“Denis used to bowl..” said Geoff. You get some strange greetings around the coffee tables at All Saints Produce Market; but how did Geoff know I once terrorised the occasional late order batsman? Too late. By the time I had thought about it, I was in the team. And it wasn’t cricket, it was bowls, in the inter-village games. Tony was organiser, player-manager, coach and bag carrier; the match was scheduled for a week ahead, at Dennington. Meanwhile the manager would try to get the vital third member of the team on a free transfer from somewhere, and find us some woods.
By Thursday, the manager was able to confirm that I was still in the team. But he had some good news as well, as teenage bowls prodigy Lily had been persuaded to follow us on the glory trail. She even had her own woods, and a pair of those special flat bowling shoes. She was our secret weapon.
On Friday evening I was called for practice at the playing field. Despite the grass being three inches high, restricting the woods to about a ten yard range, we felt that it had gone well. I had a strange feeling that we had peaked too soon.
Saturday dawned, with a fierce northerly gale carrying icy spots of rain The manager was also part of the Treasure Hunt Challenge, and so spent most of the morning walking around Framlingham. We, (the rest of the team and Jan, who had bravely offered to act as Cheerleader), had been directed to pick up Tony at the Pub; in the event, the treasure hunters, although almost victorious, had been too tired to get further than the bowls pavilion. We watched enviously as Julie, Val and Kath set off for home.
There were eight teams in the match, seven of them looking professional and fit, clearly with entire shelves back home devoted to bowls trophies. At least one third of our team looked the part. I realised why the match started at 1.30pm. All teams were to play each other, six ends per game. A swift calculation showed that a later start would have meant finishing in darkness.
The rinks ran north to south; bowling into the gale, it was nigh on impossible to reach the Jack at the northern end. Bowling south, the woods headed straight for the gutter beyond the green. But we played on. And on. Hands gradually became frozen. Spectacles were removed in order to see through the rain. For three brief minutes the sun appeared, and I considered sending the Cheerleader for my sun hat. But she had already gone, and was probably fast asleep in the car half a mile away. It was raining again anyway.
Despite huge problems with a dangerously loose pony-tail, Lily struggled manfully to hold us together. Tony laboured bravely on, changing the formation, altering tactics, but crucially failing to make those vital substitutions. By five o’clock I was beginning to feel at home; the afternoon began to remind me of November fishing trips to the Dogger Bank.
Suddenly, the match was at an end. Starston had after all failed to turn up - visa trouble at Shotford Bridge, we heard. We were scheduled to play them in the last match, and, Oh Joy!, we therefore had no last match to play. The team and the supporter thawed out, dried out, and fell asleep on the way home. I think I stayed awake.
How did we get on? The bowls, you mean? Earlier that morning I had asked the same question of the Quiz Team captain. “Pass,” said Cecil. I think that’ll do for me as well.
