October 27, 2026
To: Sarb Gill, Vancouver, BC
Dear Sarb,
I don’t know whether it’s my particular group of friends or men in general, but nothing brings out their ruthless, cutthroat nature more than a game of croquet.
Let me explain. At Thousand Island Park, there exists, behind the Library, an old roque court that has fallen into disrepair. The walls lean, the surface is a little bumpy, but it’s a fitting place for croquet.
Roque and croquet are not the same. Roque was actually an Olympic sport in 1904. This might explain the presence of a court at TI Park…one of the many entertainment opportunities for the folks who stayed at one of the grand hotels there, before they burned down…the first in 1905 and the second in 1912.
Be that as it may. Croquet is usually played on grass. Roque is played on a hard surface. Croquet has no boundaries. Roque does.
The old court at Thousand Island Park is now grassed over, but the boundaries remain. That’s why I chose it as a site to play “friendly” games of croquet.
Generally, on Fridays, we pack the group of visitors to Comfort Island onto the big boat with a cooler, gin and tonics or Hugo Spritzes and our boaters. I have 40 straw boaters of various sizes for the players to wear. There are no protests of “I look odd in a hat,” or “it screws up my hair.” If you’re going to play, you wear the hat. And only if you play can you win a cash prize.
Conor usually goes ahead and trims the lawn with an old-fashioned push mower.
Todd Estabrook comes from across the great lawn if he’s available. And he usually is. I mean, who isn’t up for a midday G&T? He helps to set out the wickets and the poles and explains the basics of the game.
Everyone thinks they know the rules of the game. They don’t. Everyone thinks they know how to hit a ball with a mallet. They don’t.
It’s harder than it looks. Have another drink.
The games always start calmly enough. Folks acting like gentlemen, polite, thoughtful…”oh, I couldn’t possibly hit your ball out of bounds.”
And then it becomes a rollicking free-for-all.
One team usually goes rogue and upends the game—targeting the leaders, consequences be damned.
Perhaps it’s my fault. The cash prize, the alcohol, the heat of the day. What starts as a civilized game…turns into a rout, filled with bitterness and acrimony. And one victorious team.
The shouts from the court often attract the attention of the people in the immediate area. Fourteen men in boaters certainly do. Age doesn’t matter. I’ve had college-age guys and folks who are in or near retirement age. We all become 8 years old. And I love it.
Next time you’re here, Sarb, you MUST join in.
Stephen