Tennis

• Austin Pianta, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2016

My sea blue eyes flicker from my opponent to the ball in my hand. I lick my salty lips, steel my nerves. My pulse quickens, I wipe the sweat from my brow. I toss the ball to the ground, once, twice, knowing that it will fly back to my hand. My right shoulder pulls back as my left hand gently throws the ball into the air. I whip the racket forward at an impossible speed to deliver it on its journey to my opponent. My topspin surprises him, he leans back and strikes the ball off balance. Perfect. The ball arcs toward me in slow motion, devoid of all but minimal spin. Don’t rush the shot… NOW! I fire the ball down the court with deadly power, not giving my opponent a chance. He changes rackets, that’s all to blame for his performance right? WRONG!

My next serve scorches right past him, leaving the man in shock. I’m cool as ice now, ready for whatever he can throw at me. As my racket flicks forward for the serve, he’s already moving back, preparing for topspin. I sigh inwardly, my racket cuts under the ball, giving it lethal backspin. Somehow he still manages to send it flying back to me. I stretch and send the ball straight to him, not realising he has moved forward to volley. He smashes the ball behind me, too fast to recover. I secretly kick myself, more shots like that and I’m gone. Put off by my bad performance I slam the ball straight into the net. From the other side of the court I see my rival smirk. Just you wait. The crowd chatters excitedly, then falls silent.

The sun glints off my racket as it is lifted up, then it flies forward in that movement that I have practised hundreds, thousands of times. The ball flies over the net, spinning so fast it’s a blur, a blur of green that hit the ground and is launched forward even faster than before. The opponent hits a cracker of a return, which I hit back. We rally for a while, before he eventually hits it out.
The smirk gone from his flushed face, the rival sets his jaw and refuses to look at anything beside the ball. Let’s go.

Game ball. Match ball. I need this. I cast the ball to the court three times, for luck, watching bounce back to my hand each time. My shoulder moves like a well oiled machine, rotating back and around to hit the ball as it’s just dropping from the apex of the throw. The ball falls back into the net of blue strings, then explodes outward. Just missing the top of the net it glides through the air like an arrow, then touches the court just in. However, this is no ordinary serve. The ball hits the ground and skids, ghosting underneath the opponent’s the racket frame. ACE!!! What a game!