The Great Lawn's Divide

yard games! is there a warmer thought on the planet than that of trolling around the grass in bare feet with a cold drink in one hand amongst good friends wearing sunglasses under the searing heat of the bright, bright sun? i mean really. when my friend lex and i went to his folks' house in rhode island a few weeks ago we played quite a bit of baseball. the spiro's also have an annual memorial day croquet tournament. like, an insanely serious one. mr. spiro MADE a trophy in the late 80's that they still have and if you win the family tournament you get your name engraved on it. if that's not yard game pressure i don't know what is. so anyways, jim (mr. spiro) is like the reigning champ. the tournament began this year and everybody (aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, lexie...) were writing me off from the get go. i hadn't played croquet in easily a decade. i inexplicably made it past the first two rounds to wind up in the championship round with jim, rick (lexie's uncle), lexie, sue (lexie's mom) and aunt boo. fast forward one hour and the only two left on the course are me and jim "reigning champion" spiro.

you can smell the food searing perfectly on the grill as twilight decends upon barrington, rhode island. you can feel the weight of the salt air from the quaint seaside town and smell the seafood dinners wafting from open windows at nearby restaurants in the gentle breeze. lexie and dozens of his family and friends stare transfixed at the majestic display of competition before them. will they finish before dark? can craig become the first man to topple jim's impossible tyranny? did jim really just make it through THREE wickets in a row?!?! can he be THAT good? do either of them need another beer? is craig still wearing that dorky short-sleeved button down fish shirt from sailing today?

and then it happens. i go for the kill. it's as risky a move as there is in croquet. my ball is about thirty yards away from jim's. all i have to do is hit my ball with the mallet on a trajectory that smashes it into his. if i do this, i win. it's that easy. the pressure comes in when you realize that the grass is so thick that hitting your ball hard enough to go thirty yards is a tall order. add my frayed nerves to the truth that the harder you hit the ball the less accuracy you have and this is one arduous shot. some call it impossible.

"is he crazy!" i hear one onlooker whisper to their awestruck companion.

"this is suicide," aunt boo mutters from the sidelines.

and then i hear it. a voice. THE voice. someone is in my corner. they believe. as i believe.

"do it craig!" lexie's shout of encouragement resonates throughtout the wooded flanks of the property. "you CAN make it!"

i grip my croquet mallet with a confident fist. i place my other hand lower on the handle to provide me with more control on my impending swing. i peer at jim. he glares at me. i squint through the dimness to achieve a state of sheer and pure focus on my target: jim's red ball ensconced in the thick green blades of grass. my eyes focus in and direct my brain towards it's mission. it is eerily quiet.

the silence speaks to me: you can do it craig. you can win!

i pull the mallet back and with a mighty force propel the head of the mallet down into my orange ball.

CRACK!

the sound of the impact splits the thick night air. the ball leaps off my club with power. with purpose. it makes it's way across the expanse of lawn that seperates winners from losers. the plane of earth divides glory from defeat - it takes asunder a hero from but a common man. the crowd is in a frenzy. i hear shouts and gasps. people are pointing. yelling. jumping. my visage forms a confluence with jim's right on the moving ball. it's fifteen feet away and rolling. fast.

seven feet...five.

three.

two feet.

the ball is slowing down considerably. it is now within inches of the red ball! it's right on line! will it make it? could it be? jim spiro has finally been......and then the ball stops moving. i had hit the ball with everything i had in me, but it was two inches short of perfection. two inches short of a legacy. i came within a fraction of being a folk story told to children by their parents beside a camp fire.

a rakish grin spread across jim's face. he put a smarmy arm around my shoulder and whispered oleaginously to me below the cacophony of voices: "nice try kid. maybe next year craig."

and with that he punctuated his victory by slamming his ball into mine.

"due me a favor craig? tomorrow after my name is engraved on the trophy give my wife your camera so she can capture the moment when you hand me my trophy during the presentation ceremony."