The tennis player was the ballet dancer of the court, making leaps into summer-spun air that would have honoured any stage any place.
God given talent and well earned ability - this was the tennis player. They had taken the lump of clay we are all handed at our birth and sculpted themselves into sporting works of art.
The tennis player - poise and grace with aromatic aggression - took to the court as if she already owned the win.
We build ourselves, I've heard that many times, yet it is ever more clear when I see a tennis player. They have become finely tuned for the task of the match, to serve aces and reach on poetic reflex. Yet I suppose we are all that way with whatever we have chosen to dedicate our lives toward.
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