The American King

On the Fourth of July, 1999, Stewart Humbert paid his patriotic dues by going to an afternoon lawn party followed by watching the fireworks display from his host's deck. Stu loved the stars-spangled show with its smell of gun powder that floated directly from the blast zone to the deck. It reminded him of a king witnessing his victorious troops in action.

During the afternoon the thirty-eight year-old salesman enjoyed the festive summer pot luck. He gorged on the cheese-laden lasagna, tart potato salad, and assortment of fresh fruit pies. Nor was he adverse to the cold soda that floated in the copper bathtub like Titanics amidst miniature icebergs.

Between snacks and getting sprayed by the children-manned sprinkler, Stewart kept from overheating by casually joining in the several lawn games his host had thoughtfully placed around the house: badminton on the east side, croquet on the west, and the game new to him he called Botchie.

Stu had seen Bocce played on TV but sensed that wasn't the official way the game was played. What he saw was a group of Irishmen heaving colored balls down a country road amidst boisterous roars obviously caused by the gallon jug of whiskey that passed among them. The gaiety was more exciting than the game itself.

Now, as he stood in the shade of his neighbor's house, he chuckled as he

remembered how the Irish overcame the chuck holes, gravel, ditches, and winding roads in spite of their jug. He wondered how he would fare sober.

No sooner had Stu lifted the four-and-a-half-inch ball than he felt he'd been tapped on the shoulder by a Fairy Godfather. It felt right: the right size and the right weight. As he looked over the rectangular course enclosed by a tight cord with the bright-colored Jack waiting to be tapped, Stu's competitive nature kicked in. Inwardly he knew this was not a harmless, backyard, who-cares game. Botchie was war.

Blessed by an incredible sense of calm under the most trying situations gained from his years as a salesman, Humbert spied the course like a professional golfer. Instantly he knew why he liked the game. It was a combination of bowling, billiards, and golf. He studied the lay of the lawn just as a golfer does the green before a tournament-winning putt.Slopes high from the left, it's a long shot, and it'll be a slow roll because of the high grass.Yes, Stu knew before he released his first ball that this was his game.

Stewart Humbert devastated every competitor on the lawn. Not because he was a better shot -- some very fine bowlers and golfers came and went -- but because he was blessed by intuitively understanding the game. Instinctively he knew when to lob a ball, when to apply left English, when not to bump an opponent's ball. He astonished the competition and admiring onlookers when he didn't knock balls out of play but bettered their shots instead.

The Fourth was on Saturday. All day Sunday Stu mused about the new game. On Monday he went to the mall and researched: there was a small, backyard set for families, a medium-sized set for the serious competitor, and the official version used by international tournament players. The

third set mesmerized him.

Stewart's sales job afforded him considerable freedom. Over the next year he played his beloved game every free, weather-permitting hour. He even took the game on calls and, instead of wining and dining his clients on the golf course, he entertained them with the Italian lawn-bowling game. In time Stewart Humbert could lob, bowl, curve, and direct-hit any spot on the cord-boundried rectangle at will. Not only had he become an excellent shot, he became an enviable strategist as well.

One day an elegantly dressed, regal lady sat on a park bench intently absorbed by Stu's shooting. Detached, the salesman released each of the eight official spheres as he always did, with calmness and utter accuracy.

Only when he reversed directions did the salesman notice Enrica Lorenz. What caught his attention was that she smoked a very long, thin, black cigar. Had he looked more closely he would also have seen that she had beautiful, bronzed legs. But Stu ignored her --- hewasplaying Botchie. When the woman finished the exotic cigar and Stu had thrown his last ball, the grand lady introduced herself. That moment changed the salesman's life and the game of Bocce forever.

Enrica explained that she'd seen every major Bocce tournament in Spain, Ireland, and Italy since she was a teenager. That her grandfather, Arturo Lorenz, was a living legend: he was the only man ever to win the three great events, the Barcelona Games, Irish Free Games, and the Italy International. To emphasize her grandfather's importance, the stunning lady explained that Grandpapa won the triple crown fifty years ago and only until recently had one competitor, Giuseppe Paprona, come close to matching the half-century record. She quickly added that even then Paprona had only placed second two years running.

Enrica then presented the salesman with a proposition he couldn't

refuse: she would pay all expenses if he would bring his official, eight-ball Bocce set to her grandfather's villa in Naples and play a game. "My aging grandpapa loves to see talented players. I think you will please him."

Humbert didn't like the idea of a command performance in front of the Prince of Bocce, but if he pretended he was playing at City Park, why not?

