Amy led us through Park Slope in Brooklyn. Alex and I, in a daze, lightly intoxicated, tripped over cracks in the sidewalk. We entered a bar, Union Hall, which was decorated like a den, with books lining the walls and couches and rattan chairs arranged throughout. In the center of the place, two bocce lanes. Some groups of hipsters rolled back and forth. After grabbing a round from the bar, we sat in some chairs on a raised platform above the courts, deliberating whether or not we should play.
A game below us was wrapping, so Amy ventured down to speak with the last team. She came back to Alex and I and said that the team had agreed to provide a ringer to play with Amy. Alex and I were the other team. Amy's teammate, Greg, was a young professional from Queens, who said he and his friends ventured down to Park Slope for a good time.
Alex and I were slow out of the gate. I admitted it takes approximately 75 rolls for me to get into a rhythm. Alex long-armed everything. Mine fell short. And so it went. Amy threw like a pro. She admitted later that her roll was derived from a softball pitch, a sport she played in high school. Every roll for her was spot on -- bee-you-tee-full.
Alex and I spotted them 3, then 5, then we eventually got one and began storming back. At one point, we sat with four balls inside. But Amy rolled last and managed to shoot three out, netting us only one point. That was as close as we came -- 4 to 6. On the next roll, Amy got inside and we had no balls left. Gregg threw his last ball away and we lost 4 to 7. This was the first time Alex and I were made aware the we were only playing to 7.
Afterwards, we looked at the results of a tournament bracket tacked crookedly to the wall. Of the 20 teams entered, 16 were puns on 'bocce' -- names like bocculism and bocculicious and the Super Bocce-o Bros. Nowhere on the list did I see bocced up. If I were ever to sell out and move to Brooklyn, I knew where I would be spending most of my time.
I told Amy that she could come to Cleveland and basically walk onto our team there. Out of the gate, she was already better than our whole team put together. She said she'd think about it. I could not make her an offer she couldn't refuse. We did not play anymore bocce that night. Instead we went to three more bars and I drank 24 or so more beers.
On the way back to our hotel in Queens -- a seemingly 13 hour train ride from Park Slope -- I had to piss so bad I felt like my bladder was about to pop. I considered peeing between the subway cars, but did not, for fear of glancing the third rail and electrocuting myself (I later found out from every single person I know that this is only an urban legend and cannot happen, as proven by Myth Busters). Embarrassed, I told Alex that we needed to get off at the next stop. I spent an agonizing three minutes wandering through the subway station, searching for a restroom that did not exist. Then I went into the street, was about to make water into a planter with a tree in it, but a guard inside the lobby took notice so I moved on, eventually letting loose on a corrugated metal gate over a storefront. I urinated for a solid minute, even forcing it out at times, and never before have I felt such relief.
It was a night of utter deboccery.
Showing posts with label bocced up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bocced up. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
excerpt from my memoirs, Bocced Up: My Life Interpreted Through the Great Sport of Bocce Ball
The Old Man
Maybe he’d always lingered on the long benches beside the sand courts at the Alta House in Little Italy. As our bocce team, Cinque Piu Uno, began practicing there more and more, the old man’s face seemed to show up with increasing frequency. He was a short man, maybe 5’-4” or so, and usually wore the same clothes, the same shoes – white short-sleeved dress shirt, black slacks, and black tennis shoes.
One beautiful, warm evening in early June, Jdubbs, Thed, and I were rolling back and forth, having a friendly little practice when the old man came over and sat on the bench. He was old as hell, I could tell. Upon seeing him, dubbs perked up and got one of his grand notions, which are very easily discernable if you’ve known him long enough. His eyes flare and he exudes a determined aura, as if nothing can stand in his way. Dubbs made his throw, got his bocce inside and scored a point. Then he went over to the bench and sat down next to the old man.
Thed and I stood around and kicked at the balls while dubbs and the old man conversed. They spoke with brevity and both stood and approached our court. Jdubbs informed us that we were starting a new game.
"This is Antonio," Jdubbs said, "he’s going to play."
Thed and I shook his hand; introduced ourselves.
"You roll much?" I asked, putting on my best bocce pantomime.
"Eh, lil bit," Antonio said with a heavy Italian accent. He moved his hand back and forth in a ‘so-so’ manner.
