This script is written for Ray and John,
the producers who put all the good plays on:

THE CENTRE

For a specialised activity;
a throng-attracting, buzzing sport facility
at the bottom of Underhill's back garden,
tucked close to the verdant vistas of the Lane.
A typically busy hive wherein workers
strive to create the honeyed strokes
and savour the sweet taste of success
at the world's fastest game.
Where the playing area is sectioned
like a giant honeycomb,
and where, through unique colonisation,
it is possible to fulfil an away fixture
yet play the game at home.

The table tennis gods again
summon believers to Barnet Lane;
pilgrims pay May month homage there
at the sport's shrine in Hertfordshire.

Players stretch sinews and strain nerves,
they unleash mesmerising serves;
amid the heedful hullabaloo,
a vigilant voice: 'Did you get through?'

One court becomes a boxing ring,
contenders throwing everything;
the ball's a face; the bats are fists -
they're metaphoric pugilists.

Fading hopes snagged in the net,
no wonder players tend to fret,
stretched on the rack, forced through the hoop

Relishing a results-rich run of form,
I set off for The Centre full of gorm;
throughout the evening I would not be ruth,
my killer instinct sometimes wanes, in truth.
My tactics in each contest would be ept
and focused concentration would be kept,
I would move in a chalant, gainly way
as list and ert invigorate my play.

Then ugly gruntlement struck as before:
how could I know what the fates held in store?

Form, you are a fickle thing,
veering from foul to fair;
you make feel a fulfilled king
or fill me with despair...