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Love for the game: To be in the zone


In the zone

When you as an athlete are in the zone,
with all your senses out of proportion blown.
You set the tone with your shots being prone
to dropping, leaving the D gawking when you own,
the court with the fruit of the seeds long ago sown,
and watered with sweat and feet so worn cloths so torn
from running zig zag around evenly spaced cones,
or pebbles kept apart at a distance for you to hone
your dribble, by going laps around the small domes
over and over like a drone without a drone.

Sailing your ship with the fuel of failure as a stepping stone.
Breaking your back before the bill of birds beckon the break of a bleak or bright morn,
and the first rays of light signal the flight of the early bird after the worm.
Day after day night after night, keep pacing and pounding,
risk looking crazy or astounding cutting a figure lone.
Never letting up even fleetingly when feeling frightened feelings of being forlorn.
Keep it bottled up, seething, only through your play let your emotions be shown.
Verbal expressions of anguish are of dignity shorn,
silently is how this cloud of doubt should be borne.
Silently toil with head bowed and shred your fingers to the bone.
Until you reach the level when you come into your own.
When you can stand up to formidable foes and hold your own,
and go from A to B before a stone from A is thrown,
towards B to see if you can beat the flight of a stone flown
from a throw of strong hands towards lands unknown,
and move in new directions one step at a time, mind and body atone.

Spinning a thin thread of moves leading up to a complete cloth sewn,
while not giving a thought to the larger pile of worn out threads strewn
about, and keep the thread spinning and play on it like a guitar string to merry tones,
even when the ligament of your ankle is torn up to the shin bone.
The good leg can still lug the game leg along,
for the duration of a match of any sort however long.
Batten down the hatch, hold the fort, sound the horn,
every morning at the crack of dawn before the cock has crowed his song.
Keep running, smile will follow the frown ere your time is long gone.
Getting better is a road long that goes on and on,
and leads up to those precious few moments when you are in the zone,
that makes it worthwhile for a while all the work put in alone.

The long road goes on…

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