(Played in the morning. Got high on dopamine. The high did not leave me throughout the day. I have written this poem only to record my feelings, and to verify if others who play tennis also experience something like this. Recorded below are the flashes that keep springing before my eyes.)

Eight hours after we wrapped up the game,

I can still hear the tingling of racquet strings,

Ball after ball is hitting the sweet centre,

Slammed projectiles keep landing on the line.

I lunge at every ball, sprint, bend, and hit,

Sunbathing squirrels on the side net applaud,

I’m throwing kitchen sink into my forehands,

Monkeys perched atop trees, in alarm, screech.

Trying backhand slices, getting somewhat better,

The burning left elbow serves notice,

Missed volleys do occasionally flash,

I look up to see birds floating in clear sky.

Shouldn’t  I have crushed the slow second serves?

The calf pricks, the knee wobbles, but sweet’s the pain,

Landed first serves provide orgasmic delight,

Winter breeze on the court is very heaven.

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