By Prem Gongaju

Dear Gentle Readers: Let me share the following dream I had the other night.

Every imaginable shot fired that went unanswered,
Every unimaginable shot fired, that too went unanswered;
It was a virtual one man underhanded show, so, the Ace is known
The Underhand Man in all the tennis courts of the world.

The die-hard fans swung their heads like pendulums, right and left,
Back and forth, hypnotized by the bold swings of their fearless Ace,
A feat unmatched since its jeu de paume humble beginning
To its culmination in the first Wimbledon Championship in 1877.

The umpire had to sush the sold-out, enthralled crowd so many times
That his chair often seemed to rattle a bit. Egged on by the Underhand Ace
The wild spectators punctuated the shots with hails and acclaims.
‘This is how the Kings play!’ said a father to his tennis obsessed son,

Whose hero was none other than 7-Grand Slammer John McEnroe.
‘But Daddy, where’s the net?’ A query from an eager future ace.
‘Nets are for the commoners, Kings don’t need no nets.’ ‘I see,’
Said the son, and loudly toyed with the idea of adopting Rex Upperhand

For his future moniker, which his daddy considered a grand idea.
From the far end of the Bench seating a harmless voice is heard,
‘Pa, Pa, why are the bunch of guys clowning without their tennis rackets
And feigning to hit the ball back to the server. And why so many players?’

Pa’s reply was muffled by the murmur from the bench sitters.‘Yup,
A clear violation of the singles rule.’ ‘Pa, tell me why,’ begged the son.
‘Fair or foul, son, some strongmen make their own rules for winning.’
‘Ain’t that stealing, Pa?’ ‘I guess so.’ ‘Stop the steal, stop the steal!,’

Hollered the lad. The whispers and murmurs cascaded boldly from
The Promenade to the Baseline Seats. Even the Box Seat occupiers
Could no longer hide the feeling of vexation. A palpable atmosphere
For the chant—The Emperor Has No Clothes—could break out any moment

Suddenly, a pandemonium filled the stadium . . .”

And I woke up perspiring profusely.