Bowls Central Otago 

THE bowls season is upon us. Time to ponder the Seven Ages of Bowls.

The Age of Ignorance

This is the time of the young man, immersed in rugby, cricket and the pursuit of women, for whom bowls is a mystery and believed to be something very old men take up to avoid gardening.

The Age of Denial

By now the cricket team has less need of those offspin deliveries you sent down with great success only a few seasons ago. Your Saturdays are often free and the bowling club have you in their sights. As summer approaches suggestions that you play bowls become more frequent. But how could you possibly be involved with these ancient men? You are told that without new players the 75-year-old bowling club may have to fold and you weaken, promising to think about it, “maybe next year, or the year after” .

The Age of Acceptance

Your cricket days are now a dim memory and time weighs heavily on Saturdays. Maybe the invitation to go down to the bowling club for “a bit of a roll-up and a beer” might be a good idea, after all. The club has a spare set of bowls for you and even a club shirt which might be handy if you decide to join up. During the roll-up you get the hang of this bowls business and there’s a fascination with aiming a bowl away to the side of the kitty and sometimes finding it settling at just the right spot. Bit like cricket, but underarm, of course. Maybe that’s why Australian cricketers become excellent lawn bowlers. Your success is noticed and soon you are getting a game every week. Sometimes two games if you can take Wednesday afternoon off.

Amazingly, you are also enjoying the company of these old blokes. Maybe it’s far too early to actually have them all put down which was once your considered opinion.

The Age of Enthusiasm

It’s a young man’s game, too. Two seasons into bowls and you wouldn’t miss a game.

When your oldest daughter’s wedding clashed with the finals of the club fours championship you briefly considered giving the wedding a miss.

You’ve bought your own bowls and a flash carrying bag with little compartments for Grippo, measuring tape, cleaning cloth and even a slot to house the rule book. You arrive early at working bees and insist on pushing the heavy roller.

You enter tournaments in places up to 100 miles away and there’s even talk of being in a team for the national tournament.

The Age of Achievement

Now comes the pinnacle of your bowls career.

You’ve won a couple of club championships and skipped the four which took out the sub-centre championship two years in a row.

You dream of being a Black Jack.

You’ve started wearing a blazer with the club monogram and there’s barely room left on the lapels for yet more winner’s badges.

Bowlers on nearby rinks pause in their play to watch your next shot. You’ve started coaching your club players and even passed the umpires’ exam and can be seen patrolling the green with tape and rule book in hand.

You’ve even bought one of those little metal measuring gauges and your decisions, always firm and always fair, are final. Your second daughter changed her wedding day when it clashed with your trip to the national bowls tournament.

The Age of Wisdom

You are older and certainly wiser. Young men come to you for advice and you spend more time coaching.

The club has elected you president and all that business experience and those people management skills you learned in the building trade are put to more useful purposes.

The Age of Gentle Decline

You turn up fairly late at working bees just in time to volunteer to open the bar. At a special dinner you have been made a Life Member. On the green you’ve had to slow down. You have wonky hips and depend more often on your walking frame and your bowls lifter and bionic arm. You are no longer chosen for the Saturday team but get a game some Wednesdays. Even this tires you and you decide to be available only in emergencies. Emergencies become sparse and soon you simply turn up as a spectator. Seated in the sun with afternoon tea in the offing you watch the young men, their conversations filled with the banter you know so well. How lithe and athletic they seem, with their pinpoint accuracy and modest acknowledgement of the smattering of applause as a last bowl wins the end and the game.

There is a tear in your eye now because that once was you. Perhaps you will stay on after the game for a drink and a few more memories.

The Age of Gentle Decline has its pleasures.

• Jim Sullivan is a Patearoa writer.