Oh, Jason

Once in a parent-child 
            tennis tournament, 
my mother hit me 
            with her serve. 
No Roscoe Tanner 
            booming aces, 
she managed nevertheless
            to slice open my ear, 
and pretty soon 
            I was drenched in blood. 
A student of paradox, 
            I couldn’t believe 
that something moving so 
            slowly could cause so 
much damage. 
            It was like family itself. 
My Izod shirt may as well 
            have been a teenage girl 
in a horror film, 
            and the ball, 
a drunken butterfly-turned- 
            Jason Voorhees— 
all it needed was a machete 
            and a hockey mask. 
“Puck!” I screamed, 
            though I was only 12 
and would have 
            my mouth washed out 
with soap whenever I swore. 
            My shirt certainly 
needed some detergent,
            as did my soul. 
My mother, who didn’t want 
            to be playing 
competitive tennis— 
            she couldn’t take the stress—
started sobbing immediately. 
            Perhaps the blood 
reminded her of something. 
            “I’ve hurt my baby,” 
she cried. “I’ve hurt my baby.” 
            “No,” I said. 
“That would be your husband 
            who hurt your baby 
and often quite badly.”
            (Even then I spoke 
like a professor.) 
            For my father, 
there was no love without scoring, 
            no love without scarring. 
Our opponents—a man 
            and his nine-year-old 
daughter—looked on aghast. 
            Blood was dripping 
onto my racket. 
            “Now, Mom,” I said, 
“Get it together. 
            We really need to beat 
these people.”
            Together—what a terrific
family word, linking 
            genes and distress. 
How I loved irony, 
            that disease of the would-be 
rescuer who, not a minute 
            in the water himself, 
promptly drowns.

Ralph James Savarese | Hospitum
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)