Martin's vicious forehand slams
a yellow missile onto the baseline.
It's a rocket. Whistles like a bullet.
Two games to one. Final set.
With a faintly superior smile
he looks almost apologetic.
‘I'm afraid I won that one, again’.
He shows barely a trace of sweat.
My people wrapped butter for his.
There is a certain look to their mouth.
We pressed their cricket whites
ran their baths, polished their brogues.
Their superiority is in-bred:
part of the order of things
like Martin's forehand lob.
We died for them in our droves.
Prep school, Oxford, the coxless fours
and now this. A minor victory
on the municipal courts.
He is about to take me apart.
He crouches at the quivering net.
He'll be modest in victory, of course
smile and offer a limp fist.
Shame I had such a bad start.
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