13th July
Wow, it was hot! We lost. You need to know that straight away so that you can judge my comments in their correct context. We snatched defeat from the jaws of victory by dropping a pathetic “5” on the last end. Luckily, I had a valid excuse to leave early and forgo the post-match jollifications. I don’t think my temper would have subsided in time for my speech and it would have adversely affected the comic timing I can usually rely when I deliver my habitual post-prandial joke.
It is unusual for me to drop a “5” on the last end. When the chips are down I can usually put one close, somehow; but this time both my woods rolled serenely passed the jack and into bowling oblivion. They were decent enough deliveries, just a bit too long. The “decentness” took the edge off my temper and shortened the recovery period, so that I was more or less over it by Monday lunchtime.
I had walked to the green in confident mood having bowled beautifully on the Wednesday evening and really looking forward to the game. On reaching the changing facility (shed), I was met by the news that the “captains” had agreed to shorten the match to 18 ends (from 21) because of the “adverse weather conditions”: that is, hot and sunny. I was instantly cross because I look forward so much to playing, and we only play once a week, and the season is short enough as it is without artificially shortening the games.
I was tying the laces on my foam bottomed, brown bowling shoes, and muttering discontentedly when the brain fog of annoyance cleared just long enough for a penny to drop, and thus a blurt to be blurted: “… but I’m the bloody captain!?”.
The agreement had in fact been negotiated between their captain and our Treasurer who does a lot of the “captainy” bits because he likes doing them but doesn’t like to be the official “Captain”. I sought him out and told him that it was to be 21 ends. He demurred because he had the welfare of the players at heart and it was, in his words, “bloody hot”. I agreed that it was “bloody hot” but that bowls is after all a summer game wholly designed to be played in just these sort of weather conditions (it’s why we have to wear “whites”, after all). Granted conditions such as they were don’t often occur in our part of the world but they are hardly “adverse”. He pouted for a few seconds; I held my gaze; I smiled; he removed his pout and said: “You’d better find Bob and tell him”. I nodded minutely and strode off to find “Bob”.
Bob turned out to be the bloke I had had a little difficulty with when we had played them at their place; and as I approached him he eyed me warily. “Hi, Bob”, I said, “I’m Colin . . . the Captain”. He turned away from me and broadcast a hurt and confused look to his team-mates. I think he was expecting a change of plan, and he wanted the “boys” to know that if there was to be a change of plan then it wasn’t his fault, it was wholly the fault of this nutty club who seem to have a multitude of interchangeable officials. The boys took no interest whatsoever because they had already begun the all-consuming pre-match ritual of swapping Christian names – “Hi, Ron it is. Have a good game.” – and shaking hands, and getting the names confused, and then forgetting some of the names, and then wishing it was a rule that everyone had their name stitched on their jumper. [At home, I’ve got into the habit of demanding everyone’s attention by bellowing a welcome message and then announcing who has won the toss and will therefore bowl the first jack. It sort of works; but because it nearly always come after the name swapping then I am conscious of the fact that I am bellowing at a couple of dozen brains already addled by having to match four names to four humans, mostly without the aid of helpful stitching. Add in a copious amount of deafness and it is no wonder that as I march off to the other end of the green, mat in hand, I can hear a small of chorus of “Whose jack did he say it was?”, answered by “I don’t know, I was asking Reg if he knew Don White who worked in the smelting plant.”]
When Bob finally turned back towards me, I fixed him with a stare, smiled coldly and said “It’s 21 ends”. He made as if to argue, muttered something about the weather and prior agreements and whatnot, and so, tilting ever so slightly towards him, I said: “It’s a league match, we play 21 ends”. He muttered on, inaudibly now, so I finished him off with “I’m the Home captain – it’s my decision.”, and with that turned triumphantly and went off to find my rink.
But, of course, the whole episode rattled me and I played like a drain for the first third of the game. That annoyed me even more and so by the time my daughters turned up to not watch me I was in a right old stew. Seeing them being blithely unaware of my silly old temper brought me instantly back to my senses and I immediately started to smile and to put the bowls close. And now something more interesting happened: I started to get annoyed with my front two and the opposition because my front two were abysmal and the opposition were just annoying.
Having been snapped back to a state of happy perspective by my indifferent family, I found that being annoyed by the opposition had the opposite effect to the effect of being annoyed with myself for playing badly and then blaming it on the pre-match 18-ends “incident”. Rather than make me play worse it heightened my desire to play well and win, which in turn heightened my sense of the all important rhythm and line. The result was a sequence of quite stunning woods. This success then led to me being infected with a sort of insouciance, which seemed to further relax me while at the same time heightening again my sense of rhythm and line. The whole deal lasted about eight or nine ends but was on the wane by the time we reached the last end, helped on its way by some surfacing external worries.
However, it made me consider “insouciance” as an aid to better bowling. In another context it would be called “confidence”, but this is a rather hackneyed term and so I prefer insouciance. Whilst practising, I found that I could adopt an insouciant attitude as I was considering the line and rhythm of the shot to be played. It occurred as a sort of “cocky-ness”, that actually this was going to be a snorter of a wood, that there was absolutely nothing to fear, that I would “show ‘em”. It was the sort of attitude that would have you grinning rather than smiling.
I knew a darts player once who created a whole alter-ego to use when he was playing. The alter-ego was arrogant and showy, and would easily laugh off the occasional stray dart, and would take out big scores like it was his right. He even created a name for his “character” and gave him a physical motto which wasn’t unlike Usain Bolt’s “archer” pose. Unfortunately, the alter-ego got more and more difficult to locate without recourse to more and more alcohol.
I think the trick to insouciance is to not give a stuff when the shots don’t come off; so that when it’s time for the next shot the belief is fully intact despite recent evidence casting doubt. I’m going to try it on Wednesday when I play my first singles game for years. Of course, my opponent will be wholly unaware and completely unaffected by the adopted arrogance crackling inside my consciousness; except, of course, for the external manifestation of a string of perfect and near-perfect woods.
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