The delicate clink of plastic on plastic raises the crowd to a raucous crescendo, and my heart flutters as a sturdy set of hands fall upon my youthful shoulders. Peter, an older boy who has taken me under his wing and vowed to guide me through the cutthroat world of amateur youth lawn bowls, leans in a little closer.
“Great shot, Bigs,” Peter whispers. “You’re just one point away from being crowned the Woy Woy Bowling Club Junior Champion – Male Division. I believe in you, I admire you. Now roll that bowl and send the crowd home happy.”
I gasp for air in a desperate attempt to calm my trembling fingers, and struggle to focus upon the jack in the distance. My admirers – thousands of them, surely – are roaring and dancing, but I hear nothing but the thumping of my heart and the sweet words rolling out of Peter’s supple lips. I crouch, lean forward, and guide the bowl towards its destiny.
Nightmare at the Bowlo
Awakening with a scream, I sink back upon my sodden sheets and stare in horror at the ceiling fan spinning languidly above my sweat-heavy brow. I have, mercifully, been pulled from the hallucination, but I know only too well what would have come next. The tragic trajectory of the shot, the silence of the audience, the ruthless reverberation of the ball plunging into the ditch. And then nothing. For the longest time, nothing.
After vomiting from angst, I looked up to see my opponent, Simon Wong, was being chaired off the green, clutching the trophy that had been destined for me. My soul yearned for my loss, but the worst was yet to come. There beneath Simon Wong, holding him aloft with a smile wider than anyone’s, was Peter. My Peter.
“I always knew you could do it, Simon Wong,” Peter beamed, sending red-hot razor blades of torment deep into my shattered psyche.
I was laughed out of Woy Woy. My lucrative sponsorship with Diadora was annulled. I never lawn bowled again.
A real jack of all trades
The Lake Cathie Bowl has been rounding up visitors since 1975, but I’ve always resisted his roguish charms due to the weeping wounds of my childhood ridicule. However, after a recent unpleasant – and really quite violent – exchange with a chum who suggested I join him for a session of barefoot bowls, my therapist Clive suggested that I confront my greatest fear.
“Dying alone?” I asked him.
“No, Bigs,” Clive sighed. “Lawn bowls. You must seek out the largest bowling ball in the land. I believe you can find it in -”
“My friend,” I snapped, “I may have borderline schizoid personality disorder with some rather extreme narcissistic tendencies, but I’m not an idiot. I know that he resides out front of Club Lake Cathie, just 15 kilometres south of picturesque Port Macquarie.
“I know that planning for the Big Bowl began in 1973, when club President Reg Ellery decided that a bowling ball of epic proportions was the only way to lure in more members. And of course I am aware that, when plans to have the ball made by a professional fell through, Reg asked his neighbour Stan Kanaar – yes, the well-regarded jeweller and engineer – to build it.”
“But how did he achieve such a realistic and symmetrical representation of a regulation lawn bowls bowling ball?” wailed Clive. “How, Bigs, tell me that!”
I snatched a conveniently-located newspaper from my purse, struck a dramatic pose with one foot abreast a chair, and began to read as Clive sat there with mouth agape.
Building a better bowling ball
“Stan Kanaar described the process thusly,” I yodelled. “‘Operating from the centre, I fixed a jig which went right around the bowl. I plastered as much cement mix as I could on the top and each side, and kept rolling it as each section dried, using the jig all the time. I then called in the plasterer to give it a finishing touch.’”
“And then?” Clive demanded.
“The Bowl was left to dry for a few weeks, before being carried by crane into a paddock, where a further two layers of cement were added. The crane driver was so mesmerised by what he saw that he refused to charge for his services, and even convinced a buddy to build the garden around the Bowl when it was finally loaded into place.”
For the longest time, the only sound in the therapist’s office was the ceaseless ticking of Clive’s antique cuckoo clock. Then, the diminutive therapist jumped up, snatched his keys and dragged me towards the door.
“Bigs, a visit to the Big Bowl is exactly what you need to overcome your feelings of abandonment and lifelong failure. And, if it’s as grand as you claim, it’s also the thing to help me deal with my spiralling jigsaw puzzle addiction. I’ll drive.”
And that’s how I ended up confronting the demons of my past.
Keep rollin’, rollin’, rollin’, rollin’
The Big Bowl measures 1.907 metres tall, with a circumference of 5.983 metres and a total mass of two tonnes. Upon its unveiling on November 16, 1975, Reg was swarmed by Big Thing fanatics as he gave an emotional and, at times, rambling speech.
“It is bound to be a big attraction with passing motorists,” Reg wept. “I think many visitors will want to be photographed next to the Big Bowl!” The fact I had to endure three agonising hours in a line reaching halfway to Port Macquarie to have a happy snap proves Reg to be a very astute man indeed.
As the photo shoot drew to a close and the sun melted behind the mountains like butter on a freshly-baked scone, Clive suggested we enjoy a sumptuous yet surprisingly wallet-friendly Chinese meal at the club’s legendary Waterview Restaurant.
Passing by the restaurant’s window, I was frozen mid-step as I recognised two unmistakably handsome men inside. There, sharing a bowl of Rainbow Beef was Simon Wong and Peter. No longer my Peter; the contented silence and mirrored grins inside the restaurant made it clear that he was now Simon Wong’s Peter.
I was heartbroken, of course, but more than anything I was simply happy for their happiness.
Am I not kitty enough?
“We can get some poke bowls on the way home,” caring Clive whispered, gently walking me away from the Big Bowl forever.
Nary a word was spoken on the long, bumpy drive back from the Big Bowl. All that needed to be said had been said. As that big ol’ silvery moon watched over us, we weaved our way home, knowing life would never be the same again.
As Clive pulled up outside my halfway house, he allowed his emotions to take over and clutched to his heaving bosom. A single tear sparkled like a diamond upon his rubenesque cheek.
“Bigs, I’ve always found your unfettered devotion to Big Things to be a cause for serious concern. But after seeing the Lake Cathie Bowl, I’ve come to the conclusion that it is those who haven’t dedicated their lives to oversized roadside attractions who are the true dangers to society.”
“Clive, my friend,” I sighed, “I think we had a real breakthrough today. “
