It is a blade of grass slicing through the sunset,

A drop of sweat wetting the stage.

It is the chalk that evaporates under the blows of the gods:

A symphony from Roger, a lash from Rafa.

It is playing the same damn game for three days,

Is the fearless Steffi’s half-hour of fire.

It is a cork invading the arena,

A golden bowl of strawberries and cream.

It is the stripped grass at the edge of the field,

Is some concrete and some soil as well.

He is a line judge who becomes an automaton,

A lateral line that becomes a frontier.

It is a splat that splashes into orbit and

Is a lob that plummets to the ground.

It is an up and down, a spaceship,

Is to slip and fall and hurt yourself.

It is to play lame, mesti, bandaged,

Fighting with tennis elbow.

It is playing with the cheer against and the wind in your favor,

The closed fist clenching a silence.

It is the hand shaking on the second serve:

Is an ace on the second serve.

It is Hanspeter who remains of salt and

Siglinde hiding her face.

Is to receive the club card

Because you defeated them all,

First to last in line.

Because you are first in line.

Because today Wimbledon is…

Jannik Sinner

Joseph Cosio