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Poetic License: Five days in the life of Wilson One

By Staff | Aug 12, 2015

Day One

FFFffffree at last!

Three months compacted

in this vacuumed womb,

one brother pressing down

the other shoving up on me,

we’re out now and free

to go our own way,

I can hardly wait to be bounced

and smacked over that net

and fly through this delicious air

and land just inside a baseline.

Ah, easy does it now during warm-up.

Close-in volleys until everyone gets loose.

I love the feel of the strings on my rear,

these players are really good.

Since we’re number ones

and this is court number one

this must be a match between the best players.

My wildest dreams have come true.

Pow! Pow! Both sides, good and hard!

One player hits me from the bottom up

so that I bounce like I’m on a trampoline

right over the opponent’s head

and over the fence. They call it topspin

and now I’m soaking on the grass

while they play out the game

and just when I think I’m about to drown

from all this moisture,

the cockeyed leftie who’s been hitting me

and my brothers from the wrong side

rescues me and dries me with his shirt tail —

then serves me wide for an ace.

Wow! This match is really close,

can’t decide who to root for.

One player squeezes me and my brothers

before deciding which of us to serve

(as if he can tell the difference)

then puts me back into his sweaty pocket

every time. I hate him. His partner, Mr. Topspin,

serves me with a great American twist

and punches me with real crisp volleys.

His racket has a big sweet spot

and he hits me with it most of the time.

I love him.

On the other side,

one partner pounds me like Pete Sampras,

over a hundred miles an hour

on his first serve

but I usually land out of the box

and he second serves me softer

and slower than a practice ball.

His partner, the leftie, keeps driving

my brothers and me crazy:

we brace ourselves to be hit on one side,

he hits us on the other;

we get ready for a spinning backhand,

he smacks us with a vicious forehand.

I guess I’ll stick to the oath of the ABA,

(The American Balls Association)

the one they made us take

before they sealed us in the can:

“I swear to bounce true to the best

of my ability and judgment and

do no harm to or favor any player.”

Every ball’s dream is to be in play

at match point.

Mr. Topspin, my great love,

is serving me and my two brothers, jealous,

jostle in his pocket, hoping he’ll miss

the first serve so that they’ll get a chance

for glory but the American twist serve

kicks me high, hissing right on the “T”,

Mr. Cockeyed Leftie blocks me back

crosscourt but high and Topspin

puts me away with a gorgeous smash

just inside the baseline

and I land as hard as I can

so that there will be a clear mark

and Leftie and his partner

who have called me out on two occasions

when I was really in, have no choice

but to call me fair and admit defeat.

A glorious first day and final point.

I guess I forgot my oath, but listen,

every good ball loves to get smashed

once in a while —

especially by the right player!