The initial meeting of the alpha and omega was awkward. Count Arturo was from a different world, a different generation, a different class of luxury and cognac and black cigars. Every time Stu threw a ball the amateur felt he was as much on exhibition as any orangutan in a cage. But it was all in his mind because the old man, eighty-seven now, never passed judgment. Instead, he sipped, puffed, and applauded every throw.

The count was amazed when his granddaughter told him Stu had never played tournament ball. As official Grand-Marshal, he was aware of the top European Bocce players. Perhaps this American shot only in the Western Hemisphere circuit? The count didn't even recognize his name.

After the game, the American found the old count most comforting. The aged man generously shared his cigars and private stock of cognac.

After a machine-gun conversation in Italian between grandfather and granddaughter, Stu watched as the aged man lifted the phone and speak with great authority.

"Alfredo, Arturo here. A favor you must accept. A late entry for Barcelona. His name," and he leaned toward the bronze legs, "Stewart Humbert, an American. See you at the Games." It was that easy.

"Me?" blurted Stu. "A man who's never played a single game of Botchie, let alone INTERNATIONAL competition, me play in the Barcelona Games?" Stewart looked helplessly from prince to queen.

Enrica dispelled his fears by saying that he wasn't to look at Barcelona as anything more than a solo practice in City Park. "It matters nothing to

you," she said regally. "But to Grandpapa it means everything. Just play as if you're alone like you always do."

She further explained that Grandpapa was very impressed by Stu's style. "Obviously he's never been to a match and seen how a Bocce player issupposedto play. He lobs, tosses, throws --- does everything an uneducated bambino does. Why, he's a regular Irishman. BUT HE ALWAYS HITS THE JACK."

Stewart didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or smile or run, but during the next few weeks he didn't have time to muse over his Cinderella situation. Back in the States he buried himself in his sales settling enough accounts to last him through the week he'd be gone. He didn't feel guilty when he left for Barcelona without informing his district manager.

When in Spain, Stewart was amazed at the passion over Bocce. It rivaled what he'd heard about bullfighting or America's zeal over baseball. He was also impressed at the respect shown him. Enrica explained it was because he was the choice of the great Count Lorenz himself, and whoever the Prince of Bocce endorsed was accorded the highest courtesy. Stu spent two days in sunny Barcelona meeting European noblemen and women and the elite of the sporting world. But never a competitor. Enrica told him that was taboo in the Bocce world. "ESPECIALLY meeting Guiseppe Peprona!"

Stewart was justifiably impressed by the majesty and splendor of the Barcelona Games. He had no idea the top players were esteemed as highly as the great bullfighters, flashing fencers, elegant equestrians, and Olympic heroes. Bocce, it turned out, was considered the king of games because it required ultimate finesse and control of inner passion, both the lifeblood of Spain.

Most eyes, of course, were on Stewart because of his royal

endorsement, but they also stared at Guiseppe Peprona, a master in his own right. True, the Italian had never won the triple crown --- for that matter, even a single major tournament --- but he was the only man almost to win, and twice. Gueseppi captured the minds of the hopefuls and European patriots while Stewart mesmerized them because he was unknown and the chosen one.

How many strokes of luck can a man have? The chance meeting by Enrica, being picked by Arturo, and now, only hours before the great Games began, Guiseppi Peprona fell ill and was rushed to the hospital with a most embarrassing condition, dehabilitating diarrhea. Bedridden, the Italian hopeful watched the match on his hospital TV. Guiseppe reasoned that when the two would finally meet at least he would have an advantage. He studied Stu's every move as the American handily beat all comers. The all-time second-best Bocce player noticed the American's highly unorthodox style complete with a penache that silenced the crowds. He, like everyone, knew they here was a Master.

Guiseppe's passionate, Italian blood boiled. No one should approach the king of games so lackadaisically. Moreover, this upstart was an AMERICAN. The bed-ridden player resented every shot, adroit as it was, and concluded that beginner's luck had gone rampant. Moreover, in Bocce one was supposed to blast balls that were in your way, not curve around them or even back-court toward the Jack. Obviously this newcomer had to be more than beaten, he must be humiliated and he, Guiseppe Peprona, was the man to do it.

While Stewart was back in the States filling orders and whirlwinding accounts by visiting clients, his reputation grew and spread throughout Europe. Many newspapers and TV sports commentators asked, "But what would the American have done at Barcelona had Guiseppe been there?"

And, "Will the he be able to succeed at the Irish Free Games?" Many conjectured he would because of his unorthodox, almost-Irish style. And all the while Guiseppe's temper blazed in the Old Country, Stewart Humbert coolly busied himself in sales. America knew nothing of his European exploits.

