Bocce Balling on the West Coast Variorum

My college did not require a thesis.  Instead I took a senior seminar class with six other students and wrote a 25-page paper on a subject explored in the seminar.  My class was called "Authors and Scribblers of the 18th Century" and I wrote about Pope's annotated reissue of his classic critique on the founding of London's publishing industry The Dunciad.  In the 21st Century the "authors" would be an upper crust of letters from literary scholars to Jonathan Franzen to NPR contributors.   People who write blogs or books, or both, about cooking, pop culture, travel, bocce, etc. would be scribblers, contributors to an expanding mass of questionably publishable rabble that separate and distract us from worthwhile, meaningful prose.  The Variorum edition of The Dunciad satirizes the attacks on the first work, dismissing them as poorly worded voicings of frustration, beneath meaningful discourse; Bocce Balling on the West Coast Variorum describes the failed book tour/second trip that occurred exactly one year after the first trip in approximated re-enactments of the previous years events.  I am more tempted to title the reworked second edition Bocce Balling on the West Coast 2: Bocce Harder as the book purposely tries to dismiss authorship, and to embrace its scribbled nature—it is a travel/sports memoir composed in a blog with more than one contributor.  

Should the second version include footnotes and prologues and editor's notes; or should all new writing just be placed at the end?  The initial organization principle was, naturally, a game of bocce.  Texts are bocce balls that come barrelling into the middle of a formally-conceived-to-be complete narrative, settles near it, in it, or knocks another out of it, replacing it.  So why couldn't a new text, still part of the same game, roll into the frame, sit next to or unsettle the previously published, static result?  The events of January 7, 2012 drop in on 1/7/11 and "January 7" reaches a different result, takes on a different character, like a story with a new detail, a fortune told with a different casting of yarrow stick, a horoscope with a new astrological alignment, a game of bocce with a game-changing roll.  How this is going to happen is still up in the air.  Thoughts?

April Fool's Bocce

On Sunday I went to the Pacific Grove Art Center's 3rd Annual Bocce Tournament and had a blast.  I got to meet Pacific Grove Mayor Carmelita Garcia, Johnny Aliotti—with whom I had been communicating for a few weeks about donating copies of Bocce Balling on the West Coast for the winners of the tournament—and, most exciting of all, the owners and publishers of the Pacific Grove Hometown Bulletin, Edie and Xavier, aka Professor X.  I had been planning on taking notes on the event and submitting a story to them, not figuring that they would be there.  But they were, I asked if they had it covered, and they said I could take the story.  Our team was to be my dad, my friends Sarah and Kevin, and myself. Nic Coury from the Weekly came by and ended up playing on our team in place of my father who had to attend to non-bocce matters.   An amiable rivalry developed between Xavier and Nic as representatives of free semi-weekly and weekly local periodicals.  I took Xavier's side, naturally, now in his paper's employ; but then our team took on Xavier's and I, naturally, switched sides.  We lost, however.  My assignment went on hours after that initial loss, and our one win, and the final loss an hour later.  I finally had to leave at 6, 7 hours after sign up, before the last match—between Xavier's PGHB team and one of the two Deboccery squads—missing the end result.  I wrote this the next day and submitted it to Xavier:

When I talked to Johnny Aliotti about the Pacific Grove Art Center's 3rd annual benefit Bocce Tournament, the plan was that it would be played on courts brought into the PGAC's building downtown as it was the last two years.  Only two teams had signed up, however, and with the cost of putting the courts in being $900, Johnny considered moving the event to the Custom House courts in downtown Monterey, and I concurred.  It rained on and off the day before, continuing as I went to sleep, leaving me to doubt whether we'd be playing at all.

Perhaps it was an early cosmic April Fools joke to make us all wake up with dreams of playing Bocce in puddles, because April began with a glorious sunny morning, and when I got there for the 11 o'clock sign up the courts were already drying up with the help of a team of rakers, rollers and brushers.  One anonymous joker suggested the politicians make some speeches by the courts to dry them up.  I signed up my team alongside the 10 others which included two PG Hometown Bulletin teams, Mayor Carmelita Garcia's City Council team, called Removed from Consent, and the reigning champions of the first two tournaments, Aliotti's Victorian Corner, representing the Pacific Grove Restaurant.

Johnny announced the proceedings to the crowd of volunteers, passers-by, state park rangers and bocce ballers on a vintage-looking mic, like those used by boxing announcers.  Mayor Garcia and Ron Chesshire threw out the first balls, and the tournament commenced with the first two matches. Victorian Corner was upset on Court 1 and Removed from Consent were victorious on Court 2 in simultaneous matches.  Etiquette and rules were explained around the courts, and certain phrases were bandied about like "You gotta fix your divots,"  explained when a ball would displace enough decomposed granite to make the surface of the court uneven.  

A few dozen matches, and as many generous pourings of wine later, our team—Bocce Balls of Wrath—was knocked out, along with the reigning champions and most of the other teams. By the time I left, seven hours after sign-in [began-BGM], the sun was going down, the wind was picking up and two teams were left, including Xavier Maruyama's Hometown Bulletin team. Mayor Garcia, who threw the first ball at the first tournament and played in the second, decreed the event a "great new tradition," and, when asked how it compared at the new location, she said she preferred it outdoors at the California State Park run courts.

It was a beautiful day with great bocce played by everyone from first-time rollers to seasoned veterans, and a great benefit for PG's Arts Center.

