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      July 23, 2018No NameJames Adams

      He had a huge rep
      an enormous clay court game
      wicked topspin off both wings
      and a big, big name—
      his entourage clucked Spanish at him
      in arrogant homage,
      drip-breasted groupies
      with their dark mascara smiling
      at me during the brief warmup
      with crocodile teeth
      and dark-rouge
      reptile cheeks.
      His sponsor reps had popped
      into town to snap pictures of him
      wearing the latest, smiling
      like the greatest, while
      dismantling the first round
      American No Name.
      In warmup his strokes twisted my racquet
      butting it against my hand and fingers—
      heavy, sopping shots that promised
      blisters before the second set
      as the ball nap whizzed the air
      dipping hornets, fizzing explosive
      spin into my palm.
      It was hard not to watch him stroke
      he was that beautiful
      the perfect brown skin,
      the heavy gold chain, cross, earring,
      Baryshnikov footwork, smooth
      glide and anticipation.
      Off to the side I saw the coach
      casually pointing to the next round
      opponent on the draw board.
      Nobody stood holding towels for me
      nobody sat in my stands
      my German sports-oil sponsor
      had said clothing patches were not
      in the budget
      the Italian shoe company had gone
      out of business when their sole adhesive
      melted in American hardcourt heat.
      My Le Coq outfit was one I had won
      in lieu of prize money—
      “Time,” the official called
      as people settled in with drinks and cellphones
      on the far side of the court.
      He looked through me,
      cocking his head to the chief moll
      who continued her knowing
      smile at him to me
      with a Jezebelled hook.
      I can’t account for what happened
      we were on my favorite surface
      slick, low bounce indoor composite
      but that couldn’t explain it:
      I boomed every serve in the corners
      his vicious returns were feathered
      into sharp, angled cross court
      drop volley winners,
      nothing he could do
      one-two-three
      the first game at love in four minutes
      I ripped all his serves on the lines
      15 minutes more and
      I was up 5-0.
      He screamed to Barcelonic heaven
      he threw yellow fluorescent
      balls into the overhead lights
      he cursed the Castillian tennis gods
      shaking his head and fists
      at the air, at the ground, at me
      he stumbled to retrieve my cut slice
      off-balance winners
      looking foolish
      each time I wrong-footed him
      then turned to shrug sheepishly
      at his coach, whose cigarette
      had turned to ash on his lips
      the reps had stood cameraless
      but sat in shock
      their drinks half full
      I never felt emotion, no nerves
      both knees dripping blood
      from textbook low volleys
              I was numb perfect
      moving like a harrier, falcon jet
      fast and bullet proof, I never missed
      it was over like electricity
      the girls kleenex’d their mascara
      —as I packed my courtbag
      and walked off
      by myself to shower.

      from #60 - Summer 2018

      James Adams

      “I grew up playing America’s top two sports: football and baseball. I always wanted to play in the NFL or MLB. When that didn’t work out, I started playing tennis seriously. Eventually, I became a member of the U.S. Professional Tennis Association, and got to play all over the U.S. and overseas. The all-encompassing tennis training discipline of mind, body, will, and spirit gave (and still gives) me the power to better concentrate on a page of poetry. Much of winning tennis is about mind over matter, in the face of tremendous adversity. Writing poems is the same challenge.”