I didn’t think about this until reading the excellent tribute to Kramer by Stephen Tignor in the newest Tennis magazine where he wrote about ”the three quick syllables and hard, clicking ks at the center” of Kramer’s name.  For me, Kramer’s name is like the sound of a rally: Jack! — the sound of the ball on the strings after an especially good forehand;  Krame is the shot zipping through the air; and Er is the landing on the court.  Then it repeats.  Jack Krame – er…Jack Krame – er…the rhythmic sounds of tennis.

About 12 years ago when I lived in Houston I went to put up signs for a yard sale and stopped off at a antique/junk store near my house and ended up buying a dozen Kramer frames for about $100, acquiring rackets even when I was on a mission to sell things, feeding the pack rat inside me I’ve inherited from my dad.  I’ve continued to collect Kramer rackets, even though since Wilson made about 10 million or so between 1949 and 1982.  These frames are by no means rare, but I love the Jack Kramer racket nonetheless, both the ubiquitous ones with the golden crown on the throat and the rarer, earlier ones emblazoned with his image.  A Kramer feels good in your hand, standing there swinging in the living room or the den every now and then, imagining a ball hitting squarely in the sweet spot. 

Shortly before New Year’s Eve in 2000 I spent a long time in a sports shop in New York contemplating buying the graphite Jack Kramer Autograph Millenium Edition for $250 or so.  I passed, reasoning that I already had multiples of the real thing and didn’t need one of graphite.   They don’t make wood frames like that anymore — rackets are all plasticized composites and near weightless and coded with numbers like software programs, bearing futuristic descriptions such as ”Microgel” and “Cortex.” 

Tennis rackets were better when they were made of wood and named after a man.  Long live Jack Kramer.

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