by Robert Hoge
The other kids took turns bowling, and Frank gave them feedback too. Some listened, but others didn’t care much and just walked up to the mat and hurled the bowl down. We spent the rest of the afternoon taking turns delivering bowls with Frank offering suggestions for improvement. It was a big help for me and I could already feel I was getting a better sense of the basics.
About twenty minutes before we had to pack up and return to school, Shaun shouted out to Frank, “Are we going to have a quick game? We need to have a rematch from last week.”
“Not today,” Frank said. “There’s more practicing to be done. Maybe in a few weeks.”
Shaun turned and looked at me. “Well, I don’t want this guy next week.”
But I knew I did.
• • •
We’d turn up at the Ex-Services Bowls Club every week and bowl our hearts out for an hour or so before we were packed back onto the bus and sent home. I’d seek out Frank as often as I could for extra coaching, even when other kids were getting straight into a game.
One day Frank pulled me aside.
“You like playing lawn bowls, don’t you, Robert?” he asked.
“Yep,” I said.
“Would you like to come down to my club on Saturday, maybe meet one of the coaches and be assessed for disabled bowling?”
I didn’t even know there was a special category for disabled bowling.
“I’d love to,” I said. “I’ll ask my parents about it.” Frank gave me a thumbs-up.
Mom and Dad liked the idea, so the next Saturday we went to Wynnum Bowls Club, which was just across the road from the tennis club where Catherine played. I introduced Mom and Dad to Frank, and we set up to bowl. Frank had brought along Peter Reid, one of the club coaches, and they watched me bowl, made suggestions, and chatted to each other for about two hours. Like Frank, Peter was impressed with how I bowled, given my stance and my habit of staring at the ground while I delivered my bowls.
At the end of the session, Frank and my parents talked. They thanked him for the extra effort he was putting in with me.
“I’m seventy now and didn’t have too much to look forward to,” he told them. “Doing this for Robert has given me a revived interest.”
Now I was playing lawn bowls every Tuesday and Saturday. The Saturday sessions gradually became more important, with Frank and Peter trying to improve my swing and delivery. My stance remained a problem, though. Even with my left leg stretched out beside me and one hand on the ground, I wasn’t stable. They decided I needed some sort of support, something that would give me a closer to normal stance and provide stability. Frank said he had an idea that would sort it out.
A few weeks later, he turned up with a metal stand his son had made especially for me to lean on as I bowled. It was thin, with padding on the bottom so it didn’t damage the grass on the green, and almost three feet high. It was an immediate help. I was more stable when delivering a bowl, and it was much easier to keep my eyes focused where they needed to be.
After that, there was no stopping me.
I’d turn up for coaching on Saturday mornings and spend hours listening to Frank, refining my technique, and trying again and again. Frank would stand ten feet or so in front of me as I delivered a bowl. Each time, he’d scoop the bowl off the ground and roll it back to me.
“That’s good, Robert. Try to keep your arm parallel to your leg,” he would say.
“Good bowl, Robert. But try to lock your elbow, and bowl from the shoulder.”
“That’s a good bowl, Robert. Now try to release the bowl closer to the ground, so it rolls out of your hand smoother.”
“Good bowl, Robert. But don’t look at me when you bowl. Look straight ahead to where you want the bowl to end up.”
“That’s good, Robert. You gave your wrist a bit of a twist at the end, though, which is why it went off-course. Try to lock it steady, like your elbow.”
“That’s a good bowl, Robert. You’ve got your wrist locked in place, but now you’re bending your elbow again.”
That was Frank. Always with the advice and always with the “That’s a good bowl, Robert,” no matter what tweaks he wanted me to make. Over and over again, until it started to feel almost unnatural not having the weight of that ball swinging in my hand.
Frank would stand for hours in the hot Saturday sun, leaning over so he could get a good look at my stance, sometimes standing in front of me, sometimes behind, sometimes beside. He’d watch intently as I delivered bowl after bowl after bowl. I quickly came to realize all of this work was the price of playing a sport well. It was the price of what I’d wanted for so long. And I loved it.
Our family Saturday-morning routine was locked in. After breakfast we’d go to the butcher and then the fruit and vegetable shop next door. We’d then go to the Wynnum library, where my parents would wait patiently as I wandered among the shelves, hunting for new science-fiction novels to read. The rule each week was that I could check out as many books as I could carry in one hand. I had big hands. Then I’d be dropped at the bowls club, where I’d spend a few hours practicing with Frank.
On the last Tuesday before the Easter holidays, all the kids who did bowls headed down to the Ex-Services Club as usual and had our practice. It was good fun, and everyone was excited. Holidays were so close, you could smell them like a sizzling sausage on a barbecue.
As we were getting ready to leave, I saw Frank having a serious discussion with another volunteer. In fact, they were arguing. I inched a little closer, trying to pretend I wasn’t listening.
“You shouldn’t be interfering by taking him for special coaching sessions,” the man was saying to Frank.
“That’s rot,” Frank said.
