Monday, July 15, 2002 6:37 PM
Adventures in Lawn Bowling

Saturday afternoon roughly one pm. I parked in front of the lawn bowling courts at Frick Park. The area surrounding is a posh inner city neighborhood on the south side of Penn Avenue which separates the drive-by black neighborhood of Homewood and the yupped-up money of Point Breeze. The city at this divide is a constant study in contrast. Black and white in every polemical sense of the words.

There was no one around. Chirping birds, wishing whispering wind. I walked the distance around the chain link fence that encapsulated the lawn bowling courts to a small shed building with the name Frick Park Lawn Bowling Association on a sign. People skirted me with dogs on long leashes and plastic bags in their hands. I noticed a white paper announcement behind the links of fence giving the hours of operation. Saturday, but I was an hour early. I drove over to East Liberty in search of books at the Goodwill.

I returned with a passel of Ross Thomas in my trunk. I parked in almost the same place. At the far left court a man and a woman, Isabel and Hank I later learned, were heavy at work. She was weeding around the gutter and while, he with an electric drill attached to about one hundred feet of orange 12/3 extension cord was peppering the green painted boundary board with holes. I sat on a park bench, Pocket PC attached to the extended keyboard, and labored in Pocket Word trying to physically describe the place. Twice the keyboard slid off the notebook in my lap and I contented myself with observation in the hot sun.

There are three courts each one hundred and twenty feet by one hundred and twenty feet. Left, Center and Right. Left and Center are manicured grass. Right is wild grass in a much more chaotic state. Each court is separated by a black-top island strip the length of the court and roughly five feet in width bounded with a foot high concrete curb that drops to the field of play. There are three two sided park benches evenly distributed across the strip. A resting place for players and spectators. Around the entire perimeter of the two manicured courts was a gutter. The far left court looked and I assumed had been abandoned. I was only partially correct.

A bearded man in a red ball cap and a woman in gray shorts and a white blouse shook the locked gate that was closest to the park bench where I wilted. "Do you have a key?" she asked him. He shrugged. They walked around to the opposite open gate. Soon another woman, dressed for game, tan shorts, tan blouse, opened the locked gate with a key and walked across the court. A final women player arrived.

They all gathered while the workers pulled and whirred. "Oh, no," said weeder woman, “you can play today." And they all disappeared into the shed. Out they bounded with satchels full of equipment and moved into the middle of the center court. First they stuck number boards into the ground by the gutter to indicate the lanes in which they were playing. The two men were playing singles. I heard them say. The four women, doubles.

Someone flipped a coin won the toss and threw the small white colored jack ball. Another walked across the court and centered it on the lane. Play followed. Each player alternated rolls. This was different. Bocce, after the initial two throws, the person furthest from the "puleen" (pallino) throws until he exhaust his store of balls trying to get closer.

The women playing doubles had sixteen balls (later I found that they were called bowls) at the end of play. This is also a change from Bocce. When you play doubles in the Italian version, there are still only four total balls on a side. I concluded from my recent excursion to the discount sports store that lawn bowling is a more expensive sport.

Four young people walked into the court. “Hey,” said Hank, “do you have your Bocce balls.” One of the girls held up a white net beach bag with bright yellow and green balls. “They’re not really Bocce balls she said. “Well, you can play over there.” Said Hank pointing to the far wild court. “We can show you how to lawn bowl, if you want.” I moved close to the fence, the young people huddled and listened. Isabel went to the shed and came back with an 8 ½ x 11 paper hand out describing the Lawn Bowling League and the activity. One of the women, Annika, showed them the bowls, pointing out that they weren’t round. Hank looked at me and said “You’re allowed to come in a watch.” I did.

They were all lovely people. The young folk moved away to the far court and played a casual game of Bocce in the wild grass. Not making nearly enough noise for my money. Annika., slight Swedish accent, handed me a bowl and showed me that it was biased on either side and that you rolled it in down the middle. Isabel explained that there was a large logo and a small logo and the bowl was manufactured to break toward the smaller logo. Hank beamed across the court and said, “I guess you can tell we love this game.” You could. “I don’t know why everyone doesn’t play it.” And for the life of me I couldn’t figure it out either. I stayed for an hour or so and watched. Shook hands with everyone when I left. “We’d love to have you join us,” said Isabel.

I read the flyer later that night. Most everyone, it says, who bowls is under sixty. Dispelling the rumor that it is a game only for old codgers. Isabel explained to me that it was a national organization and that they traveled to Connecticut and New Jersey and that although last year’s finals were in California that they were going to take place in August in good old Frick Park this year.

But I kept looking at that wild court. The game of lawn bowling is gentle and gentile. Thought about stern old Dago guys in the alley. It would be drinking tea instead of slopping grapes. Thought about the light of the hot afternoon sun. Remembered the darkness encroaching, chasing shadowed men more deeply into shadows.

Maybe next year.