Harry Camp, Alston Ramsay, Scott Judah, Matt Tokson, some freshman, and I played croquet on the Mall yesterday to mark Harry’s departure from the district. Though Scott and I took a quick lead (well, he did, anyway), Alston’s firepower knocked us off course repeatedly, giving Harry and the freshman several opportunities to reach and then pass us, one of which they eventually took. Alston and Matt landed first easily while we others battled it out for second, which was lost by a stroke and no more.
Though you wouldn’t know it upon meeting him, Harry is a competitive fellow. And he expresses it oddly. In all play, whether Croquet or Risk, two recent examples, Harry’s charm betrays him as he strives to sweet talk the field into his down home sensible way of seeing things. For a moment or two, it was almost like playing croquet against a sort of devil-as-car-salesman, but I should cut my chiding. He did, after all, bring the beer.
Our half-game ended as the sun set, and we ajourned for dinner at some swanky steakhouse downtown, where our waitress chastized me for ordering “some sucky sorbet” as a dessert and a busboy whipped the tea basket from my grasp before I could take a bag. “Excuse me, but I needed that,” I bellowed as he walked away.
But I wasn’t to drink my tea that evening.