Three days before Dublin, Enrica Lorenz presented herself at Stu's practice park. She informed in her noble voice and bearing that "Grandpapa has asked me to escort you to the Games." Only then did it hit the salesman that this other world, this foreign reality of rich, noble, famous, crowd-shouting and sports-idolizing Europeans, would be his territory for the next week. Gladly, though curious by what lay ahead of him, he boarded Air Eire with the well-bred lady.

On the way he wondered when his hostess would explain the Irish version of Botchie. The game was so highly formalized on the Continent that his eyes sparkled when he thought of the whiskey-toting Irish players he'd seen on TV. But the queen was silent.Maybe it's the taboo, Botchie superstition, But it's only a game, and old Lorenz is footing the bill. Besides, they EXPECT me to play like I'm at home.

Stewart had been impressed at Barcelona by the formality the Spaniards approached Bocce. In Ireland he was bowled over by contradictory moods. On the one hand, Bocce was the subject of the most serious attention, yet it was also considered a joke. As if anyone who PRACTICED Ball must be talentless. When stepping up to the line, the Irishman looked as if he'd just stumbled from the local pub.

Paradoxically, it was precisely because of the nonchalance of the Irish Free Games that made winning the Triple Crown so revered. Who but a perfectly balanced man could win the fiercely competitive and formal tournaments of Barcelona and Rome AND the lackadaisically free style of

the Irish? When Arturo Lorenz watched Stewart he was confident he could throw as freely as any Irishman. His very style, so unorthodox to the straight-laced Continenters, was in his favor.

No one really understood how Guiseppe Paprona had done as well as he did at Dublin. He was the straight man's straight man. He outstarched the stiffest collars of the formal world. Yet for two years running he'd placed second on the very course that was a nightmare to the other rigid bowlers. It was because of this mystery that Europe had reason to think Peprona might be the next Prince. But Fate struck again when Guiseppe's flight crash-landed in the North Sea en route Dublin. No one knew until half-way through the Games. Until then everyone was whispering where is Guiseppe? But the announcement, delivered in the thickest Irish brogue, calmly understated that "a lad named Goose-Eppa has been found floating in the sea and is as fit as a Herring." For the second time Guiseppi and Stewart had not met. It was also the second competition won by the American at international Bocce.

Again the media asked, "Would he have won if Guiseppe had been there?" Whatever the answer might have been they also heralded Stewart Humbert as THE man to beat. After all, he was the only one to have won at both Barcelona and Dublin since the old Lorenz days. Now he truly had a chance to win the triple crown. But what about the Italian International? Wouldn't Peprona come on strong on the formal court of his homeland once he recovered?

But mishap upon mishap, three days before the great games the European contender was rushed to the hospital for a bleeding ulcer. Doctors said if he was lucky he might be able to enter the Barcelona Games in year 2000, but for now he could only watch the American from his hospital TV. Again.

Just as stately Enrica Lorenz had escorted the heralded American to Spain and Ireland, now the granddaughter of Italy's most famous Bocce player distracted him from his sales, accounts, and clients. The truth is she had to half-drag him to the airport because he insisted that he close an account. In the handsome lady's eyes this American was unbelievable. How could anyone so famous put business over the single most prestigious sporting event in Europe? And, if he won, in history?

So Stewart Humbert took his fourth week of paid vacation. Since Americans didn't follow Bocce and couldn't understand what winning at Rome meant -- neither could he, for that matter -- and since he'd already met his sales quota before leaving, his friends would have shrugged their shoulders even if they had known. Meanwhile, Stewart was met by great pomp, feted and feasted at the houses of nobility, and treated as a national hero. Stewart aroused such passion in Italy and all Bocce Europe that a famous jeweler made a crown of gold anticipating his victory.

The International Bocce Games at Rome were the crown jewel not only of the three events but of European sports in general. It was as if Bocce was a second-class citizen the rest of the year, but on the three days it was enthroned in Barcelona, Dublin, and Rome. It wasKing. Soccer and polo had their regular events and seasons and the stars were splashed throughout the media regularly. Consequently they became as common as furniture. But because Bocce was usually played quietly in the private courts of nobles and the rich, the International Games drew great press and prestige. Enter Stewart Humbert.

It is said that when a great performance is needed, the great rise to the occasion. So it was with the third leg of Bocce's triple crown. Everyone hoped Humbert would win. Women lit candles in cathedrals while Italians

everywhere stopped what they were doing to watch the match. True, they wished it was a son of the Boot who was in Stu's position, but anyone threatening Count Lorenz's great accomplishment fifty years before was worth dropping pasta and pizza for. This was a day in history.

