Bocce

I always thought that the reason why old people liked lawn bowling so much had to do with their decrepit physical state and genuine dislike for anything stimulating. If you’ve ever driven behind an octogenarian piloted Buick you very likely know what I mean; and, if you’ve ever driven with your grandparents in one, you definitely know what I mean. So, I just naturally thought that the popularity of lawn bowling among seniors was due to the fact that their wrestling days are well behind them. As it turns out though, I was quite wrong.

It was a warm June night, and we were drinking beers in Mr. Alfonz’s sunroom. We had just finished a planning session for a publication that we had been working on at the time, when Mr. Alfonz showed us his freshly acquired Bocce set. He was quite proud of it and said that it had been owned by the Duchess of Norfolk while she was holidaying at Assisi. Of course, he was pretty skeptical about this because he had purchased it at that weird flea market by the Osborne underpass. But, that’s what the mousey mullet woman who sold it to him said, so there you go. After a few more beers and a ‘special’ cigarette, the idea of gently rolling balls across a flat surface somehow seemed appealing and, after some discussion, we decided to give it a go. Mr. Alfonz’s lawn is not flat however; it is a bumpy, dodgy affair that has a four foot hill on one end, making any sort of conventional approach to the game both undesirable and impossible. This would prove to be a good thing, as there were many times when the palleno would end up half way up the hill making attempts to get near it almost impossible. The game began friendly enough, but it quickly got real serious: tempers flared, words and phrases not fit for children’s ears were screamed at the moon, new spliffs were sparked, and balls were flung angrily against the hill. The competition was intense and that thrill that one gets from crunching his man as he comes down with the ball is relived as you lob one in there perfectly, smashing an opponent’s ball into the nether regions beneath the bushes by the fence. Fortunately, things remained civil enough and we never had to resort to knee shots and other forms of general thuggery.

Four hours and a case of beer later, the score was Mr. Alfonz 1 Mr. Ryall 2 and Mr. Payne 3. The sun was coming up and in the dim morning light we could see our handiwork. The impossibility of rolling a ball with any hope of predictability had forced us to resort to arcing lob shots which had left Mr. Alfonz’s lawn a cratered mess. There were gouges taken out of the hill and broken beer bottles lay like landmines near the stone walkway. Yes, it had been a death match and I had come up just short. But we had found a fantastic new game that could easily be played anywhere, and in any sort of mental state, and that’s all that counts.

Note: Bocce is the same as lawn bowling in principle. The only major difference is that the balls are perfectly balanced.

9.8/10 But only the way we play it: drunk and commando style.


John E. Ryall