A bit of tennis. And perhaps a bit of life.
Life is a bit like that, you know. A bit like tennis. You begin with love all, a sort of calm before the storm if you will. The stands fill up quickly, people always have this need of being vicarious. Then, without giving you a chance to warm yourself up for the monumental task at hand, Life begins to serve.
His first serve is a monster, at superhuman pace & wide out of your reach. It lands in. Ace. Life 15-0.
You shake your head & move to the other end of your half-court. They say the grass is greener on the other side, & it almost seems to be true. He misses his first serve, you move closer to the baseline to attack the second. His second serve is short, & you hammer it up the line for all your worth. Winner. 15-15. You throw a little fist-pump in the director of your coach.
Life nets his next serve, You can barely suppress your chuckle. Second serve, & what do you know, Life serves it long. Double fault. You’re 15-30 up. The crowd begins to get behind you – the underdog must have his day! Life seems a little sluggish, a little predictable.
First serve. Down the centre at average speed, slightly tentative. You get enough racquet on it to send it back at his feet, loaded with topspin. The ball kicks off the baseline, & Life shanks the return. 15-40! The crowd goes wild, your wolfish grin isn’t subtle anymore. You even shout an audible obscenity coupled with a “Come on!” This is too easy, you think. What on earth had your coach warned you about, he who has battled Life far longer? You begin to think of your press bytes after you’ve taken Life to the cleaners.
Meanwhile, Life sets about doing what he does best – putting his head down. He has a glint in his eyes, steel in his jaw. Down two break points, he uncorks a first serve that flies past you before you have time to blink, as if greased with lightning. 30-40.
Still there is time, still there is hope. Your plans are still in place. Maybe you’ll tone down your derision in the press conference later, maybe you’ll be a wee bit more generous towards your vanquished opponent.
Life doesn’t care. His objective is almost mechanical, as if pre-ordained. Big first serve, into the body. You’re a split second too late & the ball hits you flush on the chest. It hurts. You wonder which hurts more – the hard ball smacking you at speed or Life showing you the glimmer & then closing the door on your face. 40 all, deuce. The crowd grows quieter every moment.
First serve, right down the centre. Lands bang on the T. Too good. Far too good. Ace. You know in your heart of hearts that this is different – opponents hit balls into places where you may not be, Life is hitting them into places where you can never be. The revelation is ominous. Reality is upon you, & it’s almost as if you’ve brought a tablespoon to a gunfight. Advantage Life.
Life, for the first time, looks you in the eye. He looks not only at you, but through you, as if he has already disposed of you. He knows this precisely & wants to see it reflected in the fear in your eyes. He wants to breathe it in. It invigorates him just as it cripples you. He snarls, you see his jagged teeth. A bit of mental disintegration. He walks away from the service-line, asking the ball boy for a towel. He takes time in towelling himself off. More time for doubts to appear in your mind, more time for worry. You begin to wonder. What’s going on there? What’s next? “I’m better than you,” he whispers in your ear, “but circumstances decree that we go through the motions of proving the obvious. I shall dictate the terms of our so-called contest, & I shall treat you as a mere irritating irrelevance.” He bounces the ball on the court for what seems like an eternity, each thud traversing across the surface & debilitating your reserves of fortitude. Then, finally after he has taken away the very ground beneath your feet, he throws the ball high into the air – it hangs therein a fraction longer than possible, it seems to you – & serves.
Strangely enough, the serve seems quite innocuous. The carrot. It’s a gentle looping serve into your forehand arc, & you through the kitchen sink at it. Life is ready for this, as he sprints into action & returns with just as much ferocity. Baseline to baseline you two go, each one pounding the ball as hard as possible. Yet, inexplicably, Life seems to be adding a little bit extra every single time. You feel lead in your legs, & you take one last almighty swipe at it. As a primeval grunt escapes from your lips, the ball seems destined for a point beyond his reach…somehow, Life gets to it, only just however, & returns a short backhand. The perfect approach shot. You cover ground in a rush, feeling the adrenaline pumping in your veins. You see the open court across the net, & Life is too far out to even attempt a return. The crowd holds its breath as one, waiting for the crescendo. Then you remember his eyes. The calculating eyes of a murderer. The stick. Is there more to the return than meets the eye, you wonder. You convince yourself there must be. You tell yourself that you must take it easy, not grab at it. Instead of a full-blooded forehand, you attempt a cheeky dropshot. The moment the ball leaves the strings, you know something is wrong. Irrecoverably wrong. The ball ends up halfway up the net, spinning crazily as if paying tribute to the chaotic ballet of this climax. Game Life.
