Just like the calm before a dreadful storm,

A terrible peace that comes with fury,

Everything stills watching my perfect form.

Contact is made making the scene blurry.

Completing the stroke leaves my racket still,

My pulse races waiting for a return.

I rush at the net going for a kill,      

Wind rustles my hair as my muscles burn,

The point won brings a feeling less than joy.

No time for emotion in a tight match.

Racket in hand, I set out to destroy,

Destroy I did, victory I snatched.

            Sweet victory does not mean everything.

            I play not for wins, but for feeling.

spring training…here i come.