Xavier replied back with an account of the last game of the tournament:


[Update with Bragging Rights: The Pacific Grove Hometown Bulletin had fielded two teams, the women's team had to bring to everyone's mind that the food columnist, Roberta Brown was there, and they chose the name, “Hot, Sexy and Spicey.” This team managed to eliminate the City Council team, but came up short in the losers' bracket. The second team evoked thoughts of our paper with the the name, “Read and Right.” Read our editorials and you'll get the connection. PGHB beat the professionals “Deboccery” and had to stand around doing nothing for quite a while. That gave us a chance to imbibe and we lost our sober demeanor. In the championship match, “Deboccery” beat us twice and they took first place. PGHB however came in second – not bad for a team without an Italian in the bunch? XKM] 

I asked Nic Coury from the Weekly for pictures from the event for this post, also if he wanted to profile Bocce Balling on the West Coast in the paper.  I recieved no reply, but Sarah gave me the pictures he took from facebook.

Sarah with her opponents from one of the PG Hometown Bulletin's teams behind her.

Note here the green ball captured in mid air right below Kevin's belt buckle.

The dust is visibly kicked up.

The Article ultimately came out in the Wednesday April 18th edition.

The Coast Starlight from Seattle, Washington to Salinas, CA, January 18-19th, 2012

A Poetry Cycle Composed en route from Salinas to Los Angeles California, February 23, 2012

Late for the Train

I was late for the train,
though I was ten minutes early,
that I one point thought
I would never catch.

A foot of snow
covered all of Seattle
and I waited for half an hour
on Broadway for a bus to come.

The bus driver acted as though
she were a savior
and we were falling losers
she nobly could catch.

She drove in a beret
and behaved as one
who'd once experienced the end of the world
and could be our guide.

She connected me to the 2
that I was able to take
to the train station
in the nick of time.

The woman at the counter
advised that I hurry
but that in the station
I was not to run.

I speedwalked to Door 1
And offered my driver's licence.
The tickettaker joked that
it was not I who was to drive the train.

As advised I went to car 15
and there found the notebook of my seat
where I would rest
the pen of my consciousness.

from the Coast Starlight Route Guide:

American pop culture refers to its western seaboard as the left coast.  Seen from the right train, the Coast Starlight, we experience 1,377 mi. of sheer magnificence, both left and right, from Seattle, Washington, to Los Angeles, California.  


Along the route, we traverse steep mountain ranges, explore rolling, gentle valleys and skirt along the dynamically beautiful shady shores of the Pacific Ocean.  The scenery is breathtaking, the cities are unique, and the history is fascinating.


[The name Coast Starlight is derived from the former Southern Pacific Coast Daylight, the premier daytime train; the Starlight was an overnight all-coach train between San Francisco and Los Angeles.  Before Amtrak assumed passenger service in 1971, one had to travel on trains operated by two railroads between Los Angeles and Seattle.  Southern Pacific operated numerous trains between Los Angeles and Portland, but a change of trains at San Francisco/Oakland was necessary.  Between Portland and Seattle, one chose the trains of the Union Pacific, Great Northern or Northern Pacific.  With Amtrak's creation and startup on May 1, 1971, through train service between Los Angeles and Seattle was initiated.]


So sit back and relax to enjoy this most entertaining and enjoyable of railroad routes in the world on the Coast Starlight.

Revenge of the Lawn

for RB

Richard brought, again,
an experience of tying
a literary consciousness
with the appreciation
of window views.

Richard brought, again,
the narrative of
a Tacoma childhood,
with the window view understanding
of the town by the train.

Richard brought, again,
the understanding of our
commonly grasped sensibility,
our shared lack of pretension.

Richard brought, again,
the deconstruction
of state boundary between
California (northern), Oregon
and Washington.

Richard brought, again,
a nostalgia for the Old West,
the shadows of cowboys,
railroads, fishing.

I bought, again, Revenge of the Lawn
short stories of Richard Brautigan,
and Richard-broughted them
on the train.
It all felt like it had happened before.

Heading South from Tacoma

In the hazy snow-flurry atmosphere
I can only see a short distance off
and mostly all I can see
is white
with snow

as though everything put on a sweater to fight the cold.

As we leave Tacoma,
the "City of Destiny" according to the Coast Starlight Route Guide,
the water appears oil black in the dim light
in contrast to the perfect white of the snow
against which it laps.
Really it is more of a dark emerald green, when considered independently.
Benches line the waterfront
beckoning the crazy to shiver and contemplate the void.
A large boat is anchored
and reminds me of a Soviet battleship in a black and white famous film,
another floats further, off the coast,
barely visible,
its crew's location unknown, its cargo a mystery.
Further on, past the behemoth twins of early Soviet cinema,
a massive bridge,
the pride of industrial empire,
crosses the sound, still in black and white,
hundreds of feet in the air.

What beyond the snow-covered trees is on the other side?
I have been on this train in rain
and I have taken it in sunshine;
but this train I have never been on.

The proprietor of the Sightseer lounge Café
has invited us all to a snack, hot coffee,
or, if feeling adventurous this summer [sic] morning,
an Absolut vodka cranberry or wine or beer,
or conversation under the sole condition
that it not be about the weather.

On the observation deck of the Sightseer Lounge car


On the observation deck of the lounge car
I sat and read with a certain difficulty.
A few seats over
a self-described libertarian
sat like a backward fly trap
whose goal was not to undo annoyance
but to perpetuate it.

