Tennis is Calling Me

When it’s raining outside I cannot go,

To a simple place that everyone knows,

But its hard surface calls me,

And its white lines entice me,

So armed with my racquet, I give in once more

To the dopamine, adrenaline, and my cherie amour.

 

I know every inch like the back of my hand,

39 feet to the net, that stands 3 feet 6 on each end.

 

I can feel it, before I can see it,

A winner that brushes the sideline,

If you called it out you’d be blind.

 

With it, I bring not shame,

But honor to the game,

And the family name.

 

The goal is to sell the greatness of my forehand,

To a college coach,

Like its name-brand.

Without it, I look for the next fix,

But I fail to find anything else that makes my heart tick.

 

So, forever and ever tennis it is,

Go ahead, test me on it,

Give me a pop quiz.

But I promise you it’ll always be my life,

For I am tennis and tennis is my prize

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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