Clare Greenwood in NYC
The Bits You Won't Find on the Scorecard
Some trips are remembered because you won.
Others because you lost.
This one will be remembered because absolutely nobody could quite believe what had just happened.
A tiny bowls club from a Sussex village somehow found itself in New York and came home with another club.
Looking back, the score almost feels irrelevant.
What we'll actually remember are the moments in between.
It started with Linda.
Every subway journey became an opportunity for a singalong. Travelling uptown could only mean one thing: Uptown Girl. Heading back downtown? Naturally, it became Petula Clark's Downtown. Before long, entire train journeys were punctuated by increasingly enthusiastic performances from a group of Sussex bowlers who seemed completely unconcerned about the opinions of their fellow passengers.
It set the tone perfectly.
Then came what will forever be remembered simply as The Wombles Incident.
One of the New York bowlers struck up a conversation with Barry about lawn bowls. Unfortunately, Barry became convinced the gentleman was passionately discussing The Wombles. Naturally, there was only one appropriate response.
Without a moment's hesitation, Barry launched into a full-throated rendition of:
"Underground, overground, Wombling free..."
The increasingly puzzled expression on the American's face slowly revealed the problem.
He hadn't been talking about furry creatures from Wimbledon Common at all.
He'd simply been talking about lawn bowls.
Or at least, that's what Barry eventually realised.
Like all the best stories, it became funnier every time it was retold.
Not every adventure involved bowls.
A visit to the Liberty Tower briefly became a game of "Where's Barry?" when the group emerged to discover one of its members had disappeared. With mobile phones proving about as useful as chocolate teapots abroad, everyone headed off in different directions hoping to reunite. Barry eventually wandered back after striking up conversations with a few New Yorkers along the way, blissfully unaware that a small search party had effectively been launched in Lower Manhattan.
The weekend was full of moments like that.
Conversations that began with bowls somehow drifted into stories about families, careers, grandchildren, holidays and the places people called home. The New Yorkers wanted to know about village life in Sussex. Billingshurst wanted to know what it was really like to live in New York. Somewhere between the bowling green and the Gala Dinner, strangers quietly became friends.
Even the journey home had one final story to contribute.
Roger, understandably protective of his beloved woods, decided they would travel