I’ve always pondered the reason for my existence.
Would I only ever make a side-show appearance?
Was I meant to be the hidden star behind tennis legends forever?
I began my plight this past September.
Roger Federer picked me up and tossed me high in the air;
I did a somersault for the crowd yet no one seemed to care.
Packing my hurt into a corner, I flexed my muscles for a show.
This next serve would forecast how the match would go.
The crowd goes silent and even the babies open their bleary eyes to see
As I ready for my moment of glory.
I could taste the anticipation in the cool autumn drafts:
My woolen shell drips with the crowd’s inaudible chants.
Whistling air is my only cue
Before the racket blasts me into the blue.
I rocket through the air, wind rushing through my hair
While the crowd perches on the edge of their chairs.
I land exactly on the service line and bounce straight back up.
The opponent stares at me with eyes that only see the Wimbledon Cup.
But no that is not meant to be,
Since I will be the one to bring home the renown trophy.
Sweat streams in rivulets down the man’s face
While I let myself go to my happy place.
I reach the peak of my curve and bask in the adoring eyes of all my fans.
This is my favorite part of all: when I feel like I weigh less than my couple grams.
I love when the whole crowd’s focus is on me--don’t fault me for being pretentious:
I just enjoy the world’s attentions.
The white paint on the grassy floor is all I see now.
The landing is when all other tennis balls look at me saying wow.
Generations of little nylon and wool balls
Would look to me as an idol who broke down all the walls.
With triumph ringing in my ears, I slide past the opponent’s racket with a grin.
The grass shoots closer, the space between us suddenly growing thin.
Thwack!
I slam into the grass with a satisfying crack.
Oh the ecstasy!
No one can explain the joy I felt at the rousing cheers of all my devotees.
There’s applause until hands are cherry colored
And screams that could never be numbered.
I revel in the roar of my eighth Wimbledon victory:
A record that would surely mark me down in history.
A chant slowly rises from the depths of the ecstatic crowd
And I wait in impatience to hear my name be howled out loud.
Yet all I could feel was a great deal of abhorrence
While Roger Federer gains all the credit for my fantastic performance.
Yes he is the man and yes I am the ball,
But isn’t this a world where even I could rise above all?
Success should not be limited to those who can walk and talk:
I deserve better than to just be stuck back in a sack.
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