Bowling in Central Park

I was on my second cup of coffee, editing a sentence that I’d picked at more than a group of monkeys grooming each other. A cool breeze was maneuvering through the buildings on 65th Street and into the bedroom of my third-floor walk-up. I had little to do before lunch at the Harvard Club with a family friend, and, for once in my life, I was following doctor’s orders (prescribed by myself) to keep my metabolic rate to a slow burn … anything more than lifting the needle on the record player was strictly forbidden. I was enjoying my sloth-like existence, to say the least.

Then a text arrived: “Just got to the green and I’m going to grab my bowls.”

SHIT! I forgot my Monday morning game at the club. I scrambled to throw on shorts, ran down 66th, hopped over 5th Avenue, and high-tailed it through Central Park.

You see, I recently joined the New York Lawn Bowling Club. I’m living in Manhattan for the summer and wanted an outdoor sport that required as little physical exertion as possible. And since there isn’t a club dedicated to smoking cigars in the shade, lawn bowling had to do.

It’s a simple game, really. Both players get four bowls; picture a small, asymmetrical bowling ball without holes. No matter what, bowls will not roll straight. The game starts with someone rolling a small white ball called the “jack” down a manicured grassy lawn; it must travel at least 25 meters. Once it stops, the objective is to roll your four bowls as close to the jack as possible. It’s similar to bocce, but you’re playing on the equivalent of a putting green. And, if you play at my club, you’re in the middle of Central Park with views of the Manhattan skyline.

Once both players have rolled all four bowls, the player closest to the jack gets one, two, three, or four points, depending on how close his opponent’s bowls are. If all four bowls are closest to the jack, the winner gets four points. If one is closest but the opponent has the second closest, only one point is awarded. Bowling goes back and forth seven times until a winner is declared. That’s the gist of it. Simple, right?

There is a TON of strategy too. Over the weekend, I played with a former club president and learned a lot. Similar to golf, weather plays a big role in the quickness of the green.

Anyway, my match came down to a tiebreaker, and I lost. I was running short on time, and as much as I abhor losing, I didn’t have time to wallow. I ran across the park again, hopped back over 5th Avenue and down 66th to my place to take a quick shower, shave, and put a suit and tie on.  

As I darted out of my townhome, a cab happened to be in front of me, so I jumped in. I told the driver I was going to the Harvard Club; I might as well have said I was going to Tupelo, Mississippi. He didn’t have a clue where it was, so, as usual, you have to tell them where to go: “44th and 5th.” This guy figured out how to get there, which hardly qualifies for getting a gold star as we were already on 5th. That said, other cabbies hand you their phone so you can type in where you’re going - saying 44th and 5th crosses too many wires.

I got to the club a few minutes early, which I guess earned Magellan a 20% tip, the lowest amount you can give when using a credit card. Had I arrived at my game on time, I wouldn’t have been running through the park and hailing a cab at the last minute, so it’s on me.

The Harvard Club was dead. If I had to guess, members were playing tennis in the Hamptons, golfing on Nantucket, or fly fishing in Sun Valley. I’ve been to the club several times, and it’s always packed, for good reason. It’s as handsome a club as New York has to offer, and they pour a stiff cocktail. Add in wood burning fireplaces in the winter, and what’s not to love?

“He was wearing my Harvard tie. Can you believe it? My Haarvard tie. Like oh, sure he went to Haaarvard.” - Louis Winthorpe III

Dining at the Harvard Club is a special experience that, by most accounts, is the height of privilege. After all, this is Harvard, but it’s as welcoming as it is handsome. The ceilings are so high that clouds creep in when the windows are open, and somewhere in South America, a forest was chopped down to supply the massive amount of mahogany needed to decorate its many rooms. Vintage oars, oil paintings, and centuries-old artifacts adorn the crimson walls. As I’ve said before, it’s dripping with aristocratic charm, and I love it.

After lunch, I walked up 5th Avenue in a double-breasted suit, and since it was only 78 degrees, I felt comfortable. Try that stunt in Atlanta, and you’re guaranteed to pass out from heat exhaustion. You’d be lying half-dead on Peachtree Street, begging for an ice-cold bottle of Coca-Cola to save your life, while a group of tourists from Cleveland asks for directions to Underground Atlanta. To no one’s surprise, they offer you a Diet Pepsi from someone’s Ohio State knapsack, which justifiably angers you and leaves you no choice but to give them directions. An hour later, their knapsacks and shoes were taken at gunpoint.

I got home, opened the windows, and read Hunter Thompson’s Gonzo Papers, Vol.2. Normally, I read it first thing in the morning with my coffee, but I didn’t get around to it.

I’m about to smoke an afternoon cigar, but I may take a nap first. I wasn’t prepared for that ghastly run through the park.