I thought for my first ever blog, I would write about an experience I had a couple of weeks ago when I encountered a group of infectious young people.
To truly understand the significance of this, I must first make you aware of my struggles with poor mental health. About two years ago, the severe depression I had under control with medication was joined by its innocuous-sounding, but much more debilitating, cousin - anxiety. I lost the lovely job I had and what little confidence I once had has evaporated; I am even more uncomfortable in large groups and with meeting new people. Even writing this blog, which might be read by strangers, makes me nervous.
A further little bit of background is needed too. I live very close to a rural pub and was recently invited to join its boules team for the Summer league – not for my prowess as a boules player but for my proximity and availability, I think. One of the reasons I’ve agreed to play is because it’s a way of forcing me to interact with people and, in any case, playing boules on a sunny, summer’s day is a lovely way of spending an afternoon. My team had just returned from a match against a team about half hour’s drive away. We had drawn the match and I was feeling pretty good that I had won both of the games I was involved in.
Not expecting to play boules again that day, I dropped my boules set at home and walked the 30m to the pub – it was near to closing for the day so we were just going to have a quick drink and to let the landlord (who is also the boules team captain) know how we got on. He couldn’t play the match because he is also the chef at the pub and it was a busy summer Sunday.
Arriving in the pub garden, I saw a group of about a dozen young people sitting next to the boules piste (yes, that’s what a boules playing area is called) with two or three of them attempting some sort of game using the four battered and rusting boules that are left on the piste for anyone to use, and an old badminton shuttlecock as a coche (the little wooden ball you aim for). I watched them for a few minutes, and wondered if they might like to try using a better set of boules and a proper coche. I have a set of eight boules which would mean that more of the group could play at the same time.
I would never normally approach a group of strangers and certainly not a large group of young people drinking alcohol - I guessed this group were in their late teens, or early twenties – and I’m not really sure what prompted me to do so on this occasion.
I’ve spent little time around young people since I was young myself (I’m in my late fifties now - how the hell did that happen???) and I’m afraid I was guilty of some assumptions – particularly concerning young people’s ability to a) focus on any activity for more than a few minutes and b) be interested in anything not associated with interactive technology.
I spoke to one of the young men playing on the piste. He was giving off a kind of Richard Ayoade vibe; I don’t know whether he was cultivating that deliberately or it is just who he is naturally but it certainly suited him – and, in any case, Ayoade is by no means the worst person to be similar to. Dom, as I later learned he was called, was courteous and polite and seemed pleased by my offer but really wanted assurance that it wasn’t going to be too much trouble for me. I assured him that a 60m walk was really no bother for me.
I returned with my boules and, risking further perception as an interfering busybody, I asked if they would be interested in learning the rules of the game. The young men on the piste said they would and this also piqued the interest of their friends who were watching this interaction unfold. It wasn’t difficult to explain the rules because it’s such a simple game: from the same spot as your opponent(s), you try to land your boules nearer to the coche than their best shot. In essence, that’s it. Ok, there’s a little bit more to it than that but that’s the basis of the game. I hoped I gave them enough information without boring them.
Knowing there would be situations that required more knowledge of the rules than I had given them, I stuck around to watch them play and act as a kind of referee if a dispute arose. I didn’t think they would play for very long – I thought they might mess about for twenty minutes and that would be that. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
For over three hours they took turns to play and seemed to have the most glorious fun. The whole group were good friends and the easy banter that comes with a genuine fondness and affection for one other meant that good shots were rewarded with equal amounts of admiration and mock dismay, and poor shots greeted with glee and ridicule. It was clear they were competitive, but it was a gentle competitiveness.
Those who weren’t playing were waiting their turn while watching from the side-lines, and commenting with that strange mixture of support, mockery and abuse that is only possible amongst close friends. Like most amateurs attempting a game for the first time (and, in fact, just like our boules team) their shots ranged from the hilariously bad to the stunningly good and they seemed to enjoy them all equally.
The times they asked for my intervention – to clarify a rule or to settle a dispute – they did so with a mild reverence towards me, as if I was some kind of boules guru, which delighted and amused me.
They were drinking alcohol all the while but at no point did any of them stray from being polite, courteous and considerate. They created such a wonderful atmosphere in the beer garden that the landlord decided to keep the bar open – much to the delight of the regulars! It seemed that half the village was in the pub garden on that sunny afternoon.
I didn’t really talk to the young people that much - I was happy just watching and advising - so I don’t know much about them. I do know that a large group of them were camping a few miles from the local town as a kind of last hurrah before they all headed back to their respective universities. Since they were going to different universities, it occurred to me that they must have been friends for a time before that.
They reminded me of my own friends; I’m fortunate to have a large group of close friends who I’ve known for ages – some for over 40 years. There is a special bond that comes with time and familiarity. For a while when I was watching on, I was whisked back to the early, carefree days of my friendships and I remembered how good it felt.
The love, the joy, and the comfort that I get from the company of my friends is difficult to describe but it’s easy to recognise. And I saw it in these young people – it was so obvious to me that these young people loved each other. I really hope they know that is how they feel about each other.
I didn’t get all of their names but I think there was Dom, Josh, Calum, Ben, Julia and Anna amongst them. I know that stuff posted on the internet kind of stays there so I hope this blog reaches them one day and that they realise how infectious their love and joy was.
I’m a Baby Boomer and they are Gen Zs. I don’t recognise myself from the common descriptions of Baby Boomers and I didn’t recognise them from the common descriptions of Gen Zs. What I did recognise was the great pleasure that people get from just laughing and playing together, no matter what year they were born in.
Although I’ve gone on a bit, I really only wanted to say two things. The first is a big thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to those young people for giving me an afternoon of fun, laughter and joy. For those few hours, it felt like I wasn’t ill at all – the painful burden of my mental illness was gone. Those who have a debilitating mental illness know that we desire that relief more than anything.
And the second thing is to everyone else: try a little kindness. My tiny act of kindness repaid me immediately and immeasurably. You might not be rewarded every time you are kind but the worst that can happen is someone else’s day will be better because of you. That’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?
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