Bowled Over - Morton Alan
What options were there left open to me?
I had always played sport, well almost always, up until
about ten years ago when sciatica finally made me realise
I could no longer chase a football around a sports hall or
a tennis ball about a court. Nowadays, my level of fitness
seemed to be determined not by how far or fast I could
run, but more by my ability to pick the soap up from the
shower floor or painlessly put on my socks in the morning.
I was in my early sixties, but after a decade of inactivity and
approaching early retirement, I was still harbouring a desire
to play some sport. In mid-April on a stroll into town, I
noticed a small poster on a garden gate advertising an open
morning at the local bowls club.
I mentioned it to my wife Dolly, as she had been going on
for years about us joining something together, so it seemed
a fair compromise; despite never having any interest in sport,
she was rather keen at the prospect.
It all seemed rather appealing, what could be more English
than playing bowls on a sunny summer's afternoon.
Yes, it seemed perfect ... what could possibly go wrong?
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