One gets stuck in the trap that is him!

He is going to San Jose because
he is a philosophy major at San Jose State, he says.
How can people be so stupid, he queries.
Liberals simply desire to expand a wasteful government,
as though it were an involuntary action.
In this analogy (mine) they think more about breathing.
He gets so fucking angry sometimes!
He elaborates on physical violence
he desires to inflict on those
who don't think about things, like he does.
The fly states that he is an interesting young man.

I walk two cars back to my seat.
Though, in this moment and moments like it,
I feel I am walking in a certain direction
when in reality I am moving much faster
in the other direction
and the spot on the tracks
that is directly below
the self-described libertarian
is moments later below me.
Again!

And so on.

A haiku

The Coast Starlight is
italicized as it is
a great work of art.


Untitled poem composed just north of San Luis Obispo


I wake up to fine, green hills
rolling with oak trees
pushing the memory of redwoods
into the more dreamlike past.

Is this the same mug I took to Seattle at my feet?
This the same notebook?
Above my head the same suitcase?
And me, the same unity
of comprehension and consumption?

Yes and no.


Transitions


In Santa Barbara I got off
the Amtrak bus
and on
the Amtrak train:
the Surfliner.
A transition not unlike
the crossing of the Columbia river into Portland.
The train station is the river,
the nexus of comings of going,
the different means of travel.

I alerted a close friend
with whom I once lived in Portland
that I was passing through
with a text message.

I stepped out of the train at Portland
just as I would have when I smoked cigarettes,
except that I did not smoke a cigarette,
and, instead, I inspected my memories
inhaled and exhaled them,
examined their contours.

I reboarded and further, more objectively,
looked at my memories through
the lens of the window—the buildings,
bridges and people—
and it began to rain as we passed through my old neighborhood.

Why did not you stop
was the reply of my literarily-inclined friend.
Are you in a hurry?


Why did not I stop? Was I in such a hurry?
It would have been 20 dollars more
for a day over
in my old favorite city, with my old best friend.

Why did not I stop?  Why was I in such a hurry?

The track of my heart clicked over and sent my emotions
rushing down a parallel track.
I composed two capacity text messages
the rain pouring now onto the observation car
myself fully exposed by window
my watering eyes mirrors to the massive wet convex lens surrounding me.
It is OK. She texted back.
The oppressive straight track
of the railroad operates in
exactly the opposite manner
as both time and love.


The Dining Car

I have an 8 o'clock dinner reservation
in the Dining Car.
I get there on time and am sat at
a booth for four
by myself.
A mother and her son join me.
The son sits across from me by the window—
        nothing is visible outside but darkness—
and she sits across from the empty space next to me.

They are going to Chico to visit family.
They have come from Corvalis—
        college town to college town.
He is missing school for
what she considers a more enriching experience:
visiting the grandparents.

(As I write this I am passing by Avila Beach
where once, at about the same age as this young man,
my mother took me out of school
for what she considered a more enriching experience.)

We all order pasta with winter vegetables.
I offer the young man the other half
of my plastic packet of balsamic vinaigrette
as it was more than both of us wanted.

A young Australian lawyer joins us,
coming from the other direction.
The dining car joins
the sleeper cars toward the engine,
where he came from,
with the coach cars toward the back,
where we came from.
He is business handsome
wearing one of those shirts
that is not white yet has a white collar.

He has come from Vancouver, British Columbia
and Seattle, Washington
and is going to Yosemite.
He was disappointed that
while in San Francisco
he could not find
one of those happening beat jazz clubs
that the place is known for.

He used both his fork and knife to eat
in, what I imagine to be, the proper manner.

When I awoke just Southwest of Sacramento

When I awoke just Southwest of Sacramento
the sky to the Southeast
was like a freeze frame fireworks show
a dream flurry of cloud whisps
orange streaks
pink reflections
change at its most dramatic
its most quintessential,
yet static.

I quickly went back to sleep
satisfied by my waking dream
witness to something
to be comprehended by nobody.

When I awoke
in Oakland
everything seemed
much more rational
and I got up
to get the day's
first cup of coffee.

Those Cascadian slopes

O, how far I am from those Cascadian slopes
and their evergreens rebelling against gravity,
those coats and sweaters and heavy pants
and clouds and weather and flannel,
here among the palms, in the palms
where the sun always shines
and blondes, europeans, wear shorts that redefine "short,"
participating in a reality found on TV
and the waves of the ocean only attempt
what those trees achieve before crashing down on the beach
providing the rhythm to the movement outside my window.
Should I have worn sunscreen? In February?
So many unattractive shirtless men in public:
are they wearing sunscreen?
How far I am from those Cascadian slopes,
O, how far a train may take one.

Publication

Bocce Balling on the West Coast is now a book!  Its form here at bocceballing.blogspot.com was a sort of narrative incubator, but BBOTWC is now liberated, active, and not dependent on a power outlet.  It may be found here:

Also, an event will take place on the anniversary of Bocce Balling on the West Coast's inaugural bocce game at the Custom House Plaza courts in Monterey, California: on January 7, 2012, at 1 in the afternoon a bocce reading/tournament/celebration will occur and kick off a BBOTWC reunion tour.  All are welcome!

Appendix

About the Book

         Within the pages of this book you will find a history of Bocce play, both ancient and modern.  The construction of a court and the right equipment required is discussed, as well as numerous tips for playing and excelling at the sport.  Official rules and regulations for everyday and championship play are included.  This book is a valuable reference guide to resources in the United States and foreign countries for the sport of Bocce.  The volume concludes with a photo section and miscellaneous treats from the author. 

