All afternoon, Rob had left his shots short, surprising considering he was the beefiest among us and let out a distinct grunt when the bowl left his hand on its doubtful way down the green strip. When it came to his turn to hurl his bowl down the rinks, an audible sigh would issue from his three teammates. Short again, Rob! Some muttered that his balls lacked legs.
Not that I’m the expert when it comes to the dark arts of lawn bowling. For one thing, I’d only ever played once, so I’m hardly even a novice. I just happened to be meeting friends at a bowls club deep in the south coast when assorted bowlers accosted me as I walked past. Could I join them to make up the numbers on the second fours team? Why pass up an opportunity to make a fool of myself, I thought.
I took inspiration from the fact that I hail from a long line of bowlers who populated the greens on the mines with varying degrees of grace. Durban Deep, Robinson Deep, Roodepoort Deep: if there was a deep to hand, my forebears, Cousin Jacks from the old country, had played it. You might say I was born to bowl.
Bowls, I thought back then, was something you took up when you’re old, like I am now. For a start, it demanded a restrictive dress code: white trousers, hat, and flat-soled shoes complementing a stern and ruddy demeanour. Bowlers smelt a particular way, I remember, betraying whiffs of Brylcreem, Vitalis hair oil, Bay Rum after-shave, Fisherman’s Friend lozenges, Player’s Cut cigarettes and Bell’s whisky.
Bowls emerged from the woodwork in South Africa in 1976, when Doug Watson, a salesman from the East Rand, was crowned world champion at Zoo Lake. Whites were overjoyed. The rest of the world could criticise our apartheid policies and lugubrious prime minister John Vorster, but they couldn’t take away our prowess in bowls. Watson’s victory triggered an outpouring of celebration of white excellence in the suburbs, and helped make bowls cool among an audience new to TV. Soon after, South Africa was banned from international competition, limiting us to the lesser treats of Transvaal vs South Western Districts for a good few years.
By the time South Africa was readmitted to international competition, the era of the bowling green as the hideaway for old whites was over: stalwarts had passed on, and many bowling clubs were repurposed as venues for punk rockers to do their rebel thing while we long-haired louts drank ourselves into oblivion. Soon the once-pristine greens were being invaded by hippies dressed in baggies and flip-flops, bowling with a novitiate vitality absent among previous generations.
Bowls’ revival was not that surprising, given its ability to reinvent itself over the years. It all started when two ancients, bored with warfare, the Black Death and routine procreation, took each other on in a game known as jactus lapidum, to use its original Latin title, according to Wikipedia. This involved tossing round stones at a target, boring but better than work any day.
The bowler will use a combination of aerobics, gymnastics, karate, tai-chi, hopping, dancing and gesticulating to guide the rotten orb
As the game’s popularity increased, class warfare erupted. The English had been keen bowlers as far back as the 13th century, but it was an elite pastime and the kings tried to keep it that way, thinking it would distract men from archery. The Unlawful Games Act of 1541 prohibited servants from playing the game, except on Christmas Day.
Like many mindless games and pastimes, golf included, bowls is scoffed at by ignorants who don’t play it, and cannot conceive of the thrill of the ball gently curving in and settling beside the kitty, or jack, which is the little white target ball that sits alone. Though bowls might seem the least energetic of games, the real exercise begins only once the wood leaves the hand. Then, in an effort to coax the damn thing to the preferred spot, the bowler will use a combination of aerobics, gymnastics, karate, tai-chi, hopping, dancing and gesticulating to guide the rotten orb.
But back to Rob, and my walk-on part as a stand-in bowler. Playing the last end, with a point separating the teams, I had my ball settle alongside the kitty and it seemed we were on our way to victory. But then up steps Rob: his first ball he left as short as any he’d bowled that day. Victory was just a shot away. Then, with the last attempt of the day, for the first time he not only reached the little cluster of balls around the jack, but nudged my winning shot clean out of the picture.
Losing was bad enough, but losing to a guy who had left it short all day was a bitter blow. Truly, I wuz Robbed.
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