CROQUET:  The Times Article

Ask me anything about croquet. Go on. The difference between a roquet and a croquet? Well, it is a matter of the distance between two balls in consecutive shots, with a roquet being the shot played first. A triple peel? Think not of appalling sunburn. It is the sheepdog herding of two balls through the same hoop, though not simultaneously. A wiring lift? Nothing to do with Playtex, but . . . er, well, you've got me there.

But it takes a great deal of determined brain-clenching (not to mention masses of help from other people) to come to terms with croquet if you have never encountered it before, what with its Tuftex mallets and pioneer balls and imaginary balk lines, and one can only do one's best. Even experienced players sometimes strike the wrong ball or get their hoops mixed up. At the Hurlingham Club yesterday, as tall, bespectacled 31-year-old Reg Bamford pegged out for the final time (but only in the technical sense) one thing was clear. He had thought and swung like a cross between Einstein and a garden gate to get where he is today.

Which was (I should have explained earlier) Open champion. Yes, there was another big sporting event yesterday. While elsewhere in the country a brash and earsplitting race was whining dementedly around Silverstone under the shadow of Mammon, an altogether more civilised and under-supported sport was demonstrating how to be tough, subtle and utterly impoverished under the shadow of Corinthian columns in a light English breeze on a golden afternoon.

There was one pitch invasion late in the match - but the toddler in question was hauled back by an embarrassed parent, so no harm done. Bamford, of both South Africa and Surbiton, was playing David Fulford in the final, also from Surbiton, while the doubles title went to "outsiders" Chris Farthing and Chris Patmore (Surbiton and Surbiton), beating Stephen Mulliner and Bamford (Surbiton and Surbiton). I have a friend from the North who used to think Surbiton was a place invented for The Good Life, incidentally. I'm not sure the events at the Hurlingham yesterday quite disproved the theory.

Is croquet the next spectator sport? I don't know why, but the question vexed me. True, the full, four-ball game is impossible to follow without a running commentary - but might that not work in its favour, perversely? It is not surprising that newcomers approaching a croquet court assume that the player in mid-break is, in fact, messing about haphazardly, knocking any ball that takes his fancy, moving balls to positions for mysterious reasons, and occasionally knocking them through a hoop just for the hell of it.

"When do they start?" is the oft-whispered solecism. But if someone explains it to you for several hours on end - "You see? Having already reached the ninth hoop with the blue, Robert is now beginning his triple peel with both blue and black, having already achieved three sextuple peels this week!" - the contemplation of the many feats involved makes you almost pass out from sheer awe.

Gone is the image of old folks on garden lawns, apparently. Crinolines, boaters, all that. Mention Lewis Carroll and you get hard looks. Flamingoes are no-gos. "Off with your head!" they say. With its square-faced hardwood mallets and automatic handicap system, what the modern game emphasises is the intellectual rigour required simply to plan all the shots. Don't call it vicious, either - it is, in fact, strategic, which is different. Think of strategic bombing, if it helps.

As for its image of nonagenarians, well it does have those (and glad of it) but the big noise in the game at present is a 17-year-old Californian called Jacques Fournier, who was beaten in the quarter-finals last week, but has a competitive handicap of -1.5 and recently beat all the top chaps at a tournament in the United States. By being absurdly young and wildly unlikely, Fournier is considered the Tiger Woods of croquet, which isn't quite as much like being the Jake La Motta of hairdressing as I previously would have assumed.

On Saturday, I watched some of the semi-final between Robert ("Bunny") Fulford and David ("The Beast") Maugham. The Beast had his hair dyed yellow like Gustavo Kuerten, only longer, which, to be honest, when combined with the large girth, was quite intimidating. I started feverishly imagining there was a bad-boy aspect to the game. "Does anyone ever break their mallet?" I asked. But it turns out they don't really see the point in wanton destruction. As for trashing hotel rooms, of course, they mostly can't afford to stay in them. One of the best players in the world and the Great Britain coach, Keith Aiton, were sleeping on someone's floor in Arnos Grove during the championships. I'll bet Michael Schumacher can't remember the last time he did that.

It could all change with sponsorship or telly, of course. There must have been a time when someone said: "Snooker on the television? You're barmy," yet look at it now. Croquet is about accuracy and patience (like snooker) and it has pleasant outdoor views (like cricket). Women play in the same tournaments as the men, and though a bit thin on the ground at present, in previous eras dominated the sport. So why shouldn't it work?

At the highest level, unfortunately, the game gets a bit tedious - which might be a drawback. The climax to the doubles final was thrilling yesterday because mistakes were made, balls went awry, rectification was clever, risks were taken, roquets made loud clacky "tock-tock" noises when struck with force. In the singles final, however, both Reg and Robert played flawless, methodical croquet and it got a teeny bit dull watching their balls jump through hoops because there was never the slightest chance they wouldn't. Blindfold croquet may have to be the next thing, perhaps. Or croquet with moving hoops.

I know I couldn't play this game. Not because it's hard work mentally, but because it would be so shattering emotionally. How can you play a game in which your balls are never your own? "That's mine, don't!" is a sentiment I would not be able to suppress. On the other hand, it seems to help if you carry an extra bit of midriff (I do) and are a bit knock-kneed (I am).

Grasping a mallet has never been a problem and the various Irish grips, Solomon grips and standard grips look like a decent challenge. So you never know. It's just that if the Tiger Woods of croquet is already taken, what is left? The Penelope Keith of croquet, perhaps. It will need a lot more thought.