Let the Games Begin

After my sister bought Paul’s house on Route 153, after she had torn down the condemned barn in the back, after the size of the yard was realized and grass planted, it became clear that someday croquet must be played there.

So two Christmases ago, my parents and I got Alison a croquet set. And at last, on Monday, two games were played.

The game had been set up once before, last summer. Alison’s friend Richard had come to visit. A dinner party was planned, and Richard, on a sweltering hot day, carefully set up the course. Ultimately, a thunderstorm and steady rain dissolved our croquet dreams.

Time passed. Rain happened. Then, the long winter.

We talked about playing croquet on Memorial Day, but never confirmed it; at the last minute, Tim and I ended up with some important evening plans. I was ready to let the game go, but then realized we had enough time to make both things happen. We should play.

So Tim set up the course (I helped), Alison mixed gin and tonics, Tim reminded us of the rules, the brass (ceremoniously) played Arnaud’s “Bugler’s Dream,” and we began.

It had been, maybe, thirty years for me. I was terrible. I consistently hit too short, then too long. But it was quite fun, and it felt so bloody civilized. So civilized, in fact, that not once did I clobber someone with my mallet.

At the end of Game One, I said, “We should call Paul.” No one likes a G&T on a hot day more than Paul. Who knew how he felt about croquet? As he’d previously insisted on our attendance at a polo match, we figured he’d be open to it. Alison went inside to phone him. As she was dialing, Paul drove by, homebound after a day of work. We tried to scream/flag him down, to no avail. He would have to pick up the message at home. His new home. The one he moved into after he sold this one to Alison.

Alison, Tim, and I lounged under the shade of the big pine. Soon Paul showed up. Alison armed him with a gin and tonic. Game Two was on.

Turns out Paul is a bit of a croquet animal. He knew the rules. He was good. He played barefoot. He refused to shoe himself even when sending his opponents, his mallet whacking the ball that was both perilously close to and solidly fixed under his exposed metatarsals. Was he really that confident, or was it the gin?

Now that croquet has been played, I suspect that it will be played more. One needs to get a thing on one’s radar. One needs to remind oneself that one can. I now declare croquet added to the summer repertoire, and I challenge others on Route 153 (and beyond) to insist upon joining in.