(Un)Returnable

My crosscourt forehand misses the white tape of the net by an inch
It’s a disguised designed passing ploy plopping on the line with a pinch
The parallel ally marks are borders bounding my breaking ball shot
A whip of the wrist harvests a hard hit rifle resembling a jot
An uncomplicated shift with a shuffle step to net
Followed by a backhand slice volley no one has returned yet