Bugibba Bocci

Jack sat in the old wooden stadium chair, in the sun, enjoying the 2 matches being played below on the Bocci courts.  The weather on this island of Malta, in February, was unpredictable.  The Mediterranean sun could be blistering in the summer, but this day in February was ideal for Bocci.   65 degrees, and with the surf pounding on the rocks below, and a cold Diet Coke in hand – it was perfect.

 

This small village of Bugibba had one of the finest bocci clubs on the island, and drew a lot of local Maltese for daily pick-up matches.

    

“Nicely played!” shouted Jack (not actually knowing what just happened).  One of the old Maltese men looked up and smiled with a gentle ‘thank you’.   His toss of the green block had knocked out the opponents red block, getting his team closest to the lick.  That play was worth 4 points on the round.
  

(Jack later learned that the "lick", or the 'Jack' ball is the small marble that becomes the target, then there are 3 'balls' the size of golf balls that are tossed toward the lick, and 8 cylinders 'blocks' that are tossed toward the lick - not round like other bocci sets, but more squared off blocks made of wood, to roll awkwardly and unpredictably).

Jack began nodding off as he sat there – absorbing the sun – he had closed his eyes.  Then he heard a voice: “hey!  Come play – we need 1 more!”.   The Maltese man was speaking to Jack – pointing at him – and insisting that he come down to the court to play bocci with them.  They needed one more player to complete the team.  “I don’t really know how to play”, said Jack.  “No problem, bocci is 80% luck and 20% skill – come on – it’ll be fun!”.  Jill said 'GO - do it!'
 
So, for the next 2 hours Jack played bocci, in Malta, at the Bugibba Bocci Club – with a bunch of retired Maltese men, without a care in the world.  They joked with him, his Americanisms, his form, his lack of bocci knowledge.  They explained the differences between Malta bocci and bocci played in the rest of the world.    

  

Jack looked at his watch.  He and Jill needed to catch the bus back to St. Julians - so needed to leave the match early.  He wanted to be one of these guys, spending their afternoons together in Bugibba, not a care in the world, playing bocci.  They all shook hands and said goodbyes.

Jack called back - “I’ll be back!”   Sitting on the bus, he promised himself that he would, be back, maybe for good.

Tigoni 529

Jack stood quietly at the counter in the office at Kiambogo.
  
“No. Tigoni-529, not 59” – Jack repeated again to the operator who was trying to connect him by phone to a house in Limuru, Kenya.  As he waited for a connection, he wondered why it was “Tigoni-529’ and not ‘Limuru-529’ – he knew she lived in Limuru, and Tigoni was the next town over – 'it's another one of those African things', his mind wandered - he felt helpless. The operator didn’t speak good English, and Jack didn’t speak Swahili.  It was a painful process, but in 1975 – it was the only way to make a phone call in the hill country of Kenya.

 

"It's ringing" she said, and handed the phone to Jack.  He stretched the long black cord as far away as he could, inching toward the far wall of the small office here at Rift Valley Academy.  The 2 ladies behind the counter could hear every word he said - nothing was private here.  He heard them giggle as he awkwardly tried to muffle his voice into the big black receiver of the old phone.

  

Jack, now just 16, a boy – was desperate to hear her voice – one more time before the day ended.  He only had 4 shillings to his name, and this was taking 2 of those shillings, so he didn’t want to waste time talking to an operator.

    

When Jill picked-up the phone, the conversation started.  But ended, too soon.  They both had fumbled over words, not able to complete entire sentences without those uncomfortable pauses – teenagers falling all over themselves to say just the right thing – but not doing well at saying anything at all.  Still – they spoke, and Jack now had enough energy and hope to get him to the next day.  It was school break – a month of separation, and Jack’s heart ached.  It was just too long to wait.  He had to see Jill soon. 

  

Jacks father had a car, but it was difficult to drive the distance – the rains had come, the mud was thick, besides, what would they do, even if they did get a chance to meet before the next semester started?

   

“Hi, yes it's me again.  Can you ring-up Tigoni-529?” – he asked the operator at Kiambogo the next day.  "No, 529, not 59".  His last 2 shillings. 

SoCal - Harbor Blvd

Jack found his Avis car in slot D11, a small Toyota Corolla – red.   It would do. He tossed his roller-bag in the trunk and plugged in his TomTom.   He pulled out of John Wayne airport and headed toward the 5 north – toward Anaheim.  The sun was bright and the sky was blue – what he always remembered about Southern California – the palm trees, the freeways, the sense of excitement that was hard to describe.   He felt like he was home, even though Texas ran through his blood, thick, traces of California would never leave – like a gene – it was part of him – part of his DNA. 

This trip was all business – no pleasure.  Moving slowly through traffic, stop and go, there was a hole in his heart.  A phone call – likely breaking the law, he answered his cell only to be reminded that no matter where he went – he could never get away from work.  Yet, thankful to be working – even if. . . even if he didn't need to.

As he exited on Harbor Blvd. in Anaheim toward the Hilton, that hole in Jack’s heart became bigger.  Being in Southern California was something he and Jill did – together.  It wasn’t right to be here alone.  For decades, it had become their annual destination.   Half of him was missing.  The seat next to him, in this Toyota Corolla, was empty.  That cute blonde was back in Texas – she should be here, he thought – sitting right there.  And it just didn’t fit.  Nothing was right.  Jack needed to end this trip as quick as possible, and get back to Texas - back to Jill.