Holding the Line

I leaned back against the curved wall of the tennis ball and let my shoulders sink into the dense yellow felt. It made a solid, firm backrest after an afternoon of heavy rolling. Down on the wool rug, the wooden pawn stood guard at my left flank, while our blue pennant stayed upright in its steel anchor. I reached over, plucked the taut red rubber boundary line, and listened to its quiet, low hum fade across the floorboards. Everything in base camp remained in exact formation under the warm lamp glow. Perimeter secure. Time to rest.