Croquet at Keble College

Beef Stew has its moments. They are few and far between. Far like from your door to the newspaper when there’s a foot of snow outside or like when you decide to jog a couple miles after you haven’t worked out in a year. Few and far, yes, but I just had a beef stew moment.

The dining hall at Keble College shaped the set for Hogwart’s in the Harry Potter movies. (I don’t know these books or movies, but a million people told me this information, so I’m assuming it must mean something). It’s absolutely stunning. Huge cathedral ceilings, wood, stained glass, portraits of famous alumni dating back hundreds of years, gloriously long dining tables and a raised table at the front of the hall where the dons hold court at meal time. It’s a sight and coming from my collegiate dining experiences (Davidson Commons and the SigEp house), I can’t quite fathom eating there.

Thanks to a new friend, James, I received an invitation to dine in the ancient hall on Monday night. After an afternoon of work, I rolled down to the school, traipsed through the gate in excitement and wandered up the stone steps to the double doors.

Typically, the students wear gowns to dinner and I felt a bit disappointed to know that I wouldn’t have the chance to wear one. Of course, that feeling left when I found myself seated at the don’s table. Granted, school just let out, so gowns and dons are no longer needed, but took it as a decent trade up.

So here I am at the don’s table of Keble college, tearing into a healthy portion of beef stew and sitting on top of the world. Could things get better in my short-lived Oxford dream. Yes.

Following the meal, James suggests we make the most out of remaining (and all too rare) sunshine and move out onto the college’s courtyard lawns. The perfectly manicured and vast squares of green sink about 3 feet down from the surrounding footpath, dormitories, classrooms and chapel. We meet up with a few of his pals and within minutes we have a genuine croquet set up on the lawn. With a glass of Pimms (classic English summer/leisure drink combination of some gentle spiced spirit and lemonade) in hand, we set off.

Now, I used to play croquet with some frequency. We had a beaut back lawn in Jersey and as an officially recognized gamemeister, I regularly badgered family members and friends to join me. But aside from the ball and mallets and lawn, the similarities between Oxford croquet and Breitenberg backyard croquet end there.

For one, Oxford croquet is a leisure sport and therefore you are intended to be sportsmanlike (a far cry from my old games in which humiliation of an opponent by blasting their ball into the fern patch or neighbor’s yard was as good as victory). Two, the lawn resembles the glassy greens at Augusta and not so much the somewhat lumpy lawn my brother and I hacked up with the pushmower in the junction for 10 summers (never did get that Simplicity riding mower). Third, there is a proper way to strike the ball (between the legs, which may be proper, but which I still think looks ridiculous as much as it is ineffective and which I immediately abandoned).

Already distancing myself from my Oxford hosts, I almost cemented my ejection from the game when, in my enthusiasm to be playing croquet at Oxford, suggested we play “poison” (a completely Americanized version of the game that results in a particularly bloodlusty knockout stage at the end of the game). I tried to bail myself out by mentioning that I like to play croquet on the beach when I can. Not helping.

Good hosts to a fault, we set off anyway. I think I was somewhat redeemed by suggesting a fair way for setting the order (by country of birth – Australia, England, India, Khazakstan, US [California], US [Massachusetts]) and I found myself in the lead pack heading into the first big turn. I was relieved to see that my friend James (the Aussie) seemed like he would have enjoyed the backyard version a bit more as he sent his ball all over the pitch. About as entertaining a player as I’ve seen on a croquet lawn.

We whiled away the time. The Pimms went down easy and so did the sun, sneaking behind the chapel and casting a perfect sunset onto the clouds above. I threw on my sweater (wishing I had a fly summer suit on instead of jeans and jumper) and chased James and his buddy Phillip around the final turn.

I blew a couple of shots and looked dead in the water. The endearing Englishman cruised steadily towards victory. His unbelievably honest and seemingly pure sportsman-nature made my competitiveness seem completely out of place and altogether American. I tucked away this element and remembered that I was at Oxford and playing croquet. Why even begin to worry a mite?

I’m not sure what happened, perhaps the English civility hit me like a blast of fresh air. I found my stroke and passed James on the turn. Even still, it looked like Phillip had it in hand. My next shot got lucky, stuck right in between a wicket and allowed me one shot to save my game. I hit it right, the ball rolled gently up into position. On my next turn I passed him and touched home for the win.

“Well done, old chap.”
“Yes friend, it seems I’m home.”
“Very well. Should we play the rest of the balls in?”
“T’would be a shame to waste the last of the day.”
“Quite right. Well, then. Let’s finish up.”
“Cheers.”

Gracious to the end. A nice lesson and a good game. The leisure closed with the daylight and with it my lovely Oxford dream.