You calculate it, hundreds of calculations
Considering angles, trajectory, velocity. Equations
completed in moments, you know
when the little blue ball is x, y, z, or t.
You stand on the wooden floor, eyes bouncing, following.
You burst to the exact point that you should.
One foot on the red line, far enough from the three sweaty men
(or as far as you can get in this small room)
You swing your framed plastic mesh, just right.
A blue streak slams the side wall low
bounces off the front,
taps the ground,
dies in the corner.
This is how you win.
But when you fail, you’re told to
to consciously equate.
Don’t. That’s when you lose,
when the meat of your knee enlarges with fluid,
when the blue ball leaves a white circle surrounded by a red ring
that stings,
when you’re sore for days and can’t walk straight up stairs.
It’s when you get hurt.

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