Racquetball

I am poised between two parallel lines, my feet splayed apart, my back arching forward with my stance, like a lunging fencer. I look down at the polished wood of the floor, where the varnish catches the fluorescence of the lights overhead. I let the globe of blue rubber fall from my hand, let it rebound from the surface of the boards, and then capture it again in my grasp. I steel myself, square my stance and my concentration. I let the ball drop once more, watch it as it floats back upward. As it approaches the apex of its motion, I draw my arm back, wind my torso with it, coiling to strike. My grip on the racquet in my hand is strong, and for a moment, there is tension in my limbs, tension which radiates outward from me, and hangs for a moment like a dense mist in the air of the room. Everything is still for a fraction of a second, and then my arm and the racquet snap forward in one swift, deadly motion, the great and vengeful release of the tension which had nearly stopped time itself. The screen of the racquet catches the ball where it hangs in the air, sends it hurtling with terrific velocity toward the white wall some nine feet away. It rebounds, and my adversary, who stood ready a few feet behind me and to the right, is ready. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him react, lunging, catching the ball with a forehand slice of the racquet. The ball, having faced the physics of rejection, hurtles back the way it came, and strikes the wall before me once more. By this time I am already moving backwards, giving myself space to arrange for another contact. I draw my arm and the racquet across my chest, and again I feel tension coil in my muscles, and again the tension finds its release in the swing of my arm and the meeting of the racquet and the ball. They touch for a fraction of a second, and then the motion of the ball has been reversed. My opponent’s eyes have never left the ball, and now he watches as it strikes the front wall again, and begins in an arc toward the back wall. Before the ball has even made contact with it, he has realized what he must do. It is too high for him to hit, so he runs forward, lets the ball strike the back wall, and then for a moment he and the ball are moving in the same direction. It soon overtakes him, and he readies himself to swing. But he has misjudged. The ball is moving too fast. Perhaps by millimeters, it beats the edge of his racquet. Barely, it has escaped yet another abusive strike. It finds the front wall, and then the floor. It is over. The play has taken only a quarter of a minute.