From the introduction of Rico Daniele's A Sport for Everyone

 the travel guide of the Oregon Coast

 the 1966 California official highway map

 the texts of Bocce Balling on the West Coast

After returning to my home and job at the end of January, I didn't play bocce until mid-April when Tristan returned from his new residence in Quincy, California.  He visited to pick up things up and stayed for the Sea Otter Classic bicycle event.  We played bocce late one night at the Custom House courts by the wharf.  Tristan beat me and Alexandra.  I realized it had been five years since the summer of 2006 when I first played bocce with Bill Workman late at night after working at and closing down the Central Avenue Bakery.  He worked at John Steinbeck's Spirit of Monterey Wax Museum on Cannery Row and lived out of his car always claiming that that night he was going to steal a paddle boat and sleep on the island in the middle of Lake El Estero.  Green and red balls were locked in metal bins next to the courts and Bill somehow knew the code.  One time we played with Tristan and Andrew and a man named Jeep who happened upon us in the middle of the night.  Afterwards we took him out to Denny's and he refused to have us pay for his coffee, spoke with the manager, and hoped to never drink another cup of coffee that bad.  It just tasted like Denny's coffee to me.  It had been five years since I asked Carly on a bocce date at ten o'clock at night and we ended up at the top of all the best hotels.

That also meant it was seven years since I had graduated from high school and played bocce on my front lawn at my parents' house with the balls I was given as a present, seven years since I left that same set at the park and never saw them again, and seven years since my parents turned the 30 by 8 foot bocce trench I had dug in the back yard into a water feature.

Tristan and I eventually came to argue.  He hadn't contributed to the book.  I had fallen out of contact.  That was all.  It was more of a brief spat.

I played bocce again in June.  I went to a Saturday afternoon party at my parents' house for my father's students.  At the end, as we were leaving to return to Monterey, Chad and Carly asked if anyone wanted to play bocce in town and I said yes and it was agreed to meet at the Custom House courts by the wharf.  They had to stop at Patrick's house first to get his bocce balls.  I got a ride to my house in another car and got my bicycle.  I played Chad, my dad's student, first to ten and I won.  Then I played Carly, his girlfriend, talked about how five years ago I had a bocce first date with a girl named Carly, and won again.  I felt ruthless.  Chad told me about his late Spring trip to the Pacific Northwest with Patrick.  They had a blast with the whole city of Vancouver when the hockey team won a game in the Stanley Cup finals; and they left before the riots that broke out when the team lost.

Alexandra bought me a bocce ball set off the internet for my birthday and we have played several times, and I hope to more frequently.

I also have looked up and found two books on bocce, one very helpful and thorough volume from the library—The Joy of Bocce by Mario Pagnoni—and one fascinating study in literary composition from Amazon—Rico Daniele's Bocce, A Sport for Everyone. 

Five reviews exist for this book:

1.

This book is less than desirable. The print quality is poor, the diagrams are obvious cut-and-paste examples, and over 80 pages are no-value lists of Italian resources where Bocce information MIGHT be found, and poor quality photographs from a personal album. This is a very amateurish book and provides little value. I recommend Amazon drop it from the catalog.

2.

No tree should have been cut down to print this. I wanted to know how to play bocce and how to build a court. This book did not satisfy my needs.

3.

I have to agree with Reader from Houston. This is the cheesiest book I've ever seen in print. It could only have been self-published. Over 50 pages of illegibly-reproduced random clippings and home album photos. Interspersed are about 30 pages of useful information about how to build a court and rules for playing the game. If you really need this information, the ... price tag is not too high. Other than that, it's a masterpiece of ...

4.

If you purchase a Bocce set, it will surely come with instruction on how to play the game. Use those and don't waste your $14 dollars on this collection of photos of the author and his Bocce cronies. 

5.

Reading "A Sport for Everyone" brought back memories of warm Sunday afternoons at my grandparents. After a big family dinner, both adults and kids would go out to the back yard to play Bocce, Just enough exercise to help digest. I haven't played in years, so when we built a vacation house, I ordered this book in hopes of putting in a Bocce court of my own. The chapter on building courts was very helpful and clear. The rest of the book deals with equipment and rules, all very useful and upbeat. I'm now the proud owener of both the book and a truly fine court. This is a book written with the enthusiasm of a Bocce zealot. Even though the pulication is technically a bit primative [sic], I hope it converts others over to a great "social" sport.

Mr. Daniele's abrupt and irreverent transitions through genres and media elicited the very responses that I wanted for my own narrative.  This tone, however, does not seem at all deliberate; rather the choices seem to simply stem from the arbitrary need to give sequence to the various media found in a collection of scrapbooks, photo albums, and bocce archives.  The implied presence of Daniele stands behind, or even within, these choices—he is each placement of newspaper clipping, collage, recipe, diagram, regulation, or other "miscellaneous treats from the author," as he calls them. And all that he chooses, writes, and is in the photos and text becomes a fascinating character. He remains infinitely sincere as he pops up into nearly every photo with his signature grin, neatly parted hair, green polo collar sticking out from his white Wonderful World of Bocce W.W.O.B.A. sweater, and bocce balls in hand.

