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
of biting chop and kicking loop.

Some small wars take no time to wage
while others seem to last an age
when players with patience for the fight
invoke the law of expedite.

As beads of sweat bedew the babel
of celluloid on bat and table,
selfless officials buzz around
their busy hive of sight and sound.

Each fiercely fought fraternal game
puts the shine back on sport's good name;
memories will be - all duelling done -
of friendships forged, we have all won!

Keith Good