He’s been at it long enough to have become the service alone on a caged court standing a few steps outside one baseline next to a sturdy cardboard box of well-used tennis balls reach toss stretch stroke watch the landing near the opposite baseline feeling the whole movement just before becoming it he’s learned not to overthink to make needed adjustments mostly by feel sometimes when he keeps missing he’s found he serves better to an opponent even an imagined one a burly jock or a lean-muscled young woman with a game face standing a few steps outside the opposite baseline poised slightly crouched your best shot this time he misses watching their return volleys even though he’s trying to make them impossible reaching for another ball he picks one that feels slightly warm enough to notice the change he gives it his practiced toss a few feet above the reach of his armed racket falling toward him it begins to glow pausing just out of reach rotating bright blue with distinctive continental lesions his inmost self, immune to distractions, notices and is noticed an observer doubling the acting outer self already starting its swing impossibly slow matching the globe-ball’s resumed descent they strike it harder than usual in irritation now they’re at the opposite baseline the serve coming at them at speed again it pauses just out of reach now it’s a glowing transparent globe with a single bright blue eye the day has gone deeply dark with no time or distance the eye blinks at them once turning back into a tennis ball at speed they swing backhand late the ball having struck just inside their baseline flashes past them bounces to rest joins the others at the end-seam of court and cage.
The Dog Star 
2 Responses to “The Service”
Reminds me a bit of Ambrose Bierce‘s An Occurrence at Owl Creek. A poem in one breath. Very satisfying.
Thanks, Craig. A bit like playing a bagpipe.