I crafted a poem about my newfound hobby, an obsession that I can’t get enough of. While envisioning winning a tournament, a dreaded thought surfaced—a feeling I’ve never experienced before. I’m attempting to encapsulate it in my poem, which I dedicate to my beautiful wife. 

I like playing table tennis,  
dream of being good at it,  
so good that spectators, too,  
fall in love with the game.  

I imagine myself winning a tournament,  
rushing to you in triumph,  
embracing you tightly,  
for the encouragement,  
support, and trust you’ve given me.  

But then, I scan the crowd,  
searching for your face.  
What’s the worth of winning a game,  
if you’re not there to hold,  
to share the joy of the moment?  

Would it still be a win?