I like the eastern Europeans in dark glasses
who claw and fight for every point.
Lose, and they will be sent back
to the goat hills of Transylvania.
Give me the competitor who challenges calls,
hurls his racket, and is generally unpleasant,
rather than the blond California boys
who view their tennis as patrician play
before they become portly pros
at some exclusive tennis resort.
I prefer the player who digs in,
knowing he is short on natural talent,
but long on desire and heart.
Kudos to those contestants who consider
every double fault as a personal affront,
and who would gladly cough up a lung
reaching for a wide serve to the ad court.
Let me battle against the volley of death
with decidedly uncourtly manners
as I hit a screaming forehand
that just kisses the far baseline.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME