Ode to Tennis

It is a game played on many surfaces
and in many more nations,
in rising and setting sunlight
and at night under electric lights

Sometimes, it is a game of 1 on 1
sometimes of 2 on 2,
and always within the athlete:
emotion against restraint,
instinct against training,
weary misery against pride in prowess,
cramps and blisters against
the will to glory

It's the bounce of the ball
and the roar of the crowd,
rubber in your hand
and rubber in your legs;
the racquet never stops
but flows through the ball
and you're running again...
there's no time to stall

The ball will return with spin or with burn,
and you'll learn
the swing must begin
before the ball is in sight,
if you want your strings
to strike strong and guide right.

And though your opponent's
fierce like a tiger
and clever like a crow,
if you meet him feint for fang
and blow for blow,
sooner or later you'll place the ball
where he just can't go

It's not a game for rich or poor:
for every athlete, there's an open door.
At first, it's far tougher
than one might expect:
the ball's elusive and hard to direct

But with time, sweat, and heart,
it becomes an art:
not just a tussle
of meanness, size and muscle,
but an athletic game
of smarts and speed
in which brutal power can come
from an arm like a reed...
and victory comes
(as often as not)
not from training, fitness, or skill
but from perserverance, fire, and will

It's a game played
for letters, for pride, and or health;
It's an art plied
for fame and ridiculous wealth.
But few champions play
for nation or pay,
and win or lose
they don't go away;
They play for the thrill
and they play for the joy,
just like any girl or boy

It's a sport for all in love with life,
those who seek a thrill
or a friendly fight,
for those who know victory
in defeat begins,
and within themselves
seek champions