FOR MARIA SHARAPOVA

Harder, harder, harder — slam the ball

Down through the claws of those opposing hands.

The prince and duchess, present in the stands,

Will soon invite you into Anmer Hall.

They recognize — the winner takes it all.

Theirs is a court where one no more commands

The people, nor may conquer foreign lands

And nothing comes of muscle, nerve, and gall.

But yours! — yours is a kingdom, fingers curled

Around a scepter posing as a racquet,

The clay a rich, red carpet at your heel.

And you are our catharsis in a world

Which slips us in a fitted sideline jacket

To meet restraint, regardless how we feel.

This poem appears in the May 4, 2015, print issue of National Review.