Barcelona Notes

by Ken Magri

I.  Bocce Ball     

One day in Sacramento when I was a child my father took me on a special motorcycle ride. We rode downtown to Southside Park where a group of old Italian men played bocce ball on narrow dirt courts.  This outdoor bowling game from Northern Italy, played with fist-sized balls, is somewhat akin in rules and strategy to lawn bowling.  Dad explained the game to me as we watched, saying that it reminded him of his own childhood days in Chico.  He wanted me to see it before it faded into the distance like other cultural traditions from the old country.  I watched with mild interest but never thought much about bocce ball afterwards, that is, until I went to Barcelona.

Here in the small park known as Placa de Gaudi on a warm evening in June of 1991, two nights before Saint John's Holiday, I watched locals play that game with the fervor and joie de vivre that Catalans are known for.  Towering above us in the background was the huge unfinished basilica, Sagrada Familia.  Designed and partially built by Antoni Gaudi and his sculptor/ collaborator Jusep Juijol, it is Barcelona's most eccentric and recognizable landmark.  Tourists come daily to marvel at the nativity facade, climb the south transept towers and visit the crypt which is now a museum for Gaudi and the cathedral itself.

But by six o'clock the tourists are gone, leaving behind a quiet neighborhood of folks who contentedly gather in the park.  On this particular evening I stayed behind and scribbled notes onto the back of a hotel bill.  Looking to the right a young punk rock couple strolled with their newborn baby.  Teenagers smoked cigarettes and talked in animated gestures.  Three old ladies rested their feet on a bench across from mine.  They would point, observe and agree with each other's comments in head-bobbing affirmations.  Somewhere in the background a bottle rocket attempted in vain to emulate the height of the cathedral spires. 

Over to the left a group of boys were conspiring to blow apart a GI Joe doll.  Using firecrackers they bought at a nearby fireworks stand, they would stuff explosives under an arm or between legs, light it and run away.  After each bang came a spirited lengthy inspection. Seeing little or no damage, they repeated this over and over with great satisfaction for maybe an hour. The GI Joe was still intact.

But the main activity on this night was bocce ball.  With two teams of three players, both young and old age vied for bragging rights on the well used court.  Women players rolled their balls with a stoop and a gentile gliding motion.  The men were more intense, and their tossing techniques more physical.

One team was anchored by a tall young man who always went last and who could consistently get his ball closest to the boccino.  A boccino is a small yellow ball that establishes the center.  Even if knocked around, wherever the boccino rests becomes the  new center.  Sometimes the young man's responsibility was to move an opponent's further away.  For this he used a high arcing toss with a wrist twist to give the ball back spin.  The ball would then plummet downward and take out the opponent in a violent crash.  Points were earned for every ball sitting closer to the boccino than the opponent's closest ball, until one side got to twelve.

Startled by firecrackers, pigeons periodically circled above our heads.  A toddler walked onto the court and all activity stopped until his scolding mother pulled him away.  The spectators laughed and joked about the boy's potential as a future player.

At eleven points to nine, the young man's team need just a point to win, but his opponent's balls were well placed, clustered together and worth three points.  He told everyone to watch then let the first ball fly.  With a low curving trajectory it landed well beyond the cluster, running off the court for spectators to chase.  But his second toss hit a teammate's ball straight to the boccino, giving his team its needed point.

It finally came down to the toothless old man from the opposing team.  He may have been their weakest player but still had one turn left.  He wore khaki trousers that drooped from a loose fitting belt and used a magnet on a string to pick up his balls.  He measured distances with a stick, and would joke after every bad toss then look around with carefree aplomb for a friendly audience.  Maybe this time he could hold off defeat with a good defensive roll.

The first toss seemed right on target but somehow wove its way through all of the balls without touching a thing.  He joked about it, looked around and laughed.  As the church bell began striking seven the old man, hunched over and stiff from arthritis, rolled his last ball.  A slight twist made it curve to the right.  Rolling, rolling, rolling, it hugged the outside  rail for what seemed like eternity before slowly turning back inward and knocking the boccino into the middle of his teammates' losing balls.

"Aaaaayyyyyyy" he yelled, his fists raised with pride.  The old man had just snatched victory away from a certain loss and become the neighborhood legend, at least for that night.  Over the noise the young man shouted out his praise, and now everybody was laughing with him and talking about the dramatic ending.

During the subway ride back to my hotel on the Rambla I thought about that afternoon so long ago with my father in Southside Park.  This evening's experience must have been what Dad wanted me to see.