"Who includes the 'O' from the 'of' in the abbreviation of their organization?" There is obviously a unique character in Rico Daniele, a man who self-published an "official W.W.O.B.A publication" through an organization that shares the same address as his own "Mom & Rico Daniele's Specialty Market" in Springfield, Massachusetts, and fills it with his own story of coming to America from Italy and sharing Bocce with Western Massachusetts and the greater New World. 

I shall here present the content of Bocce A Sport for Everyone, for those who do not care to devour it themselves.

Pages 1-2: The History of Bocce, "An Ancient Game": "Bocce must have been part of the therapeutic advice given by the early Greek physicians Ipocrates and Galileo who indeed believed that the invigorating exercise provided by this game could have beneficial results. It is said that the early Romans were among the first to play the game, at times using coconuts brought back from Africa."  It should be noted that Galileo was Italian and an astronomer.  But that's not the important thing.  The important thing is that he played bocce.

Page 3: The first U.S. Bocce League—Western Massachusetts, list of Presidents since 1932. 12th and 16th Vice Presidents (1988-1990, 1994): Rico Daniele.

Pages 4-5: Teams and clubs in the history of the league.

Pages 6-8: Newspaper clippings from the 1957 and 1933 and 1938 tournaments.

Page 9: the first W.W.O.B.A. team to enter international competition, Trump Plaza, Captain Rico Daniele.

Pages 10-14: SO YOU WANT TO BUILD YOUR OWN BOCCE COURT, including a "materials" section that quite resembles the expenses in Walden, "so that all the pecuniary outgoes, excepting for washing and mending, which for the most part were done out of the house, and their bills have not yet been received..."

Page 15: endorsement by Giuseppe Polimeni of Agenzia Consolare d'Italia, "representative of the Republic of Italy in Western Massacusetts"—"It gives me pleasure to endorse the efforts of Mr. Rico Daniele to promote the game of bocce throughout the United States."

Page 16: YOU'LL NEED THE RIGHT EQUIPMENT

Page 17: Contact information for bocce equipment retailers.  Number 10 on the list is Mom & Rico/Daniele's Specialty Market/899 Main Street/Springfield, Massachusetts.

Pages 18-22: WHAT THE BOCCE PLAYER NEEDS TO KNOW, Physical Conditioning, Choosing the Right Techniques, the Puntata Method, the Volo Method, the Ace and Bank Shots, The Raffa shot. NOW LET'S PLAY BOCCE!

Pages 23-33: W.W.O.B.A.'S OFFICIAL 76 REGULATIONS FOR THE GAME OF BOCCE
Regulation number 76: "For information about bocce tournaments throughout the region, the country and the world, become a member of W.W.O.B.A. for just $19.00 and also get: / Free T-shirt, Hat or Insulated Cup / Free quarterly newsletter."

Page 34: "LET'S PLAY BOCCE" and W.W.O.B.A. logo

Pages 35-43: SPECIAL RULES FOR PLAYOFFS AND CHAMPIONSHIP GAMES, 6 SIMPLE RULES FOR THE GAME OF BOCCE, A Summary of the PUNTO, RAFFA, VOLO REGULATIONS of the Confederation Bouliste Internationale, and EXAMPLES OF THE REGULATIONS.

Pages 44-82: RESOURCE DIRECTORY
"Organizations that already include—or that we feel should include—as part of their activities range from informal clubs to extremely structured leagues and tournaments, depending on where you live. The following list, as complete as possible, will give you some suggestions who to contact in your area."        —Page 58: Wonderful World of Bocce Association, 899 Main Street, Springfield, MA 01103.

Pages 83-118: SOME GREAT MOMENTS, FACES AND PHOTOS OF BOCCE
Photographs and collages either taken by or including Rico Daniele and Bocce

Pages 119-124: TIMALLO DI BOCCE, Some Personal Thoughts
A sort of brief autobiography and statement of purpose, personally signed by Rico C. Daniele

Page 125: Newspaper clipping about Labor Day Bocce Tournament, 1993, including enlarged quote from Enrico Daniele, "We wanted to get it in here as a family thing.  I'm trying to get bocce into schools to get kids interested."

Pages 126-127: Brackets for two 1993 tournaments.

Pages 128-135: List of good bocce players, first, by state, and by country

Page 136: Letter

Page 137: Introduction to the bocce characters, with the nine planets as the nine bocce balls

Pages 138-149: Ten Tasty Bocce Recipes.  Bocce related dishes with "the bocce characters" hosting their description.  The characters come from Daniele's realization that there are 9 planets and 9 bocce balls.  The sun is the court; the pallino is Pluto; Uranus is cowboy with a mustache; Neptune is a crowned merman; Saturn is a sombreroed, similarly moustachioed Mexican; Jupiter is a blond hulahooping youngster; Mars has the Roman mohawk of Marvin the Martian; Mother Earth has a bun pinned with a stick and is smelling a flower; Venus has a bow in her hair; Mercury has a propellor hat and wields a bocce ball; and the sun brings us a recipe for Italian-American Bread.

150-151: More newspaper clippings.

152: Sample Bocce League Financial Report (Income: $5,852.00 - Expenses: $5,635 = $217.00)

153: Seven Steps to Stagnation, 14 Ways to an Unsuccessful Organization

154: Letter in Italian to "Gentilissimo Enrico" from the Mayor of Bracigliano, Province di Salerno, Italia

155-158: The Joy of Growing Up Italian, Author Unknown

159-163: Ackowledgments

164: Wonderful World of Bocce Association Membership form

165: Bocce is the Perfect Sport for You, a poem by John V. Tranghese

166: blank

167-194: more clippings, collages, premise for movie called Bocce Bella written in the margins of one clipping: "A little Irish girl Katie Fitzgerald grows up to become a bocce champion with Italian friends."

