I first went down to roll some rocks three weeks ago. I lost 21-nil. Despite the brutal loss, I went upstairs and sat on the club balcony in the sun and enjoyed a few quiet beers and chatted with the members.
But it was clear I needed to join with somebody at my level so I could play games without getting thrashed. Enter Gobbo, my best mate-turned-bowling nemesis.
Gobbo is a dangerously short man, and he got his name at university, when an opposing rugby player pointed at him when both teams ran onto the field, “Hey look, they’ve got a goblin on their side.” This was a time when bullying was a lot more fashionable than it is now.
Anyway, the name stuck and he’s been Gobbo ever since. Even his parents call him Gobbo.
Two weeks ago, Gobbo and I went to the bowls club together, and we rolled a few ends with an old hand giving us some guidance. We needed it. At one point, Gobbo held the bowl the wrong way around; instead of it curving in toward the jack it arched out, straight across the green into another game.
Of course, I mocked him mercilessly as he trotted across after it, chasing after his bowl and his dignity. “We’re absolutely rubbish,” I said to him as we sat supping beers on the balcony in the evening sun.
“Nah, mate, we’re just a bit out of form,” he replied, reflecting on our collective bowls careers made up of a total of three matches between us.
But which one of us was the most rubbish? That was the constant theme of communication between us before last week’s showdown. Text messages were exchanged, phone calls, and two drinking sessions were dedicated to the subject. After all, the title of club’s worst bowler was on the line.
So, there we were last week, lined up on lane 1 for the least anticipated match to ever have been played at the Sumner Bowling Club – and it turned out to be an absolute blinder.
Firstly, and importantly, the sledging was of the highest possible quality. Top shelf. Aussie cricketers would have blushed at the barbs given and received. The quality of the bowling was not of the same standard. Often the closest bowls were so far from the jack it was difficult to see which was closer.
But out I streaked to a healthy lead one shot up, two shots up. One end I scored three points. Are they called points? I have no idea.
Gobbo won a couple or three ends, but soon I was on the cusp. The scorecard read 10-4 in a race to eleven. I recall at this point asking Gob when the next Commonwealth Games were, because I thought I was ready for some competition.
Then he won with three on one end, then he won the next end. I stopped focusing on the Commonwealth Games, but I couldn’t stop him drawing level at 10-10.
All of a sudden nothing was working. I was getting desperate. It crossed my mind if I perhaps should have worn my slippers.
And it all came down to the last bowl.
The two people playing next to us had taken an interest, and they said Gob had the shot. I had one roll to win the match. I absolutely knew I could win it. And I could.
I mean I didn’t, but I could have if I had bowled a better bowl.
Back on the balcony with tall bottles of Speights in the warm evening sun, Gobbo sent about 1000 texts proclaiming his victory to everybody he knew. At one point my phone rang, it was a mutual friend, and he answered it to boast about his magnificent victory.
The following morning one of my research assistants, who happens to be Gobbo’s daughter, gave me a printed piece of paper from her dad. On it there was an image of some bowls. Next to that, it read:
Jarrod: 10
Gobbo: 11
Winner winner chicken dinner.
The unwarranted bravado, being ribbed by your mates, the drinking, the laughs - sheesh, if this is old age it feels a lot like being young.
- Dr Jarrod Gilbert is the Director of Independent Research Solutions and a sociologist at the University of Canterbury.
