June 1st
Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. That was excruciating. A lovely day, a lovely green, a decent quartet in opposition, swing thought No. 4,365 still intact . . . . . . . . . and nothing. Abject nothing. Playing like a pregnant giraffe. What is it? What the hell goes missing so that the wood will just NOT do what you want it to do? Of course, it nearly does what you want it to do; oh yes, nearly.
Oh, and sometimes it appears fleetingly, teasing you mercilessly, only to be gone again the next time you are on the mat. I despair.
We have our tea at half time: fishcakes, mushy peas, new potatoes and a once frozen confection of migraine inducing sweetness. The votes of thanks are short but not, regrettably, the raffle. There are enough tickets for a six-rinker and we are but three. “Four … Three … Six” Silence. “You’re going to have to draw again, Jack.” “We’re going to have to sort this out for next time”.
Back on the green; fresh resolve for the second half; first bowl feels good, second bowl – aaaargh!!! Pulled it again. What is wrong with me? And on and on it goes. Nothing working, no rhythm, no balance. Nothing.
And my little squad look sad. It’s hard for them when their skip is out of sorts.
So, what is wrong? How can swing thought No. 4,365 work so beautifully one week and not at all two weeks later? Then it comes to me: as always, I had taken the swing thought and changed it from a thought about the motion to a thought about how I am to produce the motion. I always do this because I am always so anxious that I am not going to be able to produce the motion. But thinking about producing the motion prevents me from actually producing the motion. Sounds wild, I know, but indubitably true.
There are only a few ends to go and we can’t win from here. The insight is pounding around my head and so I make an enormous effort to just get the motion: NOT what do I need to do to produce the motion but just the lovely, elegant, flowing motion that always makes the bowl go where I want it to go. And then just before it’s my turn I get that the only thing in the way of me producing that motion is me! So, I get out of the way. I smile and dive into the warm pool of confidence I have just created. I’m on the mat, I step forward, I only have the idea of the motion. I have resisted dismantling the thought. It flows from beginning to end. At the turnaround in the swing I get a delay; oh dearie, dearie me a delay; what heaven; what absolute heaven. With the delay I am “the boy”. I can wait all day, mate. This woods going where it is meant to go but I’m not leaving go of it yet. Not ready yet. I’m cocky, my head tilts back a little, I got the delay. I can’t miss.
The motion is all towards the spots. God, this feels nice! I let it go. Of course, it hits the spots and at that perfect pace that you detect instantly. I get a clap. Then I’m cross. I’ve stood here all day playing like a dope and all the time I was just being pathetic. When will I ever learn?
I resolve to commit to memory this feeling of desolation so that the next time I’m playing bad I know what to do and I can strut my stuff on the back of constant and consistent delays. I mutter: “I must get out of my own way; I must get out of my own way. Don’t make it happen – LET it happen!”.
Walking off the green, though, I know only too well that a week is a long time to hang on to motivational imagery. Ah well.
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