Drop Shot

Our breaths hang in the air, eyes fixed on the server who has his body poised subjugated beneath the suspended ball of neon, dancing the ritual of service, left hand raised, tracking the ball, right hand gripping the racket, ready to strike, then breaking the suffocating silence with the split-second impact smashing the ball, which digs into to right corner of the opposite service box, caught by my sharp-eyed partner who reciprocates the attack, ripping through the ball and sending it back, which is immediately stolen from the air by the eager volleyer, her shot exploding like dynamite between us, which my partner flies towards, taking my side of the court, and hearing his footsteps, I instinctively move right, and hear his racket strings meet the ball inches from the ground, delivering it with an indignant thrust, but the return is a disappointing fraction of my partner's force, the blur of lime green slowing down to a single point in space, floating in a perfectly low arc, barely crossing over the net, and igniting the fire in both of our feet, we both pound toward the ball, racing with all the speed we can muster, and with me being there first, I scoop the drop shot back into the air, but sensing my partner's sudden apprehension, I realize my mistake and watch helplessly as the ball drifts higher and higher, until it loops obediently down toward the expectant opponent, who cradles the tired ball on his racket, and with a swift movement sends it bulleting toward my leg, and with less than the time to blink, I try dodging, but the ball stings my shin and I involuntarily cry out. Game.