"Who’s team do you want to be on, Antonio?" dubbbs asked.
The man’s ageless eyes flicked indiscriminately between dubbs, Thed, and myself. Eventually, he pointed at Thed.
"Eh, you."
Dubbs and I had been practicing close to three times a week since discovering the courts at the Alta House and we came to think pretty highly of ourselves. Thed came along intermittently, but was streaky and often skipped out on practice to spend time with his new lady friend. When Antonio picked Thed, dubbs and I assumed he had unknowingly provided us the advantage. As two young, virile twenty-somethings, we would show the old man and the flake who was boss.
During the first frame, our team got inside with a couple marginal tosses, as the two balls Thed threw went wide. Then Antonio stepped onto the court and readied himself with a stance none of us had ever seen before. With his left leg forward, he rested most of his weight on the right leg behind him. His right hand hung at his side, clutching the bocce. He took a two-step gallop and sidearmed the bocce at our inside ball. As the sphere left his grasp, he let out a moan from deep within his Italian soul.
"Wah!"
His ball collided with ours and shot it out of range of the pallino. Then he sailed their forth and final bocce safely inside and scored a point.
It can’t be said that Thed and Antonio trounced us, though they did win decisively. By the end, Jdubbs and I were sweaty with shame and defeat.
"You’re pretty good," I said. "Looking for a team?"
"Eh, I play a lil," Antonio said. "Win trophy here long time ago. Friends, eh, they no around anymore to play."
We made sure Antonio knew that he was welcome to roll with us anytime. And that he should think about entering the tourney at the end of the month.
"Eh, I dunno," he shrugged, "I jus’ a old man."
Archive 1
Archive 2
Archive 3
Maybe he’d always lingered on the long benches beside the sand courts at the Alta House in Little Italy. As our bocce team, Cinque Piu Uno, began practicing there more and more, the old man’s face seemed to show up with increasing frequency. He was a short man, maybe 5’-4” or so, and usually wore the same clothes, the same shoes – white short-sleeved dress shirt, black slacks, and black tennis shoes.
One beautiful, warm evening in early June, Jdubbs, Thed, and I were rolling back and forth, having a friendly little practice when the old man came over and sat on the bench. He was old as hell, I could tell. Upon seeing him, dubbs perked up and got one of his grand notions, which are very easily discernable if you’ve known him long enough. His eyes flare and he exudes a determined aura, as if nothing can stand in his way. Dubbs made his throw, got his bocce inside and scored a point. Then he went over to the bench and sat down next to the old man.
Thed and I stood around and kicked at the balls while dubbs and the old man conversed. They spoke with brevity and both stood and approached our court. Jdubbs informed us that we were starting a new game.
"This is Antonio," Jdubbs said, "he’s going to play."
Thed and I shook his hand; introduced ourselves.
"You roll much?" I asked, putting on my best bocce pantomime.
"Eh, lil bit," Antonio said with a heavy Italian accent. He moved his hand back and forth in a ‘so-so’ manner.
"Who’s team do you want to be on, Antonio?" dubbbs asked.
The man’s ageless eyes flicked indiscriminately between dubbs, Thed, and myself. Eventually, he pointed at Thed.
"Eh, you."
Dubbs and I had been practicing close to three times a week since discovering the courts at the Alta House and we came to think pretty highly of ourselves. Thed came along intermittently, but was streaky and often skipped out on practice to spend time with his new lady friend. When Antonio picked Thed, dubbs and I assumed he had unknowingly provided us the advantage. As two young, virile twenty-somethings, we would show the old man and the flake who was boss.
During the first frame, our team got inside with a couple marginal tosses, as the two balls Thed threw went wide. Then Antonio stepped onto the court and readied himself with a stance none of us had ever seen before. With his left leg forward, he rested most of his weight on the right leg behind him. His right hand hung at his side, clutching the bocce. He took a two-step gallop and sidearmed the bocce at our inside ball. As the sphere left his grasp, he let out a moan from deep within his Italian soul.
"Wah!"
His ball collided with ours and shot it out of range of the pallino. Then he sailed their forth and final bocce safely inside and scored a point.
It can’t be said that Thed and Antonio trounced us, though they did win decisively. By the end, Jdubbs and I were sweaty with shame and defeat.
