Whose wine is it, anyway?

Do you know it causes a fit? Among my hormones When I see him with a racquet, Aggressive on the court, Sighing and grunting, Back and forth sprinting, His back hand tilting, Not a sign of wilting, Like he's courting the sport! His eyes oscillating, While he watches the ball, His stance invigorating, Ready to attack and maul! His eyes smouldered, The opponent: cold shouldered, His spine elevating, He’s ready to serve, Twist and swerve, With athletic gyrating, He'll unsettle and unnerve. And While at play, This king of clay, Will scratch his nose, In a decided way, He will arrange his bottles, Before he throttles, His opponent Murray, Or let it be Djokovic, Or some other chap, Because to think of it, they’ll all face mishap, at the hands of the bull, until he’s had his full. Come Federer, Ferrer, Or any new play-er, He will disarm and defeat, And use his chiseled feet, to run to and fro, and build up his score, and what is more, he'