Beauty of Boules

Besides my family, and music that spins round and round, perhaps the thing I have loved the longest in my life is the game of baseball. I'm not sure what it is about the game; doesn't matter if it is playing or watching, but the game changes my frame of mind and if only for a moment, my concept of time. It is something I keep coming back to that seemingly is forever in my blood. Whether I'm putting myself in front of a bad hop ground ball, or whether I'm watching Mo Sanford throw yet another base on ball, I can't get enough of the game. If my ultimate end is a liner off the old noggin, I'll die one happy fellow.

The one area of the game that does irritate me however, is the literary trendiness, the attraction of intellectuals who are all too willing to share their opinions about the greater social and political significance of baseball. (Last fall's Ken Burns PBS documentary was the ultimate extreme of this ugly romanticism.) Over the years, the nature of the game has changed from a pastime to a huge buck business, but the fundamental attractions, the perfection and pace of our greatest sport remain constant.

With all this in mind, I recently have been fortunate enough to stumble across another sport that might in time (and backwards reflection) come to mean something similar to baseball. Like baseball, this one is a family sport and man it is a trip! I'm becoming a bocce ball fool!

The game of bocce ball is much like the game of life. It's as relaxing to play as it is to watch. The object of the sport of course is to get your ball closest to the peanut, or whatever it is that little yellow target is called. Others can come along and knock you far off the beaten path, and ultimately, whenever you think you're closest to your goal, someone rolls an effort just slightly better than your's. It is a sport of pseudo-strategy. Whether it is using a skipping style to release the ball or whether it is tossing the peanut in a long grassy area, the game, like life, is full of options. And you are never sure where you'll end up until the last player has tossed.

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OK, It's taken three years, but I am completely out of ideas. Instead of inspiration, I'm running entirely on love. So...The following is a poem that was recited to me the other night by my cat, Max. Some of the words may be wrong but the flavor is correct.It promises to make you laugh, make you cry, but most importantly, make you think....

Cats out of the bag
and the fat lady sings.
Cats out of the bag
and a distant siren rings.
You know how I feel
you know what it means
You know how I feel
not always as it seems
Howl at the moon
blast from the past
Howl at the moon
the best one's last
Whiskers a feelin'
a glow deep inside
Whiskers a feelin'
like a coastal tide
Tummy is a growlin'
desire is bare
Tummy is a growlin'
the smell of your hair
Darkness is here
the vision I see
Darkness is here
why must it be?
Your voice I hear
why must you speak?
Your voice I hear
it's the one that I seek
Presence I can't escape
I'll never quite forget
Presence I can't escape
back in time when we met
You belong to someone
and I do too
You belong to someone
I don't know who
All I see is your's
stuck inside these walls
All you see is mine
echoes hear and call
Cats out of the bag
no secrets are hid
Cats out of the bag
It's adieu that I bid

Next Week: Haiku from Dave's guppy!