When I first stand in the circle, I don't even really think about the jack, even if I'm looking at it. I'm feeling the weight of the boule in my hand. Pumping it lightly up and letting its weight fall back into my curled fingers. With each lift I give it a small spin, feeling for the incised letters that orient my grip. It's not actually a grip so much as a cradle. I'm trying to remind myself to keep my thumb off the boule because if it is touching, my hand will be off center spinning the boule off line and to the left where ninety percent of my misses go. Finally I look to the jack and try to pick a donee. Once I hav picked some random spot, selected for some indicator like a leaf or bald spot, and if I'm lucky a track in the dust for me to follow, I think about how hard to throw it. If it's out past eight meters, I may remember to use some back swing. If it's in close I try to remember to put some back spin on it. The last thing to consider before I release is the arc. Too high and it's a potato. I've thrown so many of those I should have been an Idaho farmer. Too flat and the boule heads for the string like the bathrooms are about to close early. Just right and I should by a Lotto ticket.
And don't even ask me about strategy. I ain't got none.
I've come to the conclusion that this game is way too cerebral for a palooka like me. Maybe I should just stick to sitting in the shade. I have a lot of confidence in my shade sitting.
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For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress. And as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. —Henry Wadsworth LongfellowTwinkle, twinkle little bat How I wonder what you're at! Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. —Lewis Carroll
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Lacking an UNSUBSCRIBE button you'll have to email me asking to be removed from the list. I know it's asking a lot but I have faith in you.
You can do it.
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