The Tennis Player

From France and Spain and Thailand,
famous and barely known,
young and weathered,
black and cultured
and blonde and fierce,
under the savage sun
watched by thousands or millions
he plies his art

A mixture of a modern gladiator or matador
and a master of speed-chess,
he oft lives a life of wealth and luxury
except when he must face and endure
the national TV stadium bull
lunging with its brutal horns,
taking the form of ruthless commentators
and the fiend across the court
(each sprinting and lunging,
taking turns as cheetah and impala
on the hard green savanah)

It is a game of a thousand masterful athletes
from every corner of the world,
of a thousand angles and considerations,
and millions and millions of dollars:
all the banality and greed
of Wall Street or a Roman colliseum

But that can't ruin it:
that's not the essence of the tennis artist
anymore than of the great musician
or legendary painter

See, I have been James Blake and Justine Henin
and Lleyton Hewitt and Paradorn Srichaphan,
have stood under the blazing sun
have traded blistering blows
the mind moving far faster than the feet:
I have chased down lobs
I have blistered and bled
for victory and defeat