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Updated 8/24/99

Written 3/31/1988

It has long been known that out of all the sports known to man, only one has the grace, power, and sheer magic needed to establish itself as the preeminent sport of poets. That sport is, of course, racquetball. From its French/Arabic origins, to its modern form, racquetball, or Himmelsport, as it is referred to by our German friends, originated in the year 1922, the year in which T.S. Elliot's "The Wasteland" was published, as well as numerous other greats in poetry. "The Wasteland" detailed the fall of early racquetball, as players became disgusted at the lack of breadth and substance of the early game. Later, when the Continental grip was introduced, as well as a host of other rules, Elliot wrote "The Final Game of J. Alfred Prufrock", a masterpiece detailing Prufrock's final racquetball match, where he finally hit upon the Continental grip as a means towards the elusive kill shot. Since that time, racquetball has been written about by many poets in many forms, but the Prufrockian Continental Grip still remains the quintessential grip and subject of most modern poets.

This grip, along with many other esoteric aspects of racquetball, form the subject of the main body of modern poetry. It is this poetry which demands analytical consideration, the kind of consideration that can only arise from a deep and profound examination of the consistencies and contradictions, an examination which this paper will attempt to begin.

The obvious point to start at is "The Wasteland". Published in 1922, it chronicled the fall of racquetball in its original state. This form of racquetball did not allow for the cracking of the wrist. With the Great Rules Change of 1924, cracking of the wrist was allowed. This wrist action was known as the Cobra action, in which the Racqueteer pretends that his racquet is really the head of a cobra. The player holds the racquet poised, and when the moment is right, snaps the "head" toward the ball, instead of relying completely on the swinging action of the arm. This wrist action was named after the Cobra image from "The Wasteland".

As the sun grew in the sky,

there fell a shadow upon the court,

the children turned their heads upwards

but there was no sound

no sound save the hissing of the cobra

THE KING COBRA.

A child, without the frightened look, the paralyzed look,

threw a ball towards the Serpent

But with a cracking sound,

the Serpent struck the ball,

and it was a kill shot.

This image, the image which prompted a thousand racquetball experts to develope a new style of hitting the ball, remains one of the most potent to arise out of racquetball. Elliot's subconscious, stung by the failure of his conscious self to beat the head of his english/racquetball department, manifested itself in his poetry, the poetry that is now regarded as "the most genuinely racquetballish of all poetry, modern or otherwise."

But if it was "The Wasteland" that quantified the despair of early racquetball, it was "The Final Match of J. Alfred Prufrock" that celebrated its coming of age. Here, as in nowhere before, is the famous Continental Grip developed in all its glory and imagery.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the racquet,

The racquet sweeps the death from the air,

Sweeping. Sweeping. Weeping. Sneezing.

Suddenly, something blue hurtles through the atmosphere

Something blue comes on my right.

Running furiously, I struggle to get on its good side

But nought comes to it, and I am forced

OH FORCED!!

to go for a backhand.

On the court, the women come and go

talking of serves, and kill shots low.

I used the handshake grip,

when my hand spontaneously rearranged my thumb.

I had it.

I HAD IT!!

Easily able to shift my racquet for the backhand,

I smashed the ball.

Kill shot.

I live.

Seen from the perspective of time, it is quite simple to realize the magnitude of this work. It shouts the glory, the magnificence, of what would later be known as the Continental Grip. By only changing the thumb, Elliot was able to trounce his department head, finally obtaining his long sought position as head of the English/Racquetball Department. In the ER department, he was able to concentrate on his lifelong goal, that of unifying racquetball and english as a single coherent discipline. His success is what makes this paper possible.

One of Elliot's successors, E.E. Cummings (1894-1962), tried to follow in Elliot's footsteps. He wrote "next to racquetball i", a moving work, which details Cummings early attempts at the serve. Cummings was plagued by bad eyesight early in his life, and this affected his racquetball play. Often, he would play for author rights, but would consistently miss the ball when he tried to serve. This resulted in a side out, not in a fault, as he originally believed. As he states in "next to racquetball i"

next to racquetball i

wish i had a gun

for when i lose yet another game because i am unseeing

giving up my royalties for another year,

i want to shoot i want to kill

my publisher - Marty Hogan.

He spoke. And drank rapidly from a waterfountain.

It is the brilliance of Cummings that he is able to display this range of emotional depths during a game of racquetball. Indeed, it is the soul of the sport, which forces the naked self of the poet to the forefront. In this way, it is much like handball, a sport similar yet dissimilar, like and not like. Cummings could have written about handball, but he contrains his mastery to the art of racquetball. Is it any wonder that it is considered the High Sport?

Of all the modern racquetballpoets, Langston Hughes (1902-1967) is one of them. In "Racquetball Court: 3 A.M.", Hughes attempts to trick his opponent (Gertrude Stein) by dunking the racquetball in a bucket of water. This deception was discovered, and it was the reason for Stein's brilliant work, "That Hughes Is A Rat", a humorous melancholy poem about the incident. Hughes responded with, "It Would've Worked If It Hadn't Been For Those Kids And That Dog". But it is in "Racquetball Court: 3 A.M." that the original brilliance lies, where Hughes finds out that wetting the ball intentionally results in a side out, not a fault as he originally believed.

Spectators from the top floor

with weary, sadistic eyes,

spot the bucket.

Hey you! They cry

You're intentionally wetting that ball.

It's just a fault, I said. I'm the server.

But it wasn't.

And they told me so.

How could Hughes have thought that intentionally wetting the ball would result in just a fault? It is one of the great mysteries of the english language. Hughes was a respected player, and probably knew more about racquetball than anyone in similar circumstances. Perhaps Hughes fell victim to the avante garde textbook, Racquetball. Acclaimed to be the single most surprisingly deceptive how to manual yet written, it could have confused Hughes, causing him to forget this basic fact about racquetball. It is this witlessness combined with his poetic brilliance that makes him one of the most talked about poets born in the year 1902.

To conclude our discussion of the great racquetball poets, we must not forget Robert Frost (1875-1963), whose immortal epic, "Stopping by the Racquetball Court On A Snowy Evening" must be quoted here in its entirety to fulfill our page requirements.

Whose courts these are I think I know.

His office is in Woolen, though;

He will not see me playing here

To pass the course I need this year.

My little ball must think it queer

To play without a partner here

Between Court twenty and Court three

Without a mask so I can see

The ball, it bounces somewhat strange

To hit it I must find my range

The only other sound's the groan

Of racquet smashing against my bone

The court is quiet, I feel beat

But I have classes that will meet

And papers due before I sleep

And papers due before I sleep