He knew it was time to go,
remembering he had once thrived
in the heat of the competition.
In his last game he went down
with a whiff instead of a whimper.
Age had caught up with him,
his skills set definitely diminished,
his foot speed rather slow.
He had trouble seeing the ball, and
on those occasions he made contact,
it flew to places unintended.
His defense, too, was shaky,
allowing balls to fly right past him.
Where before he could play games
at an undiminished pace,
now it took all his effort to
concentrate on even one game.
Body parts abandoned him,
a strained elbow, a balky knee.
Sadly, he came to the conclusion
it was past time to put away his beloved
table tennis paddle and find a new passion,
something less physically taxing,
maybe golf?*
THE POETRY OF THE GAME