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Poetic License: Six days in the life of Wilson One

By Staff | Aug 26, 2015

Day Three

I can’t believe what’s happened!

The seniors put me in a can

without one of my brothers

and dropped a fuzzless hard court Dunlop

right on top of me. Bad enough

that I spent three months

with my brother’s bottom

right in my face but one night

with this bald smelly Dunlop

who can barely bounce off the clay

has made me long to be back

in the can with my brothers.

I’m being hit softly by women now.

They try to lob me over each other

even though they all stand back

on the baseline.

The points last even longer

than they did with the seniors

and one of them keeps scaring

the fuzz out of me by shrieking

every time she hits me out.

There are some pluses with the women:

when I look up from the ground

underneath them I get some good views

and during one changeover

a real good looking one keeps me warm

in her panties ball pocket

for more than five minutes

as she recounts bargain successes

she has enjoyed in area tennis shops.

During another change

they put my brother next to me

on the ball tray and we lie there wondering

what’s happened to our missing brother

and if we’ll ever see him again…

Day Four

I’m in one of the Pro’s baskets now

with a hundred other balls

in various stages of deterioration:

some stripped to their rubber core,

others dirty with soil and clay,

a few like me still clean and lively,

with good tennis left in them.

But we only get hit and returned

once every hundredth time:

the rest of the time we lie there

all over the practice court

until the basket empties

and the students pick us up

with hoppers or by hand

and the Pro starts feeding us

to the students again.

I get hit only eight times the whole day.

At night in the basket

I cannot sleep with these hundreds

of dead decaying balls on top of me.

Day Five

I guess the end is near.

I’m in the ball machine tray

from where I’m sucked and hurled,

not hit – then hit back once

and returned to nowhere.

No player touches me anymore,

No player strokes or spins me

to work a point.

I think of my brothers who are probably

in another part of the machine

or in a basket in the pro shop

or lying out somewhere rotting

in the damp and cold.

I think of Topspin, his big sweet spot

and that glorious moment

when he smashed me to victory

and I was still neon bright and lively

and a real ball.

But now there’s no one,

no one to take me out,

no one to return me,

no one to ever put me into play again.

(to be continued)