By Rev. David DeChant

Deep South correspondent

Legend has it that Sir Francis Drake continued a game of bocce even in the face of the Spanish Armada. When told the Armada was in sight, Drake was purported to reply from atop Plymouth Hoe, “There is time to finish the game and defeat the Spaniards too.” Apparently, the quote never appeared in the records of Drake’s day, thus the suspicion that the statement is not true.

The statement, however, refers to the fact that Drake was a master seaman and knew the fleet of ships would be caught waiting for the English tide to go out. Drake’s crew scrambled to arm their own ships, but the wise captain knew they would have to wait out the tide, so he finished lobbing cannon balls around the deck with other of the ship’s high-ranking officials.

Turns out probably to be an allegory based on the fact that the Spanish lost twenty thousand of thirty thousand men, and the English only lost 100 men. In short, the Spanish were sitting ducks. The English literally lobbed cannon balls onto their decks—or, rather, through them. But the story show’s cockiness about Drake—a confidence and knowledge of war and the sea.

But as a bocce lover myself, I interpret this tale differently. The game is ridiculously simple. Each player has two balls and two turns. A smaller ball, or jack, is thrown wherever the “jack officer” wants to throw it. The leader in points goes first. The object is for each player to throw their ball and it get to land as close to the jack as possible. The closest gets two points, the next closest gets one point. If a ball happens to come to rest touching the jack ball, then that player gets all three points. The game is over when one person scores fifteen.

And as simple as the rules are, it takes a lifetime to master, like Tai Chi or fishing. It is addictive like Tetris, and you’ll fall asleep playing the game visually in your imagination like Tetris.

And this is an ages-old sport! Lobbing two balls while drinking or smoking, only having to add to fifteen, and trash-talking after the occasional great throw are way more my idea of physical activity than, say, rugby. The only injuries I’ve witnessed during bocce are mosquito bites and those that derive from spiky sand spur burrs that get stuck in your socks. These potential dangers are almost nothing compared to surfers facing shark attack.

The drivers cutting through Cabbagetown during rush hour look at my fellow players and me as if we were profoundly retarded for playing in the street next to a perfectly good green space (actually, an empty lot adjacent to my yard). Ah, the naïveté! See, the granite-curbed streets devoid of nearby sewer holes make the perfect court, combining the moves of billiards and creating easier goals of far-thrown jacks.

Grass is boring. In fact, actual bocce—an Italian game—is played on a shuffleboard-like grass court back and forth. What we play is the French version, petanque, where the shape of the court is amorphous and determined by the jack officer. I have even given my “team” the unofficial name of The P’tonky Honkies Featuring Maurice. Maurice, it turns out, is not a honky. He is only ten and gets to hang with the big boys on a good day, proving one of the other great things about the game—anyone can play from any age or skill level, regardless of all other prejudices, like sobriety. (The game does get a little dangerous as you get more tanked).

One thing I want to say to drivers who look at us funny as they pass and wonder why the hell we’re playing in the street: Find another street, bitch! I’ve always felt that one should make his own road or be slave to another man’s road. I live on Estoria and my balls and my boys are going to play on Estoria. In New York you get stickball; in Cabbagetown you get petanque. I recommend all the Grant Park punk asses to find another road. And the Inman Parkers can Park Outman my neighborhood. Stop asking for directions to the zoo or to Little Five, and quit asking me if I know any place in the neighborhood for rent. Don’t make me finish the game and defeat the Spaniards too.

P.S. I feel congratulations are in order for my abstaining from the obvious jokes swirling around “seaman” and “balls” and Plymouth Hoe. And even though I made up “jack officer,” this shows a great maturity on my part. I even had a good one about lobbing cannon balls on Spaniards, but this is a family litzine.

Your humble servant Rev. David DeChant writes “The Deacon’s Beacon,” for The Cabbagetown Neighbor, and contributes a monthly column to the poetrysheet. Rev. Dave invites anyone who wants to see his balls to call him at 404-822-4290.

sycamore in winter

ordered, unfrayed

white, bony knuckles

among fans and fuzz

of elm, hickory

dry creek bank

root curtain dangle

flaky, pebbly earth

zig-zig shadows work

over the streambed

stone bare, chiseled

in rime, hoarfrost

leaf rattle

on branches

roped, knotted

into ice blue

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