Before school, at recess, lunchtime,
we line up parallel with the grey brick wall.
First boy looks back along the line,
hits the tennis ball with his open palm,
underhand, down into the asphalt.
Up it bounces onto the wall
just above the metal drip shield
about eighteen inches up
and back to ground somewhere else
where the next boy continues,
perhaps winding up and smashing it,
forcing the third boy to run back to reach it
or angling it severely,
causing lateral panic for the kid after him.
Best of all: the masked, subtle drop shot,
from deep in the makeshift 'court'
which has no back line
or side line for that matter,
the only arbiter required,
the ping of hitting that tin line
causing immediate elimination
just as surely as not reaching your shot
or not getting ball to wall with one bounce.
The number of players keeps whittling down
till you're down to the final two.
If Boycey's your opponent, watch out!
Mark Boyce, acid-tongued slow talker,
shock of orange hair and fat freckles,
gangly as all get-out and a downball legend.
Never seems rushed but he gets there,
wherever you put the ball,
then he'll thud it back over your head
or caress it so it grazes the wall
and piddles out to nothing.
Self-regulating, all-seasons downball,
only fizzled with the coming of cigarettes.
bw
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