Championship Point

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This poem describes my great love and passion for the game of tennis.

Submitted: July 06, 2008

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Submitted: July 06, 2008

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Championship Point

A racquet meets a green felt ball

On a court of grass, clay or concrete.

The ball is smashed across the net

And lands just inside the base line.

"Forty-Love, championship point!"

Yells the chair umpire.

The ball is serviced.

It hits the net

But lands in the service box.

The chair umpire declares

"Let. First service."

That bright green sphere of felt

Is serviced once more.

It lands in the service box

It gets by the opponent.

Game, set, match, championship.

All of those in one service.

I love this game

That we call tennis.


© Copyright 2017 Fonzie. All rights reserved.

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