“You’re here as a volunteer, and if he was going to get training, it should be here at Ex-Services, not your club.”
Frank just walked off, and I didn’t get to talk to him before we were rounded up and put on the bus to head back to school.
When I got home, I told Mom what I’d overheard. She said maybe I should have a think about whether I preferred to play on Tuesday afternoons or Saturday mornings with Frank.
“That’s easy. I’d rather stay with Frank.”
That evening Frank phoned to talk to Mom. He relayed a bit more of the argument and said he was very upset. He told Mom he would never go back to the other club. Mom told him she didn’t want him to sever his ties with the club on my account, but he said he didn’t care. Mom told Frank that as far as she and Dad were concerned, I had their approval to train with him, and how any of us spent our free time on weekends was no one else’s business.
“You’re clearly very upset about it all,” Mom said to Frank.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
“Well, after Robert told me a bit about what happened this afternoon, I asked him what he wanted to do and he said he wanted to stay with you, bowling on Saturday mornings.”
I thought Frank must have been saying an awful lot to Mom on the phone, because there was a very long pause, but she told me when she got off the phone that he hadn’t said anything for a bit and then replied, “Thank you. I’ll sleep tonight now.”
After that, more training. Every month or so, Frank would find another player from Wynnum to compete against me. I’d win an individual round every now and then, but not very often. But I got to see firsthand how the experts did it, with Frank looking over my shoulder, giving guidance the whole way.
I had been training for sixteen months when Frank looked up at me with a smile one day.
“Robert,” he said, “I think you’re ready.”
“Ready for what, Frank?”
“Well, I’ve talked to the club, told them about all the training you’ve been doing, and they’ve agreed,” Frank said.
I still didn’t know what he was talking about.
“They’ve a
greed you can join a team and start playing in competition with the adults, if you think you’re ready,” Frank said.
The stand Frank’s son had made for me and all the training I’d done meant I could play in normal competition, rather than signing up for disabled bowls.
“Wow,” I said. I was finally getting the chance to compete in a team sport.
“So, think you’re ready?” Frank asked.
“Abso-bloody-lutely,” I said.
Frank laughed.
“Good,” he said, and smiled. “I’ve already put your name down for next week.”
19
Game On
For my first official game, Frank signed me up to be lead bowler in a team of four. That might sound scary, but it’s not. The lead bowler is just the bowler who goes first. The fourth bowler, called the skip, is the one who’s actually in charge. Pretty much everyone starts out playing in fours, and being the lead bowler is a nice, gentle way to begin.
My job was simple. All I had to do was draw two bowls as close to the jack as possible. The opposing teams would alternate as the lead, second, third, and fourth bowlers all took their turn.
The skip stayed at the other end and barked orders to his three teammates before they bowled. No matter what he said, no matter what kind of crazy, impossible-to-pull-off shot he told you to play, the only acceptable response was to yell back, “Yes, skip!” like you were in the army taking orders.
I’m sure there were a few club members still dubious about a skinny disabled kid playing, but the first bowl I sent down that day gently nudged the jack.
“Good bowl!” Frank cheered.
The second stopped on the line about a foot behind it. Further down the bowling order, things got a bit more complicated. By the time the skip started bowling, there were already twelve bowls on the green. Sometimes they had to draw their last bowl around an opponent’s bowl. Sometimes they’d have to put a bit of force behind their bowl—to push one of their team’s bowls closer to the jack or knock the opposition’s bowl out of the way.
Sometimes they had to shoot the bowl as fast as they could at the target. This shot was called the drive. There was little finesse to it. It was pure brute force. And truth be known, it failed as often as it succeeded. Frank refused to teach me to drive. He thought it was overused, a tool for players who couldn’t draw properly. I’d have plenty of time to learn it down the track, he said.
In midafternoon a bell rang and we stopped for a break. Men in their forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies all took off their hats and headed inside—and so did I. We ate cucumber sandwiches and drank cups of tea. It was hot, but I drank that tea and ate those sandwiches like I had magically aged and turned into my father. My team was ahead, but only just. The game could go either way. We returned to the green fifteen minutes later.
The rest of the afternoon was an up-and-down affair. Our opponents caught up to us and then pulled slightly ahead, but we fought back. Going into the final round, the scores were level.
I stepped up to the green and drew my first bowl. It stopped right in line with the jack, two or three inches in front of it. I watched as the opposing team’s lead bowl rolled down the green. It was getting closer to mine. Just as I thought it was going to fall short, it nudged my bowl and ended up just in front. My next delivery was the last one I’d make in my first proper game. It had to be a good one. I planted my foot and the metal stand down firmly, to make sure I was stable, and focused on exactly where I wanted the ball to end up. Then I let it go.
At first I thought the bowl was going too fast, too far. But it crept out wide and gently swung back in. It edged its way around my first bowl and the other team’s bowl until it nudged the jack. Frank gave me a loud clap, and I smiled. We stayed ahead for the rest of the game and my team won. I headed home a happy sportsman.