It wasn't as if Stewart had no competition. True, Guiseppe was not in the running, but in Italy, come the International Games, world champions seem to come out of the woodwork. The American had to face no fewer than three such Masters, one of whom had won at Rome twice. So when Mr. Humbert became world champion and the only human other than Count Arturo Lorenz to wear the impossible Triple Crown, all Italy and Europe broke into song and drink. There wasn't a sober or dry eye on the entire peninsula. Processions, parades and partying filled the smallest towns and clogged traffic in Rome and all large cities. Stewart Humbert had done it. He'd matched the great Count's feat.

The Count treated Stu like a son. He called him his Yankee Bambino. Enrica, who sensed his greatness when she'd first seen him in City Park, respected him as she did Michaelangelo and de Vinci. The rest of Italy lionized the American. Fifty years before, the great Lorenz had retired from competitive Bocce immediately after winning the triple crown. The new prince was expected to do the same. So when Stewart announced that he would compete the following year many eyebrows rose.

The uniqueness of the decision brought vast media attention. Two factions stood out: the King-makers and those bent on regicide

While Europe fumed, Stu calmly occupied himself with sales, accounting, and clients, nearly oblivious of what his decision had catalyzed. And while he busied himself in his mundane sales job in America, the European press shifted its attention to the at-home Guiseppe Peprona. Europe celebrated the Italian's passion for Bocce, his near-wins,

and mostly, his every-threatening chance of becoming the new champion. He was the only man in history to score second in all three games twice. Now they looked to him to make history by a great comeback by defeating the new Prince, Humbert.

Peprona didn't sit idly contemplating his Bocce balls the nine months between Rome and Barcelona. He followed a strict health regimen and trained like no other athlete ever had. Typically he played Bocce six hours a day, but he also indulged in related games to strengthen his skills. He played billiards and croquet to sharpen his ability to ricochet; shuffleboard for distance and stopping; horseshoes and Jarts for dropping exactly on target; bowling for straight rolls and end-shot English; and golf for the long arc. No man in the history of the game had prepared himself so thoroughly for international Bocce competition as Guiseppe Luigi Antonio Peprona.

Naturally, once the American had declared himself, the media had a perfect set-up. They jumped from the champion to the contender like a cat watching ping-pong. The booking agents went wild with odds: would Humbert win a second triple crown? Would Peprona finally become a winner? It was a journalist's and gambler's heaven.

When the big day came, Count Arturo Lorenz sat monarchly in a shaded box seat, his elegant granddaughter regally at his side. The two had been responsible for launching the American's career and world-wide attention at Barcelona. Sipping cognac and smoking cigars, pride filled their hearts.

Amidst fanfare and fanaticism, Barcelona came and went. And so did Guiseppe's first attempt to dethrone Stewart and break his own non-winning streak. Another expert in last-point, kill-ball, a Basque named Navarette, ricocheted him out of his chances. But they couldn't touch Stewart. His perfectly lobbed balls after reading the course exactly

couldn't be beat. And Europe exploded into shouts:The New Prince has won the first leg of the heralded triple crown AGAIN!

While all this was going on, the Irish sat nonchalantly at their pubs un-impressed. They knew no matter how good a bowler was on a perfectly manicured green, the Dublin ditches were a god unto themselves. Even to this Yankee upstart. But Dublin came and went just as Barcelona had: Humbert beat them fair and square. Stewart won the second leg of the historic Triple Crown: Guiseppe placed second.

With the approach of Rome the gamblers, the rich, the sportsmen, the lovers of world-class competition, burst forth. For thirty days the media exploited the chances of the American becoming the only man in Bocce history to win the big three twice. Already some heralded him as King while others inundated their viewers with articles and pictures of Guiseppe dethroning the great one. Could he? Would he? All Europe wondered if Guiseppe could overcome the stigma of eternal second-best.

Unlike most competitions, the Rome Rule was that he who threw out the Jack would be the last to roll. This gave the Jack-thrower a decided edge because he could ricochet his last ball close to the target -- or kill his opponent's. A simple coin toss determined who would throw. The coin was far from ordinary. It was a solid gold lyre with Count Lorenz's profile on the face.

