On a clay surface, 
the tennis ball arcs slowly,
as if the air is honey.
Clay slows the game, 
forces you to think.
I know a little about this
from the one time 
my father whisked me off 
to play on a real red clay court, 
just like at Roland-Garros, 
he promised.
Neither of us even close to Nadal,
sweat and clay pollinating
across my body
as I struggled to keep up,
to show him
how much I loved the clay.
In tennis, Love
means zero, 
which also means
that when I play,
I am almost always Love,
in loss.
Most often, in this life, I am losing 
to my father. My father says
tennis is a psychological thriller,
which he loves, of course.
Some players need 
the antagonism 
of an unfriendly crowd
—that’s when they thrive--
my father always said so,
post-tennis beer in hand.
He was a terrible teacher
but a beautiful player once,
when I was little--
a lithe strong god,
his sinewy legs stretching improbably
across the court.
I thought he was good enough to be pro. 
Then the war,
then the terrible jobs,
his knees gave out, his elbow inflamed,
then my mother died,
and everything else--
I think most days of this life 
are played on a red clay court--
the ball travels differently
than you expected,
and mostly you’re at a loss,
and nearly always alone,
severed, cleaved from the coach
who cannot communicate
with you, whom you cannot hear.
I think of how often
I come across
studies of eldest daughters
of alcoholic men
and find myself.
How calming 
it is to just be a statistic,
to hide in the crowd.
How calming to imagine
a friendly crowd of 
other nameless, faceless girls
watching me,
my mouth salty with clay
and sweat and
blood from a bitten tongue,
but less alone.
They’re watching another girl play,
another girl trailing 30 – love, 40 – love, 
another girl down.
Love—I have not yet found 
a more gorgeous way to lose.