The Eighties - a decade when sporting fitness reached a new peak
Like his enjoyment of the early works of the Pet Shop Boys and the time he cried in confused anger when Ian Botham was knocked out of the first round of the World’s Greatest All-Rounder competition by Clive Rice (or was it Kevin Curran?), the ability to watch the Indoor Bowls World Championships for hours on end was something a young Bruce used to keep from his friends in order to keep his friends.
Admittedly, he could also lose himself in darts (good old Jocky Wilson dripping in sweat) or snooker (dear, departed Bill Werbeniuk struggling to get his gut over the side of the table), so the lure of greying men in brightly coloured pants that gave off static just by looking at them should come as no great shock. But, now that the likes of That Bloody Tony Allcock* have long since moved on to tend to their gardens and Bruce is a grown man, he thought it was an episode happily consigned to the past. Until the other week…
“Does anyone fancy playing lawn bowls?” asked an Aussie friend. OK, so his hair was grey (prematurely) and he had ample girth, but surely he was too young to be getting caught up in such a thing.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” said another friend, this one still sporting an earring in an attempt to hold on to the last vestiges of his youth.
Bruce couldn’t believe his ears. Two young(ish) men wanting to join the hordes of the wrinklies? Then Fran added to the chorus.
“That sounds ace! When is it?” she asked. (In her defence, it is a sport that doesn’t involve any great exertion hence the attraction)
And so it was that, earlier this week, they handed over their $12, grabbed their rack of weighted bowls and headed out for their debut… with about six dozen others all aged from their mid-20s to early 30s. Turns out “barefoot bowling” is a hit with this generation of Aussies; any wonder obesity’s on the rise if they’re swapping surfing for bowls.
The $12 bought two games, a pot of Cooper’s (who sponsor the weekly session at the Fitzroy Victoria Bowling Club) and a bbq (snags, chicken, lamb chops, salad) as well as the chance to mingle with the characters who inhabit these parts – one team included a man in ninja outfit and another in cream safari suit and matching hat – and the opportunity for such unwittingly hilarious conversational snippets as “Sorry, did I just hit your balls?”.
That they only won one game and lost the other didn’t matter. They’d helped boost the coffers of an old sporting club, met some folk, got some fresh air and all to a backdrop of Curtis Mayfield and sweet Motown beats pumping from an outdoor speaker system.
If only they’d played some early Pet Shop Boys it would have been perfect.
(* Bastard always beat the Scots)
