May 25th
That was awful.What went wrong? I still had swing thought No. 4,365 from two weeks ago; I had kept it going in-between; we’d beaten Gilwern; granted, it went a bit astray in the week against Garndiffaith but it was bloody cold, and we had pulled off a draw. Anyway, I’d been keeping it going on the dartboard.
So, what happened? The swing thought was definitely there, and it was definitely working in that the first few deliveries felt okay. Mind you, I had had the hammer blow that morning of the unexpected gas bill. Then there was the kerfuffle with them being one short. Oh dear, the fuss. It probably didn’t help that the captain was absent and that this was the “B” team: there was a distinct lack of leadership. And then the inevitable confusion when three play four. Not that they haven’t all done it plenty of times before; not that it isn’t really quite simple to work out. And the little guy in the glasses was annoying: straight woods, jaunty disposition and, worst of all, playing quite well.
When there’s confusion it puts me in a spin. I can see what needs to be done within the first couple of nano-seconds. At home it’s not too bad because I have some authority as captain and chairman. But away from home I just have to stand there and suffer and definitely not interfere. As much as I am frustrated to bursting by the dithering, so I am ashamed of my irritation because they are all nice people trying hard not to do anything wrong, afflicted by excessive politeness. Although, as my affect swings from murderousness to beneficence, I do wonder if half the problem is that they have lost the ability to decide anything without a good dose of pointless consultation and double-checking. It is probably to do with retiring too early and having a stable marriage. I get the impression that they are gliding to their demise being tended to in minute detail by similarly bored wives who just love to do the looking-after. “Where are my socks, Joyce?” sums it up. And they don’t have enough male company and so when they do get together they have to chat. And the chat is taking place in the context of a higher than average propensity to deafness, which in itself tends to generate an amount of not bloody listening properly in the first place. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
But they’re excuses. The thought swing was there, the first few woods were okay, but for some reason the rhythm just wouldn’t come. It nearly did. I didn’t bowl two bad woods together, but I did bowl a lot of okay first woods and then followed it with a terrible second wood. It was as if I had intellectualised swing thought No. 4,365 instead of letting live and breathe in my imagination.
Nothing worked. It was horrible. And then, about three-quarters of the way through the game, I walked away from the head knowing that I was going to have to hit the jack/two-of-their-woods combo that was contributing to them holding a match winning “five”. It was an easy read because we had four woods further on up the green which was where the jack would go if I got a decent contact. But, by then I had already had a few goes at hitting some tightly packed woods and a jack, and missed all of them. A couple of times I could see the line but couldn’t hit it; and a couple of times I saw the line, hit it and then watched disconsolately as my wood missed the target.
I got to the mat, picked up my wood, turned to look at the head and they were still only half way to the head, dawdling, like they’ve got all bloody day. I waited with a smile of false tolerance and picked up the line straight away.
This is what is amazing about playing sport. I could write for hours about what an astonishing feat of visualisation it is to be able to see a line: a particular curve determined to a large extent by an as yet unrealised amount of speed. Yet, there I was, playing rubbish, unreasonably and irrationally annoyed, annoyed that I was annoyed, turning to stand on the mat and immediately entering a bubble of concentration so fierce that the line made itself known immediately and I knew I was going to hit it. I bent down, found the perfect rhythm and watched as it sped away, started to curve just at the right time to find the gap and then home in on the opposition wood/ jack combo target like an exocet. Bang! The jack duly popped out towards our four woods but came to a stop not very near any of them. My oppo bowled a half-decent wood to lie closest and so all I had to do was to find my way around the outliers to a nice length and bingo we would be one-up and back in the hunt.
Just as easily as I had found the rhythm so it disappeared, and I was back bowling again like a crab on stilts. The line was good but it was too fast and so it goes all the way to the ditch. As does the big rubber mat I’m holding as I hurl it to the side in a fit of temper. My oppo stares steadfastly forward not daring to mouth any words of comfort. As I said – nice
We win our rink leading for the first time on the last end. Of course, my last two woods are fine and I can feel the rhythm returning. But all too late. Not too late not to win our game but too late to alleviate my foul temper at playing so badly. (Later, on the mobile, in the car before setting off for home, I warn my daughter that my performance was a “three-day sulk” performance.)
We’re sat in the clubhouse waiting to be told by the opposition captain that we can attack the buffet, when the news filters through that we’ve lost by half a point, which equates to 6 league points. My Number Two, who had played as bad as I have ever seen anyone play, turned to me in his ever so slightly Pooter-ish way and said: “ Well, Captain, if you had played anywhere near as well as you usually play we would have won that match easily.” Edvard Munch’s “Scream” appeared before me as I stared into his benign smile. After a short pause I said: “the buffet looks nice”.
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