The Zen of Racquetball

David Allan Evans

 

- for Clyde Huyck

 

When I was 40 and a brand-new

hot-shot full prof,

I agreed to play a young

philosophy prof in love with Zen.

“You know,” he said, over coffee

the day before the match,

“what I really enjoy is

watching the ball going back

and forth.”“Yeah,” I said,

“it is fun, isn’t it?”

That was a lie. It wasn’t

fun; it was win win win.

 

Next day we ducked into the court

and, seeing his skinny,

library legs and flimsy K-Mart

racquet, I knew what was about

to happen. I beat him 15-zip

four straight games,and I

noticed he was smiling

as he played, obviously

having a good time losing—

just watching the ball,

when I hit it, going back and

forth, splatting out low

on the wall, dying low, and

lower, in the corners.

 

That was 15 years ago.

The Zen prof didn’t get tenure,

so he’s gone, teaching in

a private college up in Minnesota,

the kind of campus where

students drive Porsches and have

fireplaces in their dorm rooms.

And what about me? I stayed.


 

And with bad knees and a brace

on one of them, I still like

to play new, young profs.

But now it’s different,

I’ll admit. I like to watch

the ball going back and forth.

 

In fact, I like to meditate,

right there in the court.

I take a deep breath,

and exhale slowly as

the ball meets my racquet;

I watch the sweet spot

collapse slightly;

as the ball stops and is

about to leave I smell it,

taste it, hear it, feel it,

see it, and—not to kill it

or to win but just to keep it

in play—I swing, and

follow it with my goggled eyes

to the wall and then back to

my opponent’s racquet.

Focused, patient, breathing

like a man reading in bed,

I wait, and consider the ball

growing bigger and bigger

as it comes back to me—its

blue, quick, transient life.

I watch it flying back and

forth through the

white-walled universe.

 

[First appeared in Aethlon: The Journal of Sports Literature;

Reprinted in David Allan Evans’ The Bull Rider’s Advice: New and Selected Poems]

 

Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.

All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.

 

Return