The Match

They were warmed up now – the anticipation of battle was in their eyes. In their tense movements. In their terse exchanges. They had met many times before. They would meet many times again. Each occasion had the same elements – the thrill of competition, the shiver of excitement. Each occasion had its unique flavour. The thrill of competition, the shiver of excitement. The raucous audience settled down. This was what they had come to see.

The match began. Two athletes seeking victory. Same game, same aim, different methods. One tall and angular; moving with a breathtaking economy of movement. He was playing out a silent symphony – moving on tiptoes, seemingly out of position on every point and yet perfectly poised when the ball arrived. And then the hand moved like a whiplash! The ball was speeding towards the racket and now it was travelling away with greater ferocity. The angle was perfect; the ball hit where it was meant to hit, pitched once and was on its way down again. Sure winner. No one was going to reach that.

It was scooped inches off the floor by the other. And then he was here, there – everywhere. Unlike his opponent, he seemed to fill up all space. And the noise! A waterfall in monsoon. A concrete monolith crumbling to earth. Every movement was an indulgence – every stroke played with wantonness. Lust. Excess. The sheer joy of unfettered power. A gun replaced by a racket. An imperfect body moving in perfect synchrony. He was competing with his opponent and he was competing with himself. He was equal to both.

And now the ball was bouncing around as if in a giant pinball machine. Explosive hits mixed with soft twangs as each point became a love-hate relationship between wall and ball. A whisper of movement alternated with a clamour. The audience watched stunned, wide eyed. Each stretch, each dive, each sprint was applauded with absolute silence.

The match continued well past the energy levels of both players. And yet they would not give up. The quality waned a little. The effort did not. More errors were made. The ball seemed to have developed a mind of its own – hitting the frame of the racket more often than the centre. Mini puddles of sweat formed on the floor. The match seemed like it would never end; just before it did. A tired swing, an uneven bounce. Two points. It was over.

The players stepped out of court, pouring sweat. The audience gushed its admiration. They sat down; unspeaking, unmoving for the next five minutes. Then one turned to the other:

“Think we’ll make varsity?”

“Nah – not good enough”.

“Yeah. I guess. Dinner?”

“Sure”

He turned to the audience.

“You guys hungry?”

“Yeah”

“So pizza for six then?”