first ball rolls out with ease. Overflowing with envy, I glare as the initial serve is made. I watch the round ball collide with the wall and ricochet toward the two players. The second competitor swings his racquet with immense force, and the ball flies into the air, over the fence, atop the wall, and is gone forever.

For a moment, sadness overcomes me knowing that I will never see my old comrade again. However, the melancholy feeling immediately washes away once I realize that I am up next. It is my time to shine. The cap of the tube is twisted open, and the fresh air comes rushing in. I roll into the player’s hand, and I am ready to go.

To warm up, the player bounces me a couple times against the cold pavement. Then suddenly, the nylon strings of the racquet slap my smooth exterior and send me flying forward. Smashing against the wall, my body transforms into an oblong shape, and with all my strength, I push against the wall in order to cross the fault line. Returning to my usual physique, I bounce off the ground, and I am once again hit and sent back to the sand-colored wall.

This cycle continues until one of the players reaches fifteen points. Luckily, during this game, I was not lost. After being put back into the tube, I rest and prepare for the next game. I live to “stroom”. I am a racquetball.