June 8th
It was lovely on Wednesday and so I had an hour on the green. I had found a lovely rhythm and so approached Saturday’s game with a spring in my step and the rhythm firmly in my memory bank.
The first few ends were great: everyone playing well and the woods leaving my hand perfectly. Then, on about the 6th or 7th end, my second wood didn’t feel right at all: there was no delay. That’s all right, I thought, just don’t rush, take your time, concentrate a little on that part of the delivery and it’ll soon come back.
It didn’t. How many times have I told myself that I MUST NOT concentrate on one bit of the swing? And how many times have I concentrated on one bit of the swing and the wheels come off immediately? How many times? Come on! Hands up! How MANY?????????
And boy did the wheels come off this time. Welcome to this weekend’s episode with my constant companions Desolation and Humiliation. I hate it. I hate it, hate it, hate it. And I hate the desperation of the inevitable search for the answer: as if desperately searching had ever worked before.
Last week was the same. How did I get out of it last week? I can’t remember. I can’t bloody remember.
I notice that the skip is smiling at me. He’s a nice man: I need to engage. “Where’s the guy with the tremor? Is he still playing?”. “No. He’s dead.”. “Never! What was his name?” “Eddie.” Eddie. Poor Eddie. Amazing bloke.
Eddie had a tremor on his right side. It made his right hand shake terribly. It was torture watching him put his kit on. When it came his turn to bowl he’d pick up his bowl and the weight of it would quell his tremor temporarily. Carefully and deliberately he would take his place on the mat, assess the situation and the line, swing his arm and release the wood. As soon as the bowl left his hand his tremor would resume.
He was a decent player with a naturally competitive temperament. Thinking about him on receiving the news that he had died, I realised that he was something of a hero to me; that I had often spoke of his bravery in playing bowls despite his affliction; that I had often used him as an example when infirmity was being used as a justification for inactivity; or, more often, when indolence was being used as an excuse.
Since the demise of the steel works the new clubhouse has been shared by two clubs. The other club is a collection of top-class players who are currently dominating the scene. We had our teas at the same time in the same room. I asked the Captain what happened about the speeches. “Don’t you be worrying about that” he said, pointing to a gavel.
A few minutes later a voice was raised above the hubbub of men chatting while eating pickled onions and ladling dark brown chutney onto corned beef rolls, and the other club’s captain started his speech. We all quietened politely and listened to the familiar words of welcome and thanks.
A few minutes after they had finished my oppo banged the gavel and spoke to us. The other clubs returned the compliment and listened politely. When he had finished I stood up, thanked the ladies for the tea and talked about Eddie.
I’m back in my bubble trying to find the right words that would pay due homage to an inspirational player. I don’t want to patronise and I despise sentimentality. I feel myself veering towards “explanation”. The whole room is listening and I realise that having this audience is tribute enough to a brave man.
I finish and get handed the “raffle” bag. It’s heavy with tickets and there’s not that many of us. My heart sinks. After the tenth false draw the Captain says to the Treasurer: “We’ll have to alter this for next week.”
“What’s that you say?” came the inevitable reply.
Back on the green, I was still hopeless. On the 19th end, the game all but lost, I finally got the sense of my own ridiculousness: even paying public homage to a man who had defied affliction couldn’t rid my brain of its own disabling tremor. The resulting sense of perspective brought a stillness to my brain and a smile to my face. I bent down and put the wood on the jack. I’m such a dope.
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