Humbert won the toss and, in keeping with his unorthodox approach, decided not to bowl last but to throw out the Jack. The spectators stared blankly at the man who had a chance to become the world's first to score two Triple Crowns. They couldn't understand why he had thrown away his edge. Then they realized that the American had made the most noble gesture any athlete could. By throwing first, he'd given Guiseppe the chance to break his losing streak by shooting last. A true King.

Deep in Guiseppe's psyche the gesture added to the rage that boiled violently in his Italian heart. His entire adult life, and especially the last nine months, was aimed at being the International Master of Bocce. He despised grandstand, crowd-pleasing gestures. Now he HAD to beat this American.

Stewart Humbert's act was not as noble as it appeared. Being a warrior at heart, not merely a competitor, his every act, though casual, was to ensure winning. He'd watched his Italian counterpart at Barcelona and Dublin and he was confident he'd read him as accurately as the curvatures of each course. In his mind he wasn't surrendering the edge, he was gaining it. He figured that to jar his opponent's confidence with a surprise would double the competitor's aggressiveness. Stu hoped that the surprise would imbalance Guiseppe to the point that when the real pressure was on he would make a mistake.

The match developed as it had begun --- classically. Humbert threw the Jack at the diagonal end of the court, three balls-width from the cord, exactly at the dividing point between an upper slope to the left and downward incline to the right. After studying the position carefully, Stewart dropped his first ball six inches on the far side of the Jack, inches from the out-of-bounds cord. It turned out to be perfect strategy because it meant that in order to kill Stu's ball, Guiseppe would have to hit the Jack first, and no one, not even if he's practiced Bocce all his life, can tell where a bouncing Jack will end.

Being an excellent shot, Guiseppe stalled his first ball five-and-a-half inches in front of the jack. He was betting on the American not ricocheting him, which meant that it was nearly impossible for even the Prince to drop between him and the Jack without ricocheting.

But the Italian had underestimated the American by thinking he knew

how a non-kill-ball player would act. What he didn't know was Stewart's complete game-plan. Without hesitation the defending champion did exactly what the contender thought he would not do: he dropped his four-and-a-half-inch ball EXACTLY a quarter of an inch from Guiseppe's and a quarter of an inch in front of the Jack -- without disturbing either a centimeter. It was a perfect shot.

But the challenger had the last play. What possibilities raced through his head and the minds of all the spectators. If he killed the front ball he could send the Jack God-only-knows where. But he had to take the chance. Both green balls were within a fraction of an inch from the Jack. The only way he could win was to knock his opponent completely off the course and pray that he and the Jack stayed within the cord.

Europe was never so silent as the moment before Guiseppe's shot, the single roll that would determine both his and the American's Bocce fates. And never has all Europe exploded so feverishly when all balls finally lay still.

After his last lob Stewart Humbert turned his back to the course. He'd thrown a perfect final ball in the most prestigious game in history. What his opponent did on his last shot was his own business. So nonchalantly Stewart sipped Count Arturo's cognac, puffed a black cigar, and smiled contentedly at the elegant Enrica.

The pressure of the entire tournament was on Guiseppe now. Facing that last shot, Guiseppe was a lake of molten aggression under a near-exploding volcano. And just as Stewart had anticipated, the pressure was too great. The Italian's ball went JUST too fast and at JUST the wrong angle. The resulting ricochet threw Guiseppe's ball beyond scoring and irony upon irony, bumped the Jack, cheek-to-cheek, against the American's ball. Europe went wild.

At the victory banquet, the words of Count Lorenz, the Master of Ceremonies, were as memorable as the match. The patriarch spoke as if knighting Peprona, dubbing him the "Maker of Kings."

"Victors rise to the occasion to the degree of the greatness of their opponents. Naturally we fete Humbert because he won, but we celebrate Peprona because of the high level of competition he gave. Bravissimo, the King Maker!" Though still second-best, the words lessened the sting of losing.

The rest of the celebration resembled a coronation as well it should since Stewart Humbert was the only man in history ever to win the Triple Crown twice. Even the great Count bowed. Bronze-legged Enrica smiled reverently. The Italian government gave Stewart a villa overlooking the Mediterranean and a life-long pension. The victory dance that followed was concluded by the admiring Bocce community passing the King around the room above their heads.

Stewart Humbert never lived at the villa. He visited it briefly between his duties as Grand-Marshal at the Barcelona, Dublin, and Rome Games. The old Count passed away but the American kept his spirit alive by continuing the tradition of cognac-sipping and cigar-puffing. The rest of the year the King lived in the States and was known as a successful salesman who handed accounts and clients adroitly. In his spare time he could be seen lobbing four-and-a-half-inch Botchie balls in City Park. Such is the life of a king in America.