"You’re pretty good," I said. "Looking for a team?"
"Eh, I play a lil," Antonio said. "Win trophy here long time ago. Friends, eh, they no around anymore to play."
We made sure Antonio knew that he was welcome to roll with us anytime. And that he should think about entering the tourney at the end of the month.
"Eh, I dunno," he shrugged, "I jus’ a old man."
Archive 1
Archive 2
Archive 3
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
excerpt from my memoirs, Bocced Up: My Life Interpreted Through the Great Sport of Bocce Ball
First Practice
One night in early May, Jdubbs stormed through the front door, right arm laden with a heavy leather sack. He had just returned from his parents' house in Erie and looked like he had ran the whole way back. Mopping the sweat from his brow with his left hand, he released the bag from his right. It clamored to the hardwood floor with a thunderous commotion.
Thed yelled from down the hall. “What the fuck was that?”
I looked up from the Chabon book I was reading. “What’s in the bag?”
“Get up,” dubbs said, “it’s time for practice.”
He grabbed Yiddish Policeman’s Union from my grasp and tossed it into the decorative fireplace. Candles went flying.
“Practice?”
“What the fuck are you guys doing?” Thed echoed down the hall.
“Bocce,” dubbs said. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going to practice?”
“I figure we’ll go someplace close.”
“I’m in,” I said, scooping up my shoes. Chabon could wait. Bocce was now.
Thed came stomping from his room. “Jesus guys, why don’t you make a little more fucking noise?”
“Get your shoes on,” dubbs said. “We’re having practice.”
“Ah dude, I can’t. Working on my blog now.”
Jdubbs and I cast sideways glances at one another. We chuckled.
“Fucking loser,” dubbs said.
“You’re off the team!” I yelled. “Mandatory practice.”
“It’s about to rain,” was Thed’s argument. And then: “I’m tired.”
We refused to hear anymore. Jdubbs hoisted the balls off the floor. We blew through the doorway. The bocce bag collided loudly with the walls of the stairwell as we made our way down. It left divots in its wake.
As we stepped onto the sidewalk, heavy wind and a rumble from far away made us wonder how much practice we’d actually get.
“We still got time,” dubbs said.
“Those clouds are gonna blow over,” I said.
When we reached the end of the street, dubbs said his arm was about to fall off. The wind picked up. We needed to find a place to play. A quick flash of lightning illuminated the swatch of grass dividing the four lanes of Euclid Heights Boulevard.
As fast as we could, we darted halfway across the street and set up a game on the median of the boulevard. The course was rutty and a few times our bocces came close to rolling into traffic, but Jdubbs and I managed to get a game in. Sometimes cars would slow down to watch. One time a guy stopped, smiled, and said, “Bocce.”
Dubbs won of course, for his bocce ability reigns supreme. Right about when he administered the deathblow, it began to drizzle. Thunder beckoned louder. It was time to go. I lugged the sack home. We stepped inside the entryway of our building just before the sky opened up and the rain came. We congratulated each other on a game well played. On the way up the stairs (bag thudding off the wall), we had our first meeting as Don (dubbs) and consigliere (myself). Upon reaching the apartment door, we were still undecided as to whether or not we should let Thed back on the team.
Archive I
Archive 2
One night in early May, Jdubbs stormed through the front door, right arm laden with a heavy leather sack. He had just returned from his parents' house in Erie and looked like he had ran the whole way back. Mopping the sweat from his brow with his left hand, he released the bag from his right. It clamored to the hardwood floor with a thunderous commotion.
Thed yelled from down the hall. “What the fuck was that?”
I looked up from the Chabon book I was reading. “What’s in the bag?”
“Get up,” dubbs said, “it’s time for practice.”
He grabbed Yiddish Policeman’s Union from my grasp and tossed it into the decorative fireplace. Candles went flying.
“Practice?”
“What the fuck are you guys doing?” Thed echoed down the hall.
“Bocce,” dubbs said. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going to practice?”
“I figure we’ll go someplace close.”
“I’m in,” I said, scooping up my shoes. Chabon could wait. Bocce was now.
Thed came stomping from his room. “Jesus guys, why don’t you make a little more fucking noise?”
