I have been watching (in the background, on my computer mostly) a lot of tennis of late. Wimbledon ends this weekend ("oh, good" the Girlfriend says) and I thought it would be a good time for a tennis poem.
I wanted to publish all of Robert Pinksy's "Tennis" but I couldn't find it. (If anyone has it--send it my way). So I will just publish one of the sections of the poem.
Call questionable balls his way, not yours:
You lose the point but have your concentration,
The grail of self-respect. Wear white. Mind losing.
Walk, never run, between points: it will save
Your breath, and hy pnotize him, and be may think
That you are tired, until your terrible
Swift sword amazes him. By understanding
Your body, you will conquer your fatigue.
By understanding your desire to win
And all your other desirs, you will conquer
Discouragement. And you will conquer distraction
By understanding the world, and all its parts.