To feel

      I see the ball fly up.       I feel it.       I hear it.       I hear it rustling in the hand, cutting through the air as it flies up, and then a loud, deafeningly loud hit on the racket. My body reacts on its own — before coming to my senses, I take two steps and hit the green-yellow projectile, sending it over the net to the opposite side of the field. We play for a couple of minutes, but at some point the ball ends up at the net.       I straighten up, breathing noisily. The stuffy, stale air gets into my lungs, but it is critically lacking. I inhale hysterically over and over, but it seems that the only thing that will get into my blood is dust. The wind hits my cheeks, knocking out my breath in intermittent gusts. But even through it, the heat breaks, which, it would seem, has permeated everything around. The air is heavy and humid. I raise my head — as if painted leaden, with mother-of-pearl edges, clouds are furiously racing across the sky and here and there bright blue bald spots appear.       The rest does not take even half a minute. I bend into a stance again, lowering the racket. He knocks the ball on the ground, warming up his wrist, and I’m waiting for the next serve.       The ball is in the air.       I do not have time — the racket hits crookedly, at an angle and the small ball crashes into the metal net fencing the court with a ringing roar. I exhale in disappointment and jump back to the starting place.       Another serve — I run, missing just a bit — the ball barely touches the frame of the racket, unpleasantly scraping the ground.       I miss five more serves before finally hitting. With a dull sound and minimal speed, the ball still flies to the other side, and the coach sends it into the net. I rest my hands on the knees and breathe, breathe in dust, the scorching wind, the screams of children in the background — just to fill the emptiness of the lungs. I breathe like a cornered animal. White socks are stuck to the rubbed calluses and each step gives a burning sensation just above the heels.       I straighten up — quickly, so that it darkens before my eyes and run to the out line, getting ready to receive. He plays with the ball longer than usual, but finally serves. I hit with all my strength, and the racket turns. I feel a dull pain in my wrists, but only look at the ball — a poisonous green, small dot against the background of heavy clouds.       It falls on the grass behind the court.       Summer hits my head deafeningly. The smell of flowers behind the court, sweat, burnt grass, hot concrete — all this mixes into one continuous cacophony and knocks the ground out from under the feet. The wet T-shirt sticks to my back — it seems that not only it, but the whole body is soaked in sticky, tart sweat.       “The last one!” the wind brings me the remains of a scream from the other end of the court. I freeze, like a predator before an attack. I watch his every move, catching the smallest details. I can’t miss the last ball. It would mean losing, losing not just one battle, but an entire war. But if I can, all the previous misses will no longer matter.       The swing of his arm resembles the flapping of a wing — weightless, simple, and yet graceful. I follow the apple dot with my eyes. The sneakers shuffle dully across the court in unison with the hit of the racket. The serve falls just under my left hand. I hit, gathering the last of my strength, knocking the air out of lungs — the ball flies past the coach, hits the ground very close to the whitish line and flies into the fencing. I feel my salty lips stretch into a victorious smile. The coach nods, smiles back at me and claps. Bloody feet, wet T-shirt, tiredness — none of this matters in the slightest. I breathe hoarsely — my throat is sore, and a tart metallic taste spreads through my mouth.       The taste of my victory.