Having a Ball

James Knight | January 27, 2024

The plastic green bowl sits on a ledge just inside the entrance to my mother’s home. Once, many years ago---indeed way back to my childhood---it was used for mixing salad, but nowadays, it holds nothing but golf balls that are in various stages of decay. They are dusty and scuffed, one is split, and another has evolved into a pimpled egg. Certainly not one of them is in good enough condition to grace a tee. However, it’s probable that is where they all spent their finer days before they surrendered to the same fate: plonked in a paddock to pass the seasons with the galvanised burr, prickly pears, and thistles.

My mum (who is closing in on Bradman's average) lives on a piece of dirt on the outskirts of the Australian country town, Gunnedah, in north west New South Wales. Its name comes from the local Indigenous Kamilaroi people. Translated, it is the ‘place of white stones’, a coincidence for an area in which Titlelists, Srixons, and Top Flites can be randomly found well away from the golf course.

As the crow flies, Mum lives about a mile away from the course. And the crow, ---in fact the whole bloody murder of them---play their part in this story because it’s these wingers who steal the balls from the fairways (and elsewhere) and then launch skywards. Presumably, they think the balls are food, but when aware of their mistakes, it’s either bombs away, or land and abandon.

On a recent visit to mum’s, I found four balls on a short walk, and dutifully carried them back to the green bowl; perhaps I should consider a grander name for such an old receptacle, but then again I must be careful in a sport in which the most sought after prizes are a Claret Jug and a green jacket.

There is no doubting the importance of the green bowl to mum. Or more precisely, its contents. But before we go there, let’s just head back to my pickings of the crow-pickings among the thistles. The further I walked, the more my mind wandered, and I began thinking about how lucky we are to have balls. (Get your mind out of the gutter, please!)

You see, the humble ball in its many forms and sizes is unquestionably one of the most identifiable objects in the world. For nearly all of us, it becomes part of our lives even before we speak. And then when we do speak, ‘ball’ is quite often among the first words we get our mouths around. (It was my son’s very first word). By then, the ball can already be entrenched in what we do. Kick it, catch it, run it, hurl it, head it…And that’s even before we involve it in an organised game.

The ball is so beautifully simple, but so extraordinarily powerful. Think about it. The women’s world cup of soccer, the men’s cricket world cup, Wimbledon…billions of eyes across the world have been following the ball over these past few weeks. Then add other international tournaments, domestic competitions, pick-up games, backyard scraps…Across the globe, fortunes rise and fall on the ball’s every bounce. When your parents or first coach told you to ‘keep your eye on the ball’ did they or you ever grasp the enormity of what they were saying? The ball will never be constrained by the boundaries of playing fields.

From the moment the ball is made, often by people struggling to make livings in countries such as India and Pakistan, the ball is a cross-cultural symbol that can bring masses together in a way that no other object can. It can be a chunk of pig skin or cloth wrapped and stitched around plastic bags. It can even be a pair of rolled up socks or tar and cloth. It is what it is. Above all else, it is the greatest social tool on the planet. But such is its brilliance it can also keep company with those who are or choose to be on their own. The Great Escape, Steve McQueen, a prison cell and a baseball mitt come to mind.

The brilliant ball.

As for its role with the green bowl?

Well, thankfully my mum doesn’t have to use them too often. But there have been occasions…

You see, during this never-ending drought, kangaroos often hop into mum’s yard where the grass must be slightly more abundant and less dead than on the other side of the fence. (It always is isn’t it?) Unfortunately, some cranky bucks (males), both young and old, are among them. And the other day one stood his ground only metres from mum’s back door. These fellas, with chests larger than Conor McGregor’s ego, can make a mess of anyone, or any dog, including mum’s stumpy-tailed cattle canine, Wish.

So, what to do? Yep, I think you know.

 An empty hand into the green bowl, a loaded hand out of the green bowl, the back-door swings open, an arm cocks, and…

“He got quite a fright,” said mum. “I socked him; it was a good throw. He looked at me and said: ‘You’ve got a long reach!”

Then he hopped away. Who knows whether he’ll come back? But it’s likely there will be others. Then again, maybe word might spread: “Beware of that wild human on the other side of the fence.”

And always respect the power of the ball.