A boule clatters into the pebbles, its rusted
shell apathetic to the presence of the nearby Jack despite the vocal urges of its
launcher. A primordial shout, then a wizened sigh. There will be another chance
soon.
Another boule skids off the seaweed heading
further and further away from the jack, nestling in the bladderwrack. Both now
temporary abandoned, briefly unloved - the seaweed by the tide, the boule by
its deliverer.
The Jack sits on the shingle nestled near a
cracked limpet shell, a hollowed whelk and a patch of egg wreck. These are it's
only companions. No boule are near, as all previous shotss are poor, just
botchy boule you might say. The next player takes aim, with the jack sat in
acres of space there is so much to aim for, so much to hope for. A gift is
waiting to be snatched. Their hand clutches the boule, preparing for his
next shot. There is a slight quiver in their arm - like a mother elephant
gently caressing her calf with her trunk. The player nurtures the boule,
waiting for the time to be right to launch the boule
An oyster catcher calls out - is that
Gressier sending support? The Lochs surface shimmers with a grey foreboding-
Hornblowers spirit is there. The lichen covered rocks briefly take the form of Gwen
Thomas, offering encouragement and a seal pops it head of the water - Woolridge
is watching. The jackdaw on the harbour wall is now Hopkins, a dog Walker
transforms into Pippa Waterman, the anemone clasping to the rock is Perrot. On
the limestone pebbles the face of Grandad John Gillard forms, quickly shifting
to Richard Waterman as the light chances. The history of extreme boule is
etched into the landscape, whispering, urging, knowing. The player, Stanley
Topalian, knows this. He looks to the jack, 12m away. Thoughts race through his
head… the terrain is uneven and unpredictable. Perhaps the limpet shell
could act as a backstop, guiding the boule towards the jack? Maybe the raft of
seaweed looks promising. It is a good 3m from the jack but would catch the
boule, securing the boule. No one else’s
boule are anywhere near, so this would win the round. It would be a safe shot and an easy point - a gift offered and taken.
Topalian looks around, his thoughts uneasy.
The safety shot, the easy point doesn’t feel right. He looks up - the lichen is
now just lichen, the pebbles expressionless, the water calm, the seal gone. The
gods, the heroes of the past, they have all left him now. The safety shot to
the seaweed it is – no glory but an easy point will be his. He looks at his
boule ready to launch. He passes for a second, as a slight reflection on the
boule catches his eye. He peers at the metal orb, rusted from years of use but
still reflective in patches. Was the boule used in the famous James Perrot Ham
House match? Maybe it was one of the ones launched from the top of a Brecon
Beacon? Did Balance Boy Ben Martin once polish it before decadently
launching towards a jack? Perhaps it was even present in one of those pioneering
graveyards matches almost 2 decades ago? If only boule could talk, Topalian
thought. He stared at the boule. His own haggard catweazley expression
reflected back at him. But what was this? His reflection began to morph – his
eyes were now longer mildewy and tired but chestnut brown and alive with promise.
His hair and beard glistened like a fresh conker and skin was now bronzed and,
well, French. It was no longer his reflection. He was staring at Jean Baptiste
Gressier. It was the Extreme Boule pioneer, part man part God, unheard of for
almost 15 years, starring back at him. Gressier’s succulent red lips
pursed, a drop of golden spittle glistening in the corner of his mouth. It looked as if he
was about to blow a kiss - Topalians
heart raced. The sweet taste of port flooded Topalian’s mouth and yet it was
hours since his morning gulp - what was happening to him?
Gressier mouthed those words, unprintable but
all too real to Topalian.
Topalian didn't understand French but he knew
what to do. No safety shot. No easy point. By Gressier, he was going to
land his boule directly by the jack. NO, he was going to land on the jack. An
exquisite kisser - a dream of a shot. This
terrain could be tamed. These conditions mastered. This would be a shot that would be talked about for months,
years even.
He swung his arm and released. The boule arced
through the air. Could it land directly on top of the jack and balance there? Would
it be the greatest shot ever?
The boule the shingle with a thud 5 metres
from the jack, smacking into an iron bru can, tossed up in the previous high
tide. It ricocheted crudely to left away from the jack bouncing past a
discarded plastic spoon . It was already a complete cynt of a shot. On it
rolled further from the jack, over the sand past a used tissue, past an opponent's
boule, then another. A slight change of direction on touching the broken buckfast
bottle, and the jack long out of reach now. On it trundled, pass the final opponent’s
boule to finally nestle in a dog turd, or possibly human judging by its sizeable
girth.
The round was over and the point was lost.
Dejected Topalian walked the walk of shame to collect this abject failure of a
shot. Why had Gressier and the other boule legends forsaken him? Had all the
omens meant nothing? He picked up the boule. As he wiped the fecal matter off
on a wheat crunchie packet, he caught site of the reflection in the boule again-
it was Gressier, slightly browned, but still Gressier. A broad French smile
spread across the face in the boule, vibrant through the shit. Topalian
understood. This was true meaning of it all. This was Extreme Boule.