195-196: blank

 the themes of Bocce Balling on the West Coast

Friday, January 7, 2011

You relate the events which you have seen and are still seeing to the field.  It is not only that the field frames them, it also contains them.  The existence of the field is the precondition for their occurring in the way that they have done and for the way in which others are still occurring.  All events exist as definable events by virtue of their relationship to other events.  You have defined the events you have seen primarily (but not necessarily exclusively) by relating them to the field, which at the same time is literally and symbolically the ground of the events which are taking place within it. 

You may complain that I have now suddenly changed my use of the word, "event".  At first I referred to the field as a space awaiting events; now I refer to it as an event in itself .  But this inconsistency parallels exactly the apparently illogical nature of the experience.   Suddenly an experience of disinterested observation opens in its centre and gives birth to a happiness which is instantly recognisable as your own.

The field that you are standing before appears to have the same proportions as your own life.

John Berger,

"The Field," About Looking 

*      *      *

10:20 PM Monterey, CA, Custom House Bocce Courts

Alexandra Parker & Andrew Shaw-Kitch

7

Tristan Kadish & Andrew Anderson

15 

—The only authority to accompany us on our trip

from Tristan's mom's bocce set

The first game of bocce is played at the Custom House Plaza courts in downtown Monterey, California with Alexandra Parker and Andrew Shaw-Kitch losing to Tristan Kadish and Andrew Anderson around midnight.

The Preface to The Joy of Bocce:

Bocce, though already catching on rapidly in this country, would really take off if it got the proper exposure.  Hopefully this book will help.  I'm not talking about it flourishing as a tournament event with complicated rules, state-of-the-art equipment and high-powered authorities running (or ruining) the sport. I'm referring to a simplified recreational version that can be played by anyone almost anywhere. The game doesn't require great strength, stamina, quickness or agility.  You don't need catlike reflexes or the hand-eye coordination of an NBA backcourt star.  Men and women as well as boys and girls of all ages can participate and enjoy the sport, making it as competetive or non-competetive as they desire.  And it is well-suited as a game for the countless physically-challenged individuals worldwide because anyone who can roll a ball can play.  Best of all you don't need expensive equipment. And, played as described here, you don't even need a court--your backyard or neighborhood park will do nicely.  You can play recreational bocce on grass or dirt, on level or unlevel terrain—even at the beach (on the shore or on sandbars during low tide).

Bocce suffers an image problem in America.  People see it as an "old fogies' game" played at social clubs. The word bocce conjures up images of cranky old coots competing on customized outdoor courts.  Arguing and kibitzing (sometimes even cursing--usually in Italian) and generally having a great time, these old-timers seemed engaged in some sort of geriatric lawn bowling.  It looks about as exciting as watching cactus grow in the desert.  But it is a wonderful game, full of skill and strategy--one that requires finesse as well as some occasional brute force.  This book attempts to dispel the misconceptions about bocce, and aims to promote it as a lawn game that is the ideal recreation for family cookouts, picnics, and other get-togethers.  In addition, this book helps guide those who may want to take the game to the next level, whether it be the social club level, tournament or international play.  Most of all, our goal is to get the word out on what has been called "the best kept secret in sports," bocce.

In the weeks preceding our journey I found myself deeply involved in two sagas, both lingering for over a year in the vestibules of my consciousness, and both suddenly coming forward at year’s end to occupy center stage and all of my attentions—intellectual, emotional, and actual; though quitting my job at the local independent movie theater would seem to constitute the freeing of my attentions, that was not the case at all. Instead of passing my time happily sweeping up popcorn and thinking of all the things I was to accomplish, I was sitting at home fretting about money, about how things had gone wrong, and wrapping myself up in the aforementioned second saga—the Grapes of Wrath—a novel I began for the first time about the same time the year before, and neglected for seasons at a time.  

On Christmas Day the movie theater received a film that was, for every reason, to attract masses of people to our tiny art house cinema: it was a British period piece, it had immense Oscar buzz, and ended up winning immense amounts of Oscars, it analyzes an affliction that has not been exploited by Hollywood, it’s sufficiently predictable while not being stupid, it has Geoffrey Rush, and it came out on a holiday—the King’s Speech.  

My mother was a little late preparing Christmas brunch for my father, me and my brother who was visiting from Seattle, so I ended up coming to work thirty minutes late, no crime, I self-righteously thought, for someone who requested the day off before two people to whom it was granted; the Colin Firth-inspired fervor, however, made things look very bad for me when I got there. But rediving headlong into Steinbeck had gotten to me—the company had unceremoniously increased my hours to full time at holidays, knowing, but not asking, that I would not be substitute teaching on Christmas or the week that followed. Any day off requested was never given.  Promotions were given to those who didn’t question the incompetent 18-year-old floozy who was put in charge around the time the boss started sleeping with her.

I was so sanctimonious by the end of the weekend—closing shift on Christmas Eve, opening shift on Boxing Day—I completely forgot that I was working on Tuesday.  I enjoyed several days with family, pleasant evenings trekking with the Joads, the healing qualities of happiness, until I came back to town, when my folks took my brother to the airport, and learned I had missed a day and was suspended.  I furrowed my brow in a scowl and read a hundred more pages in a sitting.  The Joads reached California and it was not the workers’ paradise that was promised.  

