My name is Nick O’Dea, and I’m performing JV Tennis, by Nick O’Dea. This slam poem is dedicated to the Las Lomas High School JV Tennis team and to the entire nation of France.

Why yes, I am on the tennis team.
Could you guess because of my physique?
I personally believe that tennis is one of the best sports out there:
a combination of skill, finesse, and agility.
Now I really think you should go to this JV tennis match this Thursday – sorry, what was that?
Did you just say no offense; you don’t think you can make it?
And what was that? Did you just say you think tennis is easy? Because I’m offended at that one.
Trust me, have you seen Wimbledon? And what do you mean JV tennis isn’t like Wimbledon?
Because trust me, you know, it’s pretty intense.

The matrix turns real as my fears as bullets pierce the air,
Whistling past my ears as I go Neo to stay alive and upright.
Green projectiles fly, break the sound barrier.
Not a school shooting, it’s scarier. This is JV tennis.

Thursday: time for a tennis match.
I saunter on to the courts with my sword, racquet ready to dole out destruction.
I muster up a serve that ought to slaughter my foe so bad he makes Custer look good.
But right when I woulda hit it, I hear horse hooves on pavement, I turn, see a sight seen rarely.
Four horsemen on the tennis courts, sent by God to usher in the apocalypse of JV tennis.

The name of the first horseman is double foot-fault and he sends out a wasp.
I try to dodge this bee from hell, but it keeps on coming, so I try running in circles, take my tennis balls and throw them to try and escape it, but I just can’t make it, so I take my racket, start waving it crazily.
All my teammates see is me having a seizure. Trust me, there was a bee.
Eight mis-served balls, four double foot-faults: the first game, lost.

The name of the second horseman is swing and miss, and he curses the ball so when it falls, it bounces away. I dive to return a serve, it swerves.
The ball falls, so do I. I rise, ankle sprained, feel my pain, tennis is brutal.

The name of the third horseman is body shot.
I fly, racquet poised for my best shot, when suddenly it becomes a chest shot.
Ribs crack as my vision blackens. My opponent goes to dial his phone for an ambulance, but I rise, say no, this goes on until my death throes are so complete they blow me over for good.

But I forgot there was a fourth horseman. And his name is home run, and he’s the most devious one of the bunch.
The ball is coming towards me. I take my racket, and I slam it. It’s flying out of the court.
That’s a home run!
It’s flying into orbit! It’s a green streak in the atmosphere, no wait, it’s escaping into space! Just ricocheted off Orion’s belt and it’s coming right back at Earth!
Going faster and faster and faster and faster on a crash landing set in France!
Somewhere in Paris, a little boy looks up at the sky and he says, “Maman, maman, je vois une ball de tennis, une ball de tennis!”

But it’s too late, because fate has already been decided.
Bam! My tennis ball slams into the heart of France. Wipes it off the map.
The blast radius, miles wide; the crater, visible from space.
My hands are stained blue with the blood of Frenchmen.
The snail population rises, because their natural predator has just been taken out of existence.

I make a call. “Mom, I have good news and bad news. I think I just figured out what happened to Atlantis, but it just happened to Paris.”

And anyway, I lost that tennis match.
But whenever anyone tells me tennis is easy, I tell them, “You know nothing, you know nothing about JV Tennis.”