When lawn bowls turns ugly

OPINION: Ladies and gentlemen," said the CEO of Bowls NZ, taking his seat at the head of the board-room table, "I don't need to tell you why we're here", writes Joe Bennett this week.

"To hell with the lot of them," said the director of the High Performance Academy. "Our boys only did what they would have done."

"That may be so," said the CEO, "but it doesn't alter the fact that the Thais have taken it personally. Their ambassador's speech to the Security Council of the UN was, frankly, inflammatory. The Bangkok police have established a security cordon around our embassy but Foreign Affairs aren't confident of the Thais' capacity, or indeed will, to hold back the mob. Plans have been drawn up for an emergency evacuation by chopper."

"How's the Canadian situation, sir?"

"Worse," said the CEO. "The embassy in Ottawa has already been evacuated. It seems only a matter of time before the place goes up in flames. We're trying to round up the last of our nationals over there and get them to safety in the States. Comparative safety, anyway.

"The US is still officially neutral, but there are rumblings. As everyone knows the whole purpose of throwing the match was to thwart the Canadians and they are demanding reparations."

He paused. There was silence in the board room of Bowls NZ. "Anyone?" said the CEO.

"At least," said the high per-formance director, "it wasn't steroids."

"True," said the CEO, allowing himself a mirthless smile, "your boffins have done a wonderful job. That jungle juice of theirs has baffled every detection agency in the globe. The Europeans would kill for the recipe. But that isn't the point at issue right now. We're in a fix."

The phone rang. Every face in the room stared as the CEO lifted the receiver.

"Sir," he said, then, "I see, sir, yes sir, thank you." He laid the receiver back down.

"The PM," he said simply. "Ottawa's burning. Choppers are on the roof in Bangkok. Tibet's turned septic, too, something to do with the Buddhist Bowls Collect-ive. The RNZAF is on red alert."

"We can't give in to them," exclaimed the Director of Propaganda standing up, opening a glass-fronted cabinet and extracting the ornate trophy engraved with the names of the match throwers.

"This trophy represents the culmination of years of endeavour. Do I need to remind you of the terms under which we were appointed, the contract to which we all signed our names and dedicated our lives.

"To invert the public perception of lawn bowls," he read from a framed copy of the Founding Document on the boardroom wall, "to use public money to convince the masses that rather than being a gentle recreation for the elderly, lawn bowls is a full-blown athletic pursuit."

Around the table, heads began to nod.

"To persuade young people to adopt bowls," the director went on, his voice rising with passion, "in the hope of stealing a march on our international rivals and gaining glory for the motherland, causing the proletariat to rejoice in national triumph and rendering them less likely to engage in civil unrest and more likely to vote for the incumbent government.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have done what we were charged with doing. We have no need to hang our heads. We should hold them high. This trophy is rightfully ours. It stays with us."

The CEO raised a hand to quell the outbreak of applause. "Noble sentiments that we all share. But when the ship's going down noble sentiments don't constitute a liferaft. We need to come up with something and we need to come up with it fast."

"Sir," said the Maori women's elite bowls co-ordinator. "Remember when Monopoly NZ had that trouble with weighted dice in the rematch with Bhutan in the world champs?"

"Who can forget it." said the CEO.

"My point, sir, is that international sport does both economic and social wonders, but when it turns ugly it turns really ugly. For it exploits the most primitive tribal and devotional forces in the human psyche.

"The televised riot at the Budapest Monopoly Centre and the subsequent coup in Bhutan should serve as a warning to us. But if you recall, sir, Monopoly NZ rescued the situation at the last minute, by ..."

But the CEO did not recall. Nor was he even listening.

In silence he had risen from his chair and gone over to the window. It was then that they all heard it, a distant whistling, growing rapidly less distant, growing huge.

"Incoming," bellowed the CEO. "Under the table. Now!"

» Joe Bennett is an English-born travel writer and columnist who lives in New Zealand with dogs. His columns are syndicated in newspapers throughout New Zealand.

- © Fairfax NZ News