Split-Step

His racquet goes back.

Now.

The hop so small spectators miss it.

Both feet leaving earth just as his strings meet ball.

In that airborne instant—everything.

The shoulder turn that telegraphs crosscourt.
The wrist laid back means topspin.
The lean that says he’s going wide.

But mainly—the sound.

Each string tension sings different.

Loose racquets whip. Tight ones crack.
Off-center hits whisper their betrayal.

Landing now.

Weight neutral, ready to explode either direction
while the ball still rises, quietly keeping its secrets.

Years of this tiny dance.

Started when coaches yelled “Move your feet!”
Not understanding—the feet can’t move until they’ve left the ground.

New players think it’s about speed.

It’s about time.

That tenth of a second when you’re neither here nor there.
When you’re pure possibility.

The ball reveals itself—heavy slice to the backhand.

His body knew before his mind.
Already pushing left, already turning.

Set up early. Time to choose—
drive it back crosscourt, or that little chip return
that dies just over the net.

He chips.

Watches his opponent scramble.
Already split-stepping for the next shot.

After the match, beers with the younger guys.

“How do you always know?”

Their eagerness reminds him of himself,
asking the same question decades back.

He could explain—the physics of preparation,
the biomechanics of deception.

How shoulders lie but hips tell truth.

Instead: “Just jump when they swing.”

They think he’s holding back. He is.

What he won’t say—
there is no secret.

Just hours of living in that gap between strike and flight.

Learning to trust empty air.