You guys don’t believe everything I type in the blog headlines, do you? You really don’t think we played a mean game of croquet at the pre-wedding picnic of our son and his bride in Balboa Park, San Diego, California, last Friday, do you?
Alas. Sigh. It’s not the case.
But you shall have to read on to glean all the crazy mallet & wicket details.
Let’s explain a little background. Back in the days–maybe the 1970’s–our family owned a cottage at Bellaire, Michigan, on a little lake in the upper lower peninsula. (It gets confusing for you non-Michiganders, doesn’t it? The lower peninsula has an upper part which is below the “official” Upper Peninsula where we now live. That upper part of the Lower Peninsula is where our family gathered to play a mean game of croquet back in the 1970’s.)
Everyone knows what a mean game is, right? It’s an accomplished game, a serious game, a game where you wink at your opponent and pretend to be tough, but you’re really having a blast as you play.
Some of us remember my mom as a croquet whiz. I mean, she was cool. She could hit that ball with aplomb. She could sail through all the wickets and avoid the home post to become “poison” and kill us all. She was that good.
She was so competitive she was known to put her foot against an opponent ball and send it sailing into the swamp. She was that good.
So guess who I choose as my partner at the pre-wedding picnic of her grandson, how many years later?
Of course, I want my mom.
She’s the best.
Ahem…the heat was on at this croquet tournament. Then certain folks declared they were out to avenge my mom for hitting Barry’s ball in the swamp maybe 30 years ago.
It was probably not a good time to choose my mom as a partner.
Here were the teams: Tianna (my niece) and Scot (my brother), Tim (my other brother) and Michele (his wife), and Kiah (daughter) and Diaa (boyfriend) and Mom and me.
We began the pre-wedding game of croquet in earnest.
Gosh, dear reader, I hesitate to share this–but, you know what?
I had forgotten how to play croquet since the 1970’s.
It seems like–ahem–certain others in our croquet game had also forgotten.
Some of us hit toward the wickets. We aimed our balls mightily.
But, alas, the balls had a mind of their own.
They headed for the divots. They headed behind trees. They did everything except head toward the wickets.
OK. We didn’t win. We put in a pathetic performance. (Sorry, Mom.) Tim and Michele didn’t win either.
Scot and Tianna scored big, high-fiving each other and everything! Diaa, who had maybe never played croquet and Kiah (who earnestly approached every wicket with athletic prowess) came in second.
I won’t even tell you how the elders did.
And someone–I won’t say who–avenged Barry’s swamp ball from the 1970’s and sent our ball flying way–way–way away.
Have you played croquet before?
What game do you like the most?
(I think I prefer ping-pong. At least I did back in the ’60’s and 70’s. Probably couldn’t hit it across the net these days…if my croquet performance is any indication…)
OK, all you people waiting for wedding photos, I think I’ve gathered enough pictures from various sources–OK, am awaiting a final source who has the BEST photos–to soon post the actual ceremony blog. Tomorrow or the next day or the next day.
Thank you for your patience. Now it’s your turn to hit the ball. Please do not hit me out-of-bounds. Please reconsider before you send my ball flying. Please!!! Wait!!! No, no, don’t hit—–ahhhhhhhhhh! I thought you blog readers would play nice!