The Wide Shot
*The following events may not be entirely factual. They are colored by my memory and somewhat fabricated for effect…
On hot Chicago summer day the Dorsey’s gathered to celebrate the birthday of the eldest brother now some 60 years old. This lofty age was historically rare in Dorsey men (so I was told), but in the modern era where jobs were a bit safer and medical science a little more advanced—if perhaps only financially more advanced—60 wasn’t rare nowadays. Indeed, 60 is pretty spry.
Irish families being what they are (especially Irish still living in Chicago) the main focus of the party wasn’t on the birthday of the eldest. In truth his birthday had actually been the month previous, but it seemed a good excuse for the real focus—a family gathering, beer and a highly contested tournament of “bags.”
Being not Irish (nobody is perfect), I am still perfectly familiar with beer--probably not as familiar as my new in-laws, but conversant at least. Regardless I wasn’t drinking at this particular party since I was attending with my wife who is both Irish and highly trained in beer. Marrying in to the family has been surprisingly easy. They are warm and welcoming to the various husbands and wives that join up. In my case, being of more Bohemian descent, I think it was widely perceived that I married up.
Now you may not be familiar with the game of bags. At first glance it looks like a simple toss game where you only have to toss your bean bag in to a hole in the top of a box. I’ll admit the game didn’t sound particularly challenging even for a Bohemian. Each box’s top is slanted with a 6” hole roughly in the middle. I’m sure my new uncles could tell you the exact dimensions down to a quarter of an inch and the exact angle of the slant.
On this trip, I had the fortune of staying with one of the expert bag players, Uncle Bob himself. While I stared at the tools of the game—four solid green bags, four bags colored as the Irish flag and two boxes—Bob was kind enough to explain the nuances of the game. The two boxes are positioned opposite each other at roughly 30 feet. Teams of two take turns throwing with one member of each time on each side. Game play is very similar to the game of horseshoes. Landing a bag on the box is worth one point and making a bag into the hole is worth three. After tossing all the bags points are calculated. The points offset such that if both teams score one point after tossing all bags then resulting score is a wash and both teams remain even. One team must out score the other in a single volley to gain any team points. After the explanation, Bob then invited me to play.
The game wasn’t as simple as it looked. The bags often would land on the box only to slide off and with only four throws per turn you were just dialing in your accuracy when your turn was over. Uncle Bob wasn’t on my team having instead invited his daughter, Katie, to play with me while Bob teamed with my wife. I believe he did this specifically to annoy his daughter or it could have been her vehement refusal to be on his team. While on the surface it seemed only a beginner’s game to teach a new member of the family, I quickly realized that it was simultaneously a chance for Bob to trounce Katie handicapped with a new player. Throughout the match Uncle Bob clutched a bottle of guinness in one hand and tossed a wicked bag with the other. I would like to point out here that while of course Bob is Irish he could also be considered “very Irish.” I’ve rarely seen the man without a bottle of guinness. It is a love born of generations and distilled in this man. And let me tell you to be renown as a man who loves guinness in an Irish community is something like the Pope being renown for being Catholic.
The match progressed pretty much as may surmise. Katie being quite athletic and no amateur at bags ran her old man until he was sweating and spouting short-winded insults. But as the saying goes, “Youth and skill can not overcome age and treachery.” Bob won out in one of the longest bag matches in memory—so I’m told. Bob retired to more guinness and family conversation and I believe Katie took the opportunity to leave the party—probably to find more beer at another party. I continued to play game after game of bags with any team needing an extra player. But being new, beerless and unskilled, I mainly played with the children and watched the true masters of the game.
As the hot afternoon wore on I identified the four family masters of the game. There was Uncle Tim who owned this set of bags and boards, Uncle Bob, Uncle Tom and Steve. Tim, Bob and Tom were all younger brothers to the eldest Dorsey whose birthday we were celebrating and happens to be my father-in-law.
Steve had, like me, married into family, only years before. Steve was married to the youngest Dorsey daughter, Maureen and thus had a few years advantage on the brothers. Steve is a fine gentleman while away from the bag playing-field. But he is as slick as a used-car salesman during a match. Generally speaking the Dorsey brothers together were unbeatable. Steve was the wild-card and deadly bag shot. He had spent nearly all the years since his marriage honing his bag skills—also training all three of his boys to be ringers. Steve was also quite a showman. He would frequently switch hands in match just to inflict the cruel “beat ya left-handed” parting shot.
After a full day of guinness and bag throwing the Daley’s versus the Dorsey’s became a heated bag engagement. Contributing to the controversy was the partnership between Steve and Uncle Tom. The Daley/Dorsey combination was a miracle of bag throwing. Left or right handed the bags sailed in to holes scoring three pointers. Uncle Tim and Uncle Bob decided to crush the upstart combo right now.