On the night I got back and was advised by my coworkers to call the boss and explain myself, I was drying out my black workshirt that I had washed in the sink by the woodstove in my living room.  I stared at it as my boss explained I was indefinitely not to come back to work.  The Joads’ struggle became mine in the hyperbole that emerges from great emotion.  I loved the work that the job entailed, but they owned the means of production.  I had no power.  All I could do was read on and grit my teeth as my polo shirt dried out.  

The next day my friend Brandon called me who also worked at the movie theater.  He needed me to cover a shift and insisted I talk to the film-reeling tyrant.  So I did.  I explained, apologized, argued, pled.  “Why punish Brandon? You usually are indifferent to our requests, now you are going out of your way to make sure we don’t get the schedules we want.”  I didn’t say it that eloquently, or directly, but he wouldn’t have cared if I did.   The most important thing, though, was that I knew I wouldn’t get the weeks off I wanted for my upcoming bocce journey.  He would bring me back on the very days I didn’t want to work just to fuck with me.   I wanted to work the weeks before to save money and not worry on my sojourn; and I no longer had faith that the boss and his girlfriend who did the scheduling gave a fuck about what I wanted.   Like the centuries of family-owned and farmed agriculture in the United States in the 1930s, my year-and-a-half career in the movie business was over.   "Why don’t you just make this suspension or whatever you called it two weeks and we’ll be done with the whole thing." 

After rent and my bills, Christmas break from school, and these new circumstances, I had very little money left for the trip.  We packed up Tristan’s jalopy with jars of olives from my parents’ backyard I had cured a few weeks before, camping supplies, all the food we could scrape together, clothes for a week, firewood, and Tristan’s mom’s bocce ball set.  Ideally all we would need to buy was gas.  Tristan’s truck was all oiled up with the fluids in order.  With our friend Andrew coming along the first leg, our inaugural game played at the historical Custom House Plaza in Monterey, our itinerary roughly sketched out, the three of us, all former employees of the same general manager, were ready to go.  

Rose of Sharon’s baby was born, and from the despair cried out by the trampled-upon worker’s heart, idle in the midst of California’s bounty, came new bittersweet possibility, the celebration of the human spirit over capitalist corruption of the human world.

 

*     *     *

Peter Shaw’s imagining of the Bocce journey

“Take photographs, play a token game, interview local aficionados.”

Clarification of token

“It’s a actually a term derived from linguistics, where we talk about types and tokens, so in order to establish a certain type, or category, of, let’s say, lexical items in a particular language, you collect a number of tokens, that is, actual examples.  So token would be one representative of the class of dedicated bocce ball players.”

*******************************************************************************

7/27/2011 (Tk Addendum)

So is the field of play our span of the West Coast?  Is it the heart's runway we use to take off, out of a jaggedly unjust, apathetic and trite work environment to broad northwestern avenues, trailheads and backyards?  More probably and tangibly, is the field of play wherever we lay down our belongings for a time and decide to roll balls around on whatever terrain we happened to have found vacant?

I think it is easy to say that our field of play was all of these things and more, changing from day to day and still changeable today, three quarters of a year later.  Part of the liberal interpretation of the game that we employed then was that we could make our field of play wherever and whatever we wanted.  We kept our own score.  We did not have to appeal to an authority other than that which we created between ourselves.  How appropriate that we spread our wings towards our own venues and rules of play, branching out, or rather, throwing out new seeds, just as the Joads did in striving for California.  However they were not playing any game, as it might seem that we were, our trio of bocce players.  Yet despite the setting of a game, our struggle as individuals, or our struggle as a group of misfit sportsmen was not any less epic or any less represented by that game we were laying out, one playing field at a time.  The Joads too laid out their journey in campsites and relationships, one by one towards a greater future, each on their own and together as a family.  We differ in that we were comforted and transmitted through a game but also our common drive of companionship, sportsmanship and even chivalry.  Really you could look through our periscope, splashing just above the water line at the very least, at times an enchanting kaleidoscope of contentedness in the moment or washy vision of the future, and you would see scenes on a path towards freedom, a freedom we are promised daily here in this American country.

The game was always something we did after work at the theater.  We were so thankfully done with the meaningless jargon of a minimum wage parade and thus craving the connection between humans that enriches and breeds camaraderie. It was nearby, we could drink beer in public and the fun cost next to nothing.  It was, and still is, just about perfect.  The brilliance of bocce might be summed up in the word simplicity.  I think it is also a fantastic demonstration of democracy. The rules are agreed upon by a consensus, verbally, the time limits are agreed upon in the same fashion, and in the case of our journey, we got to decide where the game was played.  On the tour, we were enabled with the ability to shape our landscape into exactly what we wanted, a field of play.  Not only that but if we had a problem with the landscape, we could go and find another.  Are those not extremely appropriate abilities for a world of freedom and democracy?

The value in the journey was obvious, unraveling adventure via weeks in the useful American highway infrastructure easily within our reach despite gas prices and the thin walls of our pocketbooks and coming along with us: 9 multicolored balls to give some sort of dynamic stability to our days.  It was a brilliantly lit stage.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Leaving later than planned, Tristan, Andrew, and Andrew arrive at the courts at Almaden Lake Park in San Jose at sunset and are met with harsh words from the ranger closing the park for the night.