“Get your shoes on,” dubbs said. “We’re having practice.”
“Ah dude, I can’t. Working on my blog now.”
Jdubbs and I cast sideways glances at one another. We chuckled.
“Fucking loser,” dubbs said.
“You’re off the team!” I yelled. “Mandatory practice.”
“It’s about to rain,” was Thed’s argument. And then: “I’m tired.”
We refused to hear anymore. Jdubbs hoisted the balls off the floor. We blew through the doorway. The bocce bag collided loudly with the walls of the stairwell as we made our way down. It left divots in its wake.
As we stepped onto the sidewalk, heavy wind and a rumble from far away made us wonder how much practice we’d actually get.
“We still got time,” dubbs said.
“Those clouds are gonna blow over,” I said.
When we reached the end of the street, dubbs said his arm was about to fall off. The wind picked up. We needed to find a place to play. A quick flash of lightning illuminated the swatch of grass dividing the four lanes of Euclid Heights Boulevard.
As fast as we could, we darted halfway across the street and set up a game on the median of the boulevard. The course was rutty and a few times our bocces came close to rolling into traffic, but Jdubbs and I managed to get a game in. Sometimes cars would slow down to watch. One time a guy stopped, smiled, and said, “Bocce.”
Dubbs won of course, for his bocce ability reigns supreme. Right about when he administered the deathblow, it began to drizzle. Thunder beckoned louder. It was time to go. I lugged the sack home. We stepped inside the entryway of our building just before the sky opened up and the rain came. We congratulated each other on a game well played. On the way up the stairs (bag thudding off the wall), we had our first meeting as Don (dubbs) and consigliere (myself). Upon reaching the apartment door, we were still undecided as to whether or not we should let Thed back on the team.
Archive I
Archive 2
Thursday, April 26, 2007
excerpt from my memoirs, Bocced Up: My Life Interpreted Through the Great Sport of Bocce Ball
25 April 2007:
Seeking Cinque
I had fallen into a rut. Cleveland celebrated the opening of spring by spitting snow everywhere. Any inspiration provided by the equinox froze beneath ice sheets. My blog sat barren and neglected—the month of April afforded little hope, as my internal calendar flipped for the 23rd annual time. I strolled into my mid-twenties rather sheepishly, as if I were searching out a seat on the RTA and wished to sit equidistant from all the other travelers.
But last weekend, the weather broke. Spring punched me in the face. The smell of fresh clippings wafted along the swelling sidewalks. The spectators had rushed the field. I spent my day job slinging mango smoothies and hummos/pita at young urban professionals and undergrads brave enough venture beyond the hermetically sealed bubble of their private university down the road.
I stumbled home from work late that Saturday night. The electricity of the first true spring evening vibrated inside my lungs. Transcendence tapped me on the shoulder. It was time. My roommates greeted me enthusiastically. They had big news.
“dB,” Jdubbs said, “me, you, and Thed are entering a bocce tournament in Little Italy.”
“We found a flyer down there,” Thed said, a grin-shaped crater on his face. “Our team is called cinque piu uno.”
“It means five plus one,” Jdubbs explained. He presented me with an Italian magazine, the cover of which featured five penguins walking to the right; a sixth stared stoically back at the reader.
“Okay,” I said hesitantly, “what does this have to do with bocce?”
“Each team has five members,” Thed said. “So ours would be you, me, Jdubbs, Chuck, and someone else. We haven’t figured out who yet.”
“Then who’s the plus one?” I asked.
"I dunno," Jdubbs said, "our merch girl." It seemed they had envisioned a hot, impassioned voice from the bench. We only needed a fifth, our cinque.
Thed and Jdubbs went on to describe the uniforms they had designed: track shorts and skimpy tees: purple, purchased from American Apparel; they planned to blazon the shirts with sponsors and the 5+1 penguins logo; also, aviator sunglasses; and, of course, (ironic) mustaches. I requested tube socks and matching purple Sambas. The ensemble was complete, at least in concept.
We slid headfirst into spring. This bocce tournament was to be truly transcendent. We planned practices on the grass medium separating the lanes of Euclid Heights Blvd. We considered hiring a documentary crew to chart our progress. We considered actually buying a bocce ball set.