Uncle Tim is an imposing man easily the size of any 3 of his other brothers. A champion of regulation bag play tournaments and owner of the set he had the home court advantage. Uncle Bob had not the skill of Tim, but was one of the best at rattling his opponents with constant jibes about technique and rules. Bob also had an uncanny knack for matching your throws bag for bag keeping the opposing team at bay until Tim could throw and win the game. The synergy of the team was undeniable.
Uncle Tom was also a solid tosser and today he was hot. The temptation to team up with Steve and potentially unseat his more surly brothers was irresistible. All the factors were in place for an epic bag battle. The excitement was palpable. Uncle Bob even put down his bottle of guinness to focus on tossing. He would, of course, return to it and his chair between turns.
Both teams began trading the typical jibes and challenges prior to starting the match. Getting in the head of your opponent early was crucial and none was better than Uncle Bob. The jibe continued as Bob/Tom side started their first throws. The resulting score was a 3 point lead for Bob and Tim. The jeering and skill was showing early domination.
Next Tim and Steve took turns return throws. Tim threw first and immediately sank a ringer with an easy practiced arch. Steve quickly followed with using his right-handed flat spin style. The flat spin kept was theoretically better at keeping the bag from rolling off the box. The exact advantage of this is still debated, but the technique used by Steve is regardless, highly accurate. The bag fell through the hole without a sound—a “swisher.” Tim was un-rattled and dropped a bag on the box near the hole but not going in. After much hassling about the “good throw” Steve stepped up to toss. Uncle Bob took the opportunity to stand by the box and psychologically work on Steve.
“I hear those boxes you use at home have 6 and half inch holes in ‘em, Steve.” He called out.
Claiming another man was using non-regulation bag equipment was similar to accusing him of faking his golf handicap, cheating at cards and using booster seats at restaurants. Steve’s aim wavered and his throw fell on the box next to Tim’s bag. Steve hid his scowl behind a smile. “Just the kid’s boxes, Bob.” He replied.
Tim stepped up and arched another three pointer. Steve stepped with a look of concern and focus. In mid swing, Uncle Bob called out again. “I can send Katie over to teach those boys how to throw if you’re having trouble with ‘em.” Steve started to reply while throwing. It was obvious what Bob was trying to do but Steve, defending the integrity of his boys as well as his own training couldn’t resist. “Sure, Bob, I bet Katie would love to learn to how beat her old man from my boys.” But the real damage the done. The shot fell short of the hole, but remained on the box. Steve and Tom were now down by two.
Laughing light-heartedly at his brother-in-law Tim’s machine-like skill faltered just a little. His shot rolled on the box and off the back edge, but did knock his previous throw to the edge of the hole. No point on this toss, but in order to catch up Steve would have to somehow sink a ringer without also knocking in Tim’s bag. In fact it would be hard to hit the box at all and not inadvertently sink in the leaning bag.
“There ya go Stevie… go ahead and knock some more points in for us.” Bob jeered with a smile.
Steve paused. He sized up the hole carefully aiming his shot. His eyes narrowed and pulled back for the throw. I think I saw something in his eyes though. At first I took it for the Zen mind that one must have to sink a bag in to a 6” inch opening that was half blocked from 30 feet away. But what I witnessed was the most amazing shot I have ever witnessed. In the history of bags no finer shot could ever have been tossed.
Steve released is classic flat spin throw, but something was wrong. The shot was going to go long and be wide left—heading more or less straight for Bob. Hitting a player with a bag wasn’t an unknown tactic in bags, but it was generally recognized for what it was—a desperate ploy to shake your opponent. Uncle Bob had been hit with a large number of bags. The “header” wasn’t likely to shake him.
Bob started laughing as the shot flew even wider left over his shoulder. “You can’t even hit me ya tosser!” He quipped. But as he sidestepped to watch the shot fall Bob’s expression changed. The shot arrowed toward Bob’s chair and then like an assassin’s bullet knocked over his full bottle of guinness. The bottle was a full 10 feet away from the target hole. Steve dropped it on that beer like marksman.
Uncle Bob practically dived face-first to save the bottle. Guinness foamed from the neck as it contents flowed in to the ground. “You killed my BEER!” He bellowed. Bob’s face was red with mock-horror. The whole grounds erupted in laughter. My stomach cramped up and tears sprung from my eyes. Bob was hopping mad and chased Steve around the yard hucking bags at him as the younger man danced away.
Steve sacrificed those two points of that volley to completely destroy Bob’s composure. He never recovered and the unbeatable pair fell to Steve and Uncle Tom. I don’t even recall the final score, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing will erase the sight of that wide shot decapitating Uncle Bob’s guinness and watching a grown man chase another down with hurled bean bags. I’m sure the details will be debated at every family gathering that I have the good fortune to attend.
