The Trophy

Its glossy wood,
Its perfectly painted pictures.
They all hold memories,
Memories that I wouldn't give up for anything,
but there is one that I love the most.

The rubbery smell of the grip,
Flakes of rubber left on my sweaty hand.
The racquet sings with pride and longing,
to hit the fabric covered ball.
Sand flies from under my overworked sport shoes.
I pull back my sore arm,
I hit the ball with all of my remaining force.
It flies at the speed of light.
The crowd cheers as it goes in.

It holds memories,
Memories that I wouldn't give up for anything,
It is my trophy.