If memory serves, (hee, hee)
I used to be a tennis player.
No private lessons here,
but repeated practice sessions
against the handball wall
on West 5th Street, Coney Island.
I had my Jack Kramer racket,
one fuzzy ball and a fierce
determination to make
the high school tennis team.
Which I did,
second doubles,
fair enough considering
the pedestrian talent I had.
I played tennis until
I could no longer run.
I watched tennis on TV
until I could no longer see
the ball on the screen.
What is the net result?
I cherish the tennis life I’ve had.
While others played football,
baseball and basketball,
I’m forever secure in the knowledge
I will always be a regular guy
in the sports history of America.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME