26th July
It’s 20 across and I’m one down. In my hand I’m holding the last wood that is going to be bowled in the match. I’m playing in the next round of the two-wood singles. It’s a Friday evening.
It is for these moments that I bothered in the first place. Bothered, that is, to have hurled, for most of my post adolescent life, my lateral thinking, problem-solving intelligence at the mystery of “timing”.
It is for these moments that I have sought to furnish myself with a precise modus operandi for giving myself the best chance of locating my “timing”, so that when I need it most, at least I have got something to hang on to, something that is rational, logical and – most of the time – works.
And it is at these moments that my triumph over my past is most poignant, because in the fleeting moment that it takes to deliver this bowl, I will re-live my long and agonising journey from natural incompetence to unnatural competence. And in that moment, whether the outcome is favourable or not, I will feel the exquisite satisfaction of the creative process. For it is deep in my soul that this is my process, I made it up, I “discovered” it. As the wood follows its curve, trundling to its destination, it is my “genius” at work.
I had played well in the match but my opponent had played surprisingly well, continuing the theme of the competition thus far. Actually, I had played well inasmuch as I hadn’t failed to take any chances offered to me by my opponent. If he played a poor-ish one, I would beat it; if he played two poor-ish ones, I’d beat them both, twice. But what I hadn’t been able to do is beat any of his good ones. I know from experience that when I am playing really well, I relish the chance to beat a good one because of the opportunity to inflict a crushing psychological blow. This time, if he bowled a good one, there was no relish in me; it wasn’t quite dread but it was definitely a resigned acceptance. He had gone on a run of starting ends with an exceptionally good wood, which had hauled his score back to 19-20. At the next end, his first wood nestled –once again! – against the jack. My first wood whistled past. His second wood was decent and I was facing defeat. I bowled a really good second wood to beat his decent second wood and stopped him taking the match.
We shook hands before he bowled the jack on the last end. I counted on him being a little nervous and would have been sunk if he had put up yet another close one. He bowled up the left hand side and left it short. I had wanted to go up the left hand side and now had to weigh up the risk of clattering into his short one. I decided to go up the same side. I hit the line I wanted but knew it was too fast. It was only a little too fast but it ended up far enough away to give him hope: it wasn’t the spirit sapping wood I had been hoping for.
He bowled. I could tell it was on the right line and only a little fast. As it passed his first short wood, I saw that it was travelling faster than I thought and for a moment glimpsed the delicious possibility of not having to bowl my last wood to win the match. But it grazed the jack just enough to divert it towards my wood. It hit my wood full in the face and stopped. It wasn’t lucky so much as a little bit fortunate, if you know what I mean.
So, on to the mat I step needing a close wood to win the game. I looked at going up the right hand side because the short wood was still a threat and the two close woods were on that side thus providing a little bit of potential insurance if I was slightly off with line and pace. But the lines on the left hand side were so much more familiar that, despite the short wood, I just had to go that way.
The decision made, I looked down the line I wanted, and then that amazing thing happened that makes playing games worthwhile: the “wood” I wanted “came into my arm”. I realise that that is an odd thing to say, and I’m not entirely sure I understand the phenomenon or that I am going to be able to get across what I mean. It is a physical sense, located in the arm but involving the whole body, of what the perfect wood you need would feel like to bowl. It is an extraordinary feeling, and when it happens you know you are in some sort of sensory bubble or zone, where the conscious, subconscious, imagination and nervous system are working as one to execute a highly specific, clearly identified physical task. You also know that for the task to be executed it is simply a matter of letting it happen, that one’s only task is to unbolt the door, there is nothing more to consider, the die is cast. You also get a sense that it is very important to just let it happen, to not interfere, to accept the role of simply unbolting the door.
I unbolted the door and was able to glory in the experience of feeling my body execute the precise sequence of movements I had just experienced as a sort of sensory foreshadowing. Because the actual replicated the imaginary, I knew instantly that this was going to be the perfect wood I needed to win the match. The visual evidence of its line and speed provided a continuous stream of immensely satisfying confirmation of the fact that I had delivered the perfect wood. It rolled up to the short wood, glided past, curled a little and eased to a stop a few inches from the jack.
We shook hands again, said “well played” to each other, picked up the paraphernalia you need to play flat green bowls and wandered to the pavilion. I bade my farewells and walked home. The sense of satisfaction was profound. It came from knowing that that last wood was a culmination, a culmination that I am able to repeat, but a culmination nonetheless. I do feel a little guilty about how ridiculously happy it makes me feel. But I can put up with that.
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