I graduated from playing fours to triples and then to pairs. Pairs was my favorite because it meant getting to bowl your first two bowls, swap with the skip while they bowled two of theirs, and then come back and bowl another two of yours.
I enjoyed playing pairs with Frank most of all. He was a good player—not a champion, since his aim was going off a bit in his old age, but we’d have great fun. He’d offer good suggestions and encourage me to take some risks. They didn’t always pay off, but it was fun trying. And Frank was the perfect coach, weighing up the odds, asking if I fancied my chances, and telling me to go for it. We probably lost more matches than we should have, but Frank saw them as an opportunity to learn, to stretch my arm.
I’d found my sporting home—on a team—and not playing any of the sports I originally thought I would. Once again, my disability had restricted my choices, but then driven me to new ones that seemed so much better than anything else could have been.
Soon after, the Queensland Lawn Bowls Association chose to officially allow junior members. This meant we could be formally recognized by the clubs, play in interclub pennant matches, and compete in regional and statewide competitions. I was quick to register, and Mom and I even went off into town for the first meeting to elect representatives and office-bearers.
The first major singles competition I played was a round-robin event on the first day, with playoffs on the second. Frank came with me and we settled in for what I’d decided was going to be a winning day. I cruised to an easy victory in my first match, and my second match looked just as simple. My opponent was a few years younger than me, smaller, and looked like he’d only been playing a year or two at most. A pushover, I thought.
Except the kid was good. I lost the first round four–nothing, the worst result possible. My opponent would draw a bowl within half an inch of the jack every time. Or if I drew shot, he’d give my bowl a nudge, knock it back three feet or so, and claim the round. Time after time, he kept taking the shot or denying me whenever I came close.
We broke for lunch in the middle of the game and I sat and chatted with Frank.
“Robert,” he said, “I think it’s time we taught you how to drive.”
I shrugged, doubting that it would have made much difference that day anyway. I went back out there rested, focused, and determined to redouble my efforts. And got resoundingly beaten. Luckily, I won my third match and progressed to the finals the next day. I made it through the morning, but I was beaten in the semis and ended up in third place. But I got a trophy—the first I’d ever received for a genuine sporting achievement.
The next Saturday morning, I turned up for coaching and Frank had organized the club’s driving expert to come down and teach me. He was a tall, fierce man and would drive his bowl down the other end of the green so fast that when it connected with another ball it sounded like it was splitting an atom. It was a good lesson, but I wasn’t the best driver because I delivered the ball stationary. A lot of the best drivers “walked into it,” but I was stuck standing on the mat.
In any case, I was happy with the skills Frank had taught me. Happy he’d brought me into a competition, made me part of a team, showed me that it could sometimes be just as much fun losing as winning. So long as I was in a team. Preferably his team. Most people have a favorite sporting coach, a favorite teammate, and a favorite grandfather. Frank was all of those things to me.
I’d wanted so desperately to be part of a team. I’d wanted to be cheered when I got something right and jeered when I didn’t. I wanted to win, and when I didn’t, I wanted to lose with friends by my side. Lawn bowls gave me all that and more.
20
Growing Up Slow
Nowhere, ever, will you find a worse example of humanity than grade-nine boys. That included me.
At some stage that year a bunch of us decided that filling our mouths up with water at a drinking fountain and spitting it at our classmates was the coolest way we could spend our time. Extra points were awarded if you could squirt water over someone’s shirt just before class resumed so they’d have t
o sit there, soaking wet, looking stupid.
At first we’d try to act casual, as if our mouths weren’t full of water, but it was pretty hard convincing someone you weren’t going to squirt water on them when you couldn’t talk. Soon people began running after each other to deliver a mouthful. I was neither fast enough to run after people nor fast enough to escape when they came after me, so I got drenched. I sat with Robert F one lunchtime, just before class resumed, soaked in water.
“This is an issue that must be addressed,” I said.
“What are you going to do?” Robert F asked.
“I’ve got an idea,” I told him.
I’d spied an empty shampoo bottle of Mom’s in the bathroom a few days earlier. It was long and slender, and small enough to fit into my pocket. I rinsed it out, brought it to school, and filled it with water. While I still didn’t have the speed of the other kids, my weapon had a significantly better range.
This was a major escalation. It moved the fight in the quadrangle from one-on-one spit-and-run attacks to something more serious. For a few glorious days I had the upper hand. I’d hold the shampoo bottle by my side and squirt an enemy combatant as I walked by. Or I’d poke my head around the corner of a building and wait until I could squirt someone, then quickly duck back away, unseen. Then other kids realized they could do the same thing.
Next, some genius figured out that because the liquid we were squirting at each other was no longer carried in the mouth, it could be something other than water. There we were, filling up bottles with water and toothpaste and shampoo and squirting each other.
I took part, lest I get left behind in the arms race. My preferred concoction was about three parts water with a little shampoo and a dollop of toothpaste. It was the perfect combination. Not too thick, so it still got plenty of distance when squeezed out of the bottle, but tainted enough that if it hit, it stuck, leaving a coconut-smelling sheen topped with a minty-fresh zing.