Smash

The Poem

For a moment she is not touching anything.Not the sand, not the net,not the ground that has always been there to receive her —just the air, just the apex,just the instant between the jump and the smashwhen the body has given everything to get hereand has not yet given the last thing.

The arm cocked. The ball waiting.The sun above in its perfect yellow indifference.

Just the apex

She is made of every color.Red and orange and the green of every summer,the blue of the pier, the teal of the water,the gold of the dead grass, the turquoise tile line,the amber of the desert —all of it contained in the silhouette of a bodythat learned to do this and kept learningand came here, to this court, in this sand, under this sun,to do it in front of everyone who came to watchand everyone who didn’t know they needed to until she left the ground.

The giants roam this beach.Players from everywhere —Brazil, Germany, the flat courts of the Midwestwhere they practiced in different lightfor this moment, this sand,this specific resistance of Manhattan Beach under their feetbefore they leave it.

They come here because this is where the best finds out if it’s actually the best.The court doesn’t care where you’re from.Just the net. Just the sand. Just the sun.

The crowd gathers.Beach chairs. Drinks. Sunglasses.The specific knowledge that this court on this beachis where the thing happens —simultaneously the highest level of a sportand a Tuesday afternoon in the sand,no walls, no roof,no separation between player and watcherexcept the net and the altitude of the smashand the sound when it lands.

Made of every color

The sun is yellow. The sand is yellow.The net is teal.The sky is white and vastand holds her for the moment she needs to be held.

This is the heartbeat of the beach.Not the pier alone, not the waves alone —all of it, all of them,the whole community gathered in the sandwatching someone leave the groundand for one moment be everything at once.

The smash is coming.The sand is waiting.The crowd already knows what they came for.

She is still in the air —made of everything, aimed at the moment,and the moment is now,and the smash will be heard all the way down the strand,all the way to the pier,all the way to the water where the tribe swims on Sunday mornings —

the specific percussion of a body
that trained for years to do one thing perfectly
and did it
in the air
above Manhattan Beach
in the sun.