I misremembered the location, name, and actual character of the venue in San Francisco that was hosting the book release of my friend Sam’s so-called “fanzine” for the skateboard culture periodical THRASHER.  This of course was a humble way of describing the high concept Duchampian streams of thought that no doubt went into the conversations with collaborator Israel Lundi and the forty-odd page black and white photocopies of the highlights of their respective collections of the magazine.  By the time we got there—after a brief attempt to play bocce ball in San Jose, trying to find the place and park simultaneously in the general area where I recalled it being, calling Tristan’s mom who had internet access, calling Sam who was outside the venue smoking a cigarette but who could not describe anything beyond the character of the alleyway, finding the building, and attending another event for ten minutes or so on the wrong floor devoted to bondage-related sculpture and polaroids—the event had dwindled to what appeared to be its close.  Tristan was dressed for the wilderness, from his floppy hat down to his boots, and Andrew was frazzled by the event downstairs, but I was happy to see Sam and proud to see him travelling for a book release like a big shot, but one who deserved it.  

               
A charming duo was asked to perform for what was apparently the second time and I was quite impressed by the successful incorporation of a fire false alarm into the rhythm of a song.  We said we’d see Sam in Portland when we passed through, congratulated him and complemented the Japanese half of the duo who was smoking pot with two girls outside on the way back to the truck.  

Tristan’s brother Tyler was kind enough to host us on the other side of the bay and Andrew cooked a noodle feast to thank him and his roommates for the hospitality.  We shopped for groceries at a Whole Foods and I bought a bag of spinach among other things that I ate while they checked out.  I ate the spinach and talked to an older man about the marxist traditions of the Salinas Valley, and its biggest proponents of social justice in Cesar Chavez and John Steinbeck.   This conversation seemed natural and logical in the Whole Foods in Berkeley.

After dinner we watched several installments of the Japanese cooking program Cooking with Dog on youtube. Tyler insisted on sharing it for the incredible effect the culinary virtuosity of the woman—non-dog half of the show—had paired with the absurdity of having a terrier sitting next to her on the counter with an overdubbed male voice describing the procedure, giving the effect that it was the dog who was narrating.  

*     *     *

January 8, 2011, 5 pm - 8 pm
@ SF Cameraworks, 657 Mission Street, San Francisco, CA

Lawrence Rinder launches TULEYOME; Israel Lund, Sam Korman, and Colter Jacobsen launch THRASHER FANZINE

Lawrence Rinder launches a new fiction, with photographs by Colter Jacobsen, Tuleyome; Israel Lund and Sam Korman launch Thrasher Fanzine; with live music by Coconuts. There is a suggested donation at the door, but all are welcome regardless.

* * *

 

Basho traveled.  He, as far as his audience is concerned, transformed these travels into poetry.  On one level he bisected beauty with his own subjectivity, concentrated his ego into the singular perception of nature; on another level he took this singularity and put the natural encounter into verse; and he left this poem for his hosts; or he interacted with peers and composed with them a linked analysis of a poetic apprehension.  It is now hundreds of years later.

THE MUPPETS TAKE MANHATTAN

And there he stood, blushing a kind of reddish green, the president of the senior class and author of "Manhattan Melodies"—Kermit the Frog. "Way to go kermit!" and "What a frog!" his classmates called out to him over thunderous applause.  Kermit was overcome.  It felt wonderful to have an audience clapping for the show he was so proud of.  "See you on Broadway," yelled someone in the audience.  Kermit laughed at the thought.  Then he bowed one last time and ducked back into the wings.

"Why not?" Scooter asked the others backstage.  "Why don't we put the show on Broadway?"

Miss Piggy, who was still swooning with happiness at seeing her adored Kermy taking his bows, suddenly woke up.  "Broadway!" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up like giant searchlights.  "Moi can see it already!"

"Yeah!" agreed Fozzie. "Broadway must be dying to get a show like this."

"Broadway! Broadway!" chanted Animal, the wild-eyed drummer of the Electric Mayhem Band. 

"But the show isn't good enough for Broadway," said Kermit.

"Not good enough!" chorused the others. "It's more than good enough.  It's great!"

"It's a tempting idea," said Kermit. "But we have to think about our plans for the future."  

And then Fozzie had a brilliant idea.  "So I guess if we don't go to Broadway, we just have to..." He paused, looking as forlorn as a bear can look. "...we just have to say goodbye to one another." He waited for the words to sink in.

Kermit looked around at each of his friends.  The thought of the gang breaking up and heading off in different directions was painful.  No one spoke, and Fozzie held his breath.  "Well!" Kermit said at last. "What are we waiting for?  We're going to Broadway!"

Before anyone had time to say "Are you sure?" or "Maybe we shouldn't rush into this" or "Help!" the gang was there, gazing in awe at the famous Manhattan skyline.  Right in front of their very noses was the Empire State Building, as pretty as a picture—it was a picture!  It hung on the wall of the not very clean bus terminal that was the only part of Manhattan they had seen so far.

The terminal wasn't much, but it was home.  They decided to stay in their lockers that night, even if the lockers weren't exactly first-class accommodations. "More like twenty-first class," said Fozzie.  "Right up there with park benches."

"But it's just for one night," said Piggy.  "Because we'll all be Broadway stars tomorrow."

"No problem," said Gonzo, whose personal habits have often been described as "unusual" and even more often as "really, really weird." "This is much better than the file cabinet I used to live in."

"Squawk," agreed Camilla, and everyone else settled down to sleep.