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Observing Men at Play: The Rites of Racquetball,
or My Bag's Bigger Than Yours
On the gym track bright and early, 'fore the crowd was hot
and surly,
Going 'round, I saw the gym bags, saw the floor five deep in gym bags,
Saw a plethora of gym bags and men crowding 'round the court,
Waiting for their turn.
Puzzled, I lapped 'round the track and every time I rounded
back,
There stood guys correctly got up, uniformly gym-clad, dressed up,
Ready for their turn to step up, hit that little racquetball,
Waiting for their turn.
Ostentatious bags by Reebok, Nike, E-Force, Black and Steinboch,
Bags that wouldn't make it through an airport's luggage-check device,
Crammed with shirts and gloves and head scarves, shoes and laces bearing
logos,
Preening in their turn.
Oh! the racquets! Each, superior. Pity the novice 'quipped
inferior,
Novice brave in bright white sneakers, clean shirt, no gloves, simple shorts,
Novice thinking his bag, paper, straight from Sears, would sure suffice,
Ready for his turn.
One sweet specimen caught my eye - one man's racquet snared
my eyes:
Twenty-two-inch-long string techno-marvel quivering ready in its frame,
E-Force specially-molded carbon poised for owner's skillful strike
As he swept into his turn.
Equipped manly cap-á-pie, this hero, strong of limb
and eye,
Swung his snappy 22-inch-long strings at the spinning trophy ball,
Noisily slammed it 'gainst the glass walls, rammed it home against the tough
glass,
Scoring with his turn.
There's a moral to this story: honor, manhood, love and glory
Are not found by slamming 'round some busy little tinted ball,
But in the size of one's equipment. Actually, it's all equipment,
Displayed at every turn.
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