phik

Although I cannot speak to the “beercheese”, about which I was and remain blissfully unaware, I can confirm that Brooklyn’s Floyd is an excellent place to spend a Friday night.

George and I took to the in-bar bocce court around 21:30 to face the reigning champions. Our first few frames were hardly spectacular, and it was looking grim until they made a series of grave tactical errors followed by an even more grave strategic error, and our comeback was immediate and unassailable. From that point we bested all comers, aided and comforted by Hoegaardens in the heat of battle.

The crowd came and went as the night progressed, hungry for their shot at glory, but there were constants throughout: women wanted us; men wanted to be us; everyone wanted their chance to contest these remarkable yet unknown prize-fighters who chose this night to emerge from the shadows of retirement.

At last, undermined by our own hubris and perhaps the very Hoegaardens that gave us our subtle control, we relinquished the court to a pair of locals all too familiar with the well-worn grooves of their home court. It was a match we could and should have won, but it was a good run. After two and a half hours on top we retired once more as champions in the eyes of a grateful nation.