The sun reflects off my racket as I step up to the line,
The ball’s furry surface scrapes my hand as it bounces,
Then comes back for me to catch.
I sink into a trance as my gaze lifts to the net,
Eyeing to spot where the ball will inevitably land.
Without further thinking, the ball is in the air,
The sun turning it to a black spot in the sky.
My racket somehow finds the ball in the blinding light
And powerfully sends it across the net
Leaving a pale yellow mark on the white line.
The satisfying pop as the strings slap at the ball
Is the only warning my opponent has as to how fast the ball will travel
And how soon it will disappear.
As I watch the ball fly by my opponent
My face is virtually composed, with the exception of a tiny smile.
A personal confirmation of success.