Prescience of Serve (Draft #4)

When the ball is held under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the need for calm reason:
with mere moments to decide the course of events
I must steady my hand and somehow stop my sweat soaked bandanna from running into my eyes.
One serve means one chance to get it right:
indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your face hard enough to leave a mark.

I walk to the table to face my opponent,
ball in hand I bend over and breath on it:
to clean it of dust
to lend it my spirit wind.
Palm up, hand drops
rests near the table's edge,
ball playing solitaire in the leveled center of my hand.
Body tenses as it comes to rest
my breath exhales as a single soft stroke to settle the nerves.
Gently, quickly I toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
and as it descends racket smacks and sends it flying
a low drive down the line dead ball flat steady but still soft as she goes.

His return this time a baby faced blooper to my forehand:
confidence weighs heavy
my muscles remember how his racket's rubber imparts its own spin
unique as fingerprints.
My second shot: racket swings low to the ground on my forehand side,
my body crouches then motion
springs praxis: hand arcing up and through the ball
body turning in sync with left arm's new come flight.
Racket and ball connect, a SMASH cross table to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach:
at points end at last he reflects on the the essential nature of foot work.

Prescience of Serve: Draft #3

When the ball is under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the need for calm reason:
with mere moments to decide the course of events
I must steady my hand and stop the sweat
that has long since soaked my bandanna, from running down my face.
One serve means one chance to get it right:
indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.

I walk to the table to face my opponent,
and with ball in hand I impart my breath
to clean it of dust to lend it my spirit wind.
Palm up, my hand drops and rests near the tables edge,
ball playing solitaire in the bowl of my hand.
Body tenses as it comes to rest, and my breath exhales as a single soft stroke to settle the nerves.
Gently, quickly I toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low drive down the line dead ball flat steady and soft as she goes.

His return this time a baby faced blooper to my forehand:
confidence weighs heavy as my muscles remember how his racket's rubber imparts its own special stamp, its own special spin.
I swing my racket low to the ground on my forehand side,
my body crouches and motion springs praxis:
hand arcing up and through the ball
body turning in sync with left arm's new come flight.
Racket connects with ball, sends it SMASH cross table to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
And at points end at last he reflects on the the essential nature of foot work.

Prescience of Serve: Draft #2

When the ball is under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the necessity for calm reason:
your hand must be held still
and your sweat abated.
You have mere moments to decide the course of events,
and only one chance to get it right: indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.

I walk to the table to face my opponent,
and bringing the ball up to my mouth
I impart my breath
to clean it of any dust and lend it my spirit wind.
My hand drops palm up
ball playing solitaire in the bowl that is my hand.
Body tenses then relaxes, exhale a single soft stroke from my lungs to calm the nerves.
Gently, quickly I toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low line drive down the line dead ball flat.

His return this time a baby faced blooper to my forehand:
confidence weighs heavy to remember his spin,
to remember how his rubber imparts its own special stamp.
My racket brought low
my body crouches and motion springs praxis:
hand arcing up and through the ball
body turning in sync with left arm's new come flight.
SMASH cross table to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
And at points end at last he reflects on the the essential nature of foot work.

Prescience of Serve: Draft #1

When the ball is under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the necessity for calm reason:
your hand must be held still
your sweat must be abated.
You have mere moments to think
to decide the course of events,
and only one chance to get it right because indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.
I walk to the table to face my opponent
I bring the ball up to my mouth
I impart my breath:
to clean it of any dust I lend it my spirit wind.
My hand drops, and bumping the table
it settles just above and behind the line,
palm up ball resting solitaire in the bowl that is my hand.
Body tenses then relaxes, my exhale a single soft stroke from my lungs that calms the nerves.
I gently, quickly toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low line drive down the line
my anti delivering it dead ball flat.
Ball rebounds this time a baby faced blooper
to my forehand, and confidence now weighing heavy:
to remember his spin,
to remember how his rubber imparts its own special stamp.
I bring my racket low
my body crouches as I spring into motion.
My hand arcs up through the ball
as body turns with left arm's new come flight.
This ball driven hard a smash to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
At a points end, he reflects now on the the essential nature of foot work.