And still, we needed a fifth, the final keystone to be set into place, the one person who could tie it all together. The foundation had been set. Bocce was going to solve all our problems, and a world of opportunity was opened to us. Thed, Jdubbs, and I—friends by chance, roommates by choice—left for a party that night feeling inspired beyond even our wildest expectations. The three of us were rolling headlong toward our destination, and would collide with it in due time. What mattered was that we were on the right trajectory to make contact.
Bocced Up archive
Seeking Cinque
I had fallen into a rut. Cleveland celebrated the opening of spring by spitting snow everywhere. Any inspiration provided by the equinox froze beneath ice sheets. My blog sat barren and neglected—the month of April afforded little hope, as my internal calendar flipped for the 23rd annual time. I strolled into my mid-twenties rather sheepishly, as if I were searching out a seat on the RTA and wished to sit equidistant from all the other travelers.
But last weekend, the weather broke. Spring punched me in the face. The smell of fresh clippings wafted along the swelling sidewalks. The spectators had rushed the field. I spent my day job slinging mango smoothies and hummos/pita at young urban professionals and undergrads brave enough venture beyond the hermetically sealed bubble of their private university down the road.
I stumbled home from work late that Saturday night. The electricity of the first true spring evening vibrated inside my lungs. Transcendence tapped me on the shoulder. It was time. My roommates greeted me enthusiastically. They had big news.
“dB,” Jdubbs said, “me, you, and Thed are entering a bocce tournament in Little Italy.”
“We found a flyer down there,” Thed said, a grin-shaped crater on his face. “Our team is called cinque piu uno.”
“It means five plus one,” Jdubbs explained. He presented me with an Italian magazine, the cover of which featured five penguins walking to the right; a sixth stared stoically back at the reader.
“Okay,” I said hesitantly, “what does this have to do with bocce?”
“Each team has five members,” Thed said. “So ours would be you, me, Jdubbs, Chuck, and someone else. We haven’t figured out who yet.”
“Then who’s the plus one?” I asked.
"I dunno," Jdubbs said, "our merch girl." It seemed they had envisioned a hot, impassioned voice from the bench. We only needed a fifth, our cinque.
Thed and Jdubbs went on to describe the uniforms they had designed: track shorts and skimpy tees: purple, purchased from American Apparel; they planned to blazon the shirts with sponsors and the 5+1 penguins logo; also, aviator sunglasses; and, of course, (ironic) mustaches. I requested tube socks and matching purple Sambas. The ensemble was complete, at least in concept.
We slid headfirst into spring. This bocce tournament was to be truly transcendent. We planned practices on the grass medium separating the lanes of Euclid Heights Blvd. We considered hiring a documentary crew to chart our progress. We considered actually buying a bocce ball set.
And still, we needed a fifth, the final keystone to be set into place, the one person who could tie it all together. The foundation had been set. Bocce was going to solve all our problems, and a world of opportunity was opened to us. Thed, Jdubbs, and I—friends by chance, roommates by choice—left for a party that night feeling inspired beyond even our wildest expectations. The three of us were rolling headlong toward our destination, and would collide with it in due time. What mattered was that we were on the right trajectory to make contact.
Bocced Up archive
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
excerpt from my memiors: Bocced Up: My life interpreted through the great sport of Bocce Ball
22 November 2005:
Subterranean Semester Blues
It's getting down to it now. Another four months of my life spent. I slip into the melancholy of the end of the semester/beginning of winter comedown. It always snows on Thanksgiving. That kills any chance for a bocce ball tournament.
The breath of the morning
I keep forgetting,
The smell of the warm summer air
* * * * * *
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollars
You only got ten
Subterranean Semester Blues
It's getting down to it now. Another four months of my life spent. I slip into the melancholy of the end of the semester/beginning of winter comedown. It always snows on Thanksgiving. That kills any chance for a bocce ball tournament.
Bocce would really improve my life right now. I'd feel like I accomplished something. Something about the steady clink of two colliding clay spheres puts my life into perspective. As one bocce ball collides with another, so goes the swirling of the ever expanding-contracting universe.
And I choose to reside in the sanctity of some subterranean lyrics:
The breath of the morning
I keep forgetting,
The smell of the warm summer air
* * * * * *
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollars
You only got ten
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