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Performance

by Ben Timberlake

Laces tied tight, shirt tucked in, gym shorts rolled, drawstring stuffed in and shunted to the left.

I give myself a quick glance in the mirror and notice that my clip-on tie is slightly crooked. I straighten it on my plain white t-shirt and I’m ready.

I step out into Wimbledon stadium, center court. A wave of applause, cheers, and marriage proposals such as this venue does not often hear washes over me like a high-powered hair dryer on an eye.

I wave as security tackles a middle-aged woman who has jumped onto the court and run to me, waving her undergarments. I notice her husband in a mixture of embarrassment at her actions and pride that she has distinguished herself in adoration of me.

I approach my spot, my metaphorical pulpit, the point from which I will take this whole crowd — as well as three-quarters of the civilized world, thanks to satellite broadcasts — into ecstasy. I hear the crowd noise crescendo.

I may be mistaken, but I believe I hear the high-pitched wailing of rutting elk.

I shake it off and reach for my two sticks. As soon as my hands simultaneously close around them, an electric silence douses the crowd’s fervor.

Only the sound of three large men fainting interrupts the calm. Medical personnel place pillows under the men’s heads and I nod to no one in particular.

I regard my instrument. And begin.