Dedicated as I am to the task of feeding my followers with inconsequential information, I am writing this while far from my desk. I'm in Southampton or thereabouts for a tour of filial duty. The little prop plane from Limoges flew over the city and from my seat by a window I saw the expensive football stadium where the red-and-white striped football team won promotion to the old Division 2 yesterday. A little further on, as it circled over Winchester and swooped down towards the airport at Eastleigh, I watched a game of cricket far below and actually saw a batsman scamper a single. Incredible what one sees from an airplane.
A couple of days before I packed my bags to come away, I drove to Brive to watch a couple of games or sessions or whatever you want to call them of the Pelote Basque world championship at the Fronton Municipal. I know very little about pelota - apart from trying to play one of the varieties with French friends while staying at their holiday home on the Atlantic coast north west of Bordeaux. It was extremely difficult and I was embarrassingly crap. It involved hitting a ball with a kind of stunted wooden paddle against a huge solitary free-standing wall.
The two games I witnessed took place indoors. I sat at the side of the arena on an incredibly uncomfortable bench in among a load of school children (bussed in to create a bit of noise and atmosphere). While the players warmed up, the P.A. system treated the early spectators to some excellent salsa from the likes of Celia Cruz. I warmed at once to the mysterious sport.
The fronton is a three-sided affair, like a cross-between an elongated squash court and a real-tennis arena, marked at intervals with different-coloured lines. All very exotic and rather incomprehensible.
However, when the first game started, it soon became obvious what it was all about. First off was a game of La main nue variety: two teams of two participants whacking a leather ball against the end wall with bare hands bandaged with Elastoplast. It looked merciless and exhausting. In the white shirts and white nylon 'slacks' were two Spaniards, who looked remarkably like brothers. In the red shirts and white 'slacks' were two Venezualans. I feared for them after watching the warm-up and thus it transpired: they were no match for the battle-scarred Spanish 'brothers'.
It is a best-of-three sets affair. The first team to ten points wins the sets. The server runs up to a line not too far from the end wall, smacks the ball with his hand against the wall and hopes that it lands so far back in the court that the receiver hasn't the strength to smack it all the way back. The hapless Venezualan receiver at the back of the court had a stinker and his colleague at the front was rarely involved. The two sets were over in about 20 minutes of one-sided carnage and the Spanish pair, cheered on by a noisy party of schoolchildren all the way from the mother country, waltzed into the semi-final. I was heartened to see that the two teams felt able to embrace each other warmly at the end. No hard feelings, just hard calloused hands.
The second game was one of La Paleta cuir: a much faster affair played with beechwood paddles (about the size of a wooden spoon designed to stir a Lancashire hot-pot for a small community) and a Puckish hard leather puck that travels at roughly the speed of light. We spectators were thankfully shielded from possible harm by two huge safety nets, which were pulled across like curtains. This game, too, features a Spanish team. This time they were in red, but again looked like brothers. Two David Tennant brothers, in fact. Moreover, with their white helmets and their safety goggles, they looked like they once played with Devo ('Are we not men? No we are Basque Pelota players...'). One was a right-hander, the other a south paw: the perfect combination for this game. Once again, I feared for the opposition - a pair of stockier, swarthier Cubans. Since they were clearly underdogs and since Cuba gave unto the world such wonderful music, I rooted for the team in the white shirts.
In this version of the game, it is the first team to 15 points that wins the set. The server plays from the back of the court, scrutinised by three officials in black trousers, light blue polo shirts, crash helmets and goggles, who look for all the world like a team of Securicor men. The puck ricochets off the far wall and has to bounce past one of the lines but not beyond another line towards the back. Otherwise, it's all very similar to the bare-hands variety.
As I had feared, the two Spanish David Tennants strolled through the first set. But spurred on by my vociferous support, the stockier Cubans scrapped and clawed their way back into the game to pinch the second set. Alas, the abbreviated third set was an anti-climax and the Tennant brothers eased their way into the semi-final.
It was all over. There was an hour-long break until the next match, but after over an hour of squatting on the wooden bench, my backside couldn't take any more. I left the bench, I left the tomb, I took three paces through the room - to emerge in the bright sunshine of a warm spring day in Brive la Gaillarde. I drove to the nearby pawn shop to pick up the Sony CD player I had reserved at 25 euros.
And so I can now tell my grandchildren that I once cheered for the underdogs at the 2011 world championship of Basque Pelota. It was an interesting, enjoyable affair, but - to be quite honest with you - I doubt whether I shall be going to the next one four years hence. Particularly not if it's in Venezuala next time.
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