Not one voice speaks; the crowd is dead. Laugh, & the world laughs with you; weep, & you weep alone.
Life allows himself a practised smile. Life, he knows only too well, is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans.
His first serve is a monster, at superhuman pace & wide out of your reach. It lands in. Ace. Life 15-0.
You shake your head & move to the other end of your half-court. They say the grass is greener on the other side, & it almost seems to be true. He misses his first serve, you move closer to the baseline to attack the second. His second serve is short, & you hammer it up the line for all your worth. Winner. 15-15. You throw a little fist-pump in the director of your coach.
Life nets his next serve, You can barely suppress your chuckle. Second serve, & what do you know, Life serves it long. Double fault. You’re 15-30 up. The crowd begins to get behind you – the underdog must have his day! Life seems a little sluggish, a little predictable.
First serve. Down the centre at average speed, slightly tentative. You get enough racquet on it to send it back at his feet, loaded with topspin. The ball kicks off the baseline, & Life shanks the return. 15-40! The crowd goes wild, your wolfish grin isn’t subtle anymore. You even shout an audible obscenity coupled with a “Come on!” This is too easy, you think. What on earth had your coach warned you about, he who has battled Life far longer? You begin to think of your press bytes after you’ve taken Life to the cleaners.
Meanwhile, Life sets about doing what he does best – putting his head down. He has a glint in his eyes, steel in his jaw. Down two break points, he uncorks a first serve that flies past you before you have time to blink, as if greased with lightning. 30-40.
Still there is time, still there is hope. Your plans are still in place. Maybe you’ll tone down your derision in the press conference later, maybe you’ll be a wee bit more generous towards your vanquished opponent.
Life doesn’t care. His objective is almost mechanical, as if pre-ordained. Big first serve, into the body. You’re a split second too late & the ball hits you flush on the chest. It hurts. You wonder which hurts more – the hard ball smacking you at speed or Life showing you the glimmer & then closing the door on your face. 40 all, deuce. The crowd grows quieter every moment.
First serve, right down the centre. Lands bang on the T. Too good. Far too good. Ace. You know in your heart of hearts that this is different – opponents hit balls into places where you may not be, Life is hitting them into places where you can never be. The revelation is ominous. Reality is upon you, & it’s almost as if you’ve brought a tablespoon to a gunfight. Advantage Life.
Life, for the first time, looks you in the eye. He looks not only at you, but through you, as if he has already disposed of you. He knows this precisely & wants to see it reflected in the fear in your eyes. He wants to breathe it in. It invigorates him just as it cripples you. He snarls, you see his jagged teeth. A bit of mental disintegration. He walks away from the service-line, asking the ball boy for a towel. He takes time in towelling himself off. More time for doubts to appear in your mind, more time for worry. You begin to wonder. What’s going on there? What’s next? “I’m better than you,” he whispers in your ear, “but circumstances decree that we go through the motions of proving the obvious. I shall dictate the terms of our so-called contest, & I shall treat you as a mere irritating irrelevance.” He bounces the ball on the court for what seems like an eternity, each thud traversing across the surface & debilitating your reserves of fortitude. Then, finally after he has taken away the very ground beneath your feet, he throws the ball high into the air – it hangs therein a fraction longer than possible, it seems to you – & serves.
Strangely enough, the serve seems quite innocuous. The carrot. It’s a gentle looping serve into your forehand arc, & you through the kitchen sink at it. Life is ready for this, as he sprints into action & returns with just as much ferocity. Baseline to baseline you two go, each one pounding the ball as hard as possible. Yet, inexplicably, Life seems to be adding a little bit extra every single time. You feel lead in your legs, & you take one last almighty swipe at it. As a primeval grunt escapes from your lips, the ball seems destined for a point beyond his reach…somehow, Life gets to it, only just however, & returns a short backhand. The perfect approach shot. You cover ground in a rush, feeling the adrenaline pumping in your veins. You see the open court across the net, & Life is too far out to even attempt a return. The crowd holds its breath as one, waiting for the crescendo. Then you remember his eyes. The calculating eyes of a murderer. The stick. Is there more to the return than meets the eye, you wonder. You convince yourself there must be. You tell yourself that you must take it easy, not grab at it. Instead of a full-blooded forehand, you attempt a cheeky dropshot. The moment the ball leaves the strings, you know something is wrong. Irrecoverably wrong. The ball ends up halfway up the net, spinning crazily as if paying tribute to the chaotic ballet of this climax. Game Life.
Not one voice speaks; the crowd is dead. Laugh, & the world laughs with you; weep, & you weep alone.
Life allows himself a practised smile. Life, he knows only too well, is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans.
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