Tennis Memories
Lotta Grimborg 



 

 

 

 

Sliding in the red clay
a whirl of dust materialises
circling my white shoes
leaving stains on my pleated white skirt
tanned shins
the sound of sliding in dry brick 



 

 

 

 

The sweaty grip that glues onto my palm
the racket
an extension of my arm
my bodily memory remembers it well the ball in conversation with the blue sky
the strings vibrate
but stiff
 



 

 

 

 

The salty sweat drops falling into my eyes
forcing me to blink
twice my filthy Adidas sweat band
comes to the rescue 



 

 

 

 

The groan that the body generates while hitting the ball hard
perfectly straight
they say I have a backhand
like Venus Williams