The idea is to roll your ball (called a bowl) close to a little cue ball-looking thing (called a jack).

As the eastbound traffic on Laurel Street approaches the bridge leading into the heart of Balboa Park, only the careful observer, looking north, will notice the secluded patches of neatly clipped grass which are the greens of the San Diego Lawn Bowling Club.

Closer inspection reveals a layout of what resembles two huge, rectangular putting greens lying side by side (the kind you’d love to hit a nine iron to). The setting is really serene. The greens are bordered by shady walkways and overhanging eucalyptus which exclude the bustle and commerce going on only a few hundred feet away. Old, wooden, slatted park benches, still serviceable, surround the area, and are occupied by the idle, the curious, the bemused. These spectators are uniformly old.

Not much blood is shed on the green today.

To the-east of the greens is a humble stucco-plaster clubhouse, not much larger than a public lavatory; it could easily be mistaken for one. The only tipoff is a large sign on the door: “San Diego Lawn Bowling Club. All Bowlers Welcome.”

Canadian and American flags are displayed together outside the clubhouse, and give evidence of international hospitality. There is no arguing the hospitality of these people. A stranger who indicates even the remotest interest in their sport is treated to a friendly and informative dissertation. The most ignorant questions are tolerantly received, without a trace of condescension. These old men and women seem genuinely surprised and pleased that anyone would be interested.

The city owns and maintains the land and facilities, but, to ensure that rules and etiquette are observed, a club-membership structure is necessary. Membership is open to anyone who has demonstrated a basic skill level, and who has access to the proper equipment. The annual dues are a modest ten dollars.

After watching awhile, the uninitiated spectator will begin to understand what the game is all about. If you have a feeling for horseshoes, you shouldn’t have much difficulty understanding lawn bowing (or bowling on the green—the more antique name).

The idea is to roll your ball (called a bowl) close to a little cue ball-looking thing (called a jack). There are three bowlers on a side (called triples), and the sides bowl alternately so that each bowler bowls his three allotted bowls opposite his counterpart on the other team. In all (if your arithmetic is holding up), each side will roll nine bowls at the jack (called an end) before they toddle the 120 feet to the other end of the lane and start all over— this time, in the opposite direction. This goes on for 18 “ends.”

You score by placing bowls between your opponent’s best effort and the jack (called confusing). Don’t even try to understand what happens when you knock the jack into the ditch. If you follow all this, you will see that it is conceivable for one team to score as many as nine points per end. One veteran of the game was quick to point out that this never happens, and that the most he had ever seen scored was seven. It makes you feel like a privileged outsider when you witness a seven after standing around for only about 15 minutes (sort of like finding a pearl in your first oyster).

If you think that lawn bowling is the exclusive domain of elderly men and women, you are very nearly correct. One old competitor reckoned that the average age of the 180 club members was around 65, although he allowed that a few youngsters in their fifties occasionally sneak in. In fact, some young professional types and college students do participate, but they are the exception. If, however, you visualize a scenario of pathetic old curmudgeons living out their last days in sullen self-pity—guess again.

This afternoon, a breezy, sunny St. Patrick’s Day, one green is dotted with clusters of white-clad bowlers preoccupied with their respective contests. One old wag, however, sports knickers, a green bow tie, green bows on his shoes, and an outrageous, green, pointed leprechaun hat. Here is a voice of moderation which seems to be saying: “no point in taking all this too seriously.” All the same, to a complete novice, the whole thing is quite esoteric. In spite of signs to the contrary, it all seems very private and exclusive in the beginning. You feel like the ragged urchin who has jumped the barbed wire fence at the country club.

Apparently some sort of competition is in progress, as the non-conforming colored shirts find themselves banished to the adjoining green. Today the local stalwarts are hosting the Meadows mobile-home team. The home team provides the refreshments, and things get quite chatty and social before the tournament starts. When the bowling begins, however, festive picnickers are transformed into intense rivals; they mean business. An old woman you wouldn’t trust to safely put one foot in front of the other hooks and slices her bowls with uncanny accuracy. After traveling the 100 feet or so, these three bowls could all be covered by a bath towel. Only an occasional grimace or frown betrays dissatisfaction with an errant bowl.-

As a spectator, surprisingly, you get involved. Allegiances develop insidiously. Soon you are muttering “great shot!” or “terrible,” as the situation demands. Anything more flamboyant or undignified would earn disapproving stares.

You begin to understand why lawn bowling attracts so many old people. It appeals to their natural instincts for guile and finesse. Strength and endurance are relatively unimportant. Styles of play differ, but body english is king. There is the one-step approach, the no-step approach, the Don Carter push, and the Carmen Sal-vino pendulum swing. Orthodox or not, the job always seems to get done.

Form aside, gamesmanship is no small part of a lawn bowler’s repertoire. One serious-looking old gent, his hat heavy with bowling medals, slyly observes that his enemy is beginning to look tired. Undaunted, the intended victim parries skillfully by announcing that he played shuffle-board all morning, and danced ’til dawn the night before. Nonplussed, the would-be gamesman ambles off wearily, as if the fatigue and effort of those taxing activities had been suddenly transferred to his own shoulders. From across the green, the extroverted leprechaun contributes a running patter of coaching and jibes which disconcert teammates and opponents alike.

Not much blood is shed on the green today, because the Meadows are a pushover. “They don’t get much opportunity to practice,” is the generous explanation of Don Irwin, SDLBC president. In the end, there are smiles, congratulations, and hearty handshakes all around. They play hard, but now, after all, it’s only a game. The folding chairs and ball bags quickly disappear and, with a few parting cordialities, the area clears of equipment and humanity. The joust at an end, there will be no post mortems this afternoon. Soon only the pigeons are left to go about their business, bored and unconcerned, ignoring signs which admonish us to “keep off the greens.” They have silently watched this spectacle repeat itself countless times over the years.

Finally, you cast one last backward glance through the surrounding shrubs. Are the late afternoon shadows playing tricks? Do you really see men with straw hats, canes, and waxed mustaches, and florid chapeaus? Is this really some little niche secreted in the corner of the Twilight Zone, which a twentieth century interloper has stumbled on?—a sort of timeless refuge, a place of solitude which exists only on the fringes of intruding urbanism?

Or is it simply a pleasant corner of Balboa Park that reminds us of a place and time when dignity and courtliness needed no apology? Is it only a symbolic buttress against the impinging world, a world which no longer understands gentility and camaraderie? Like Peter Pan’s Never-Never Land, it’s a place you don’t want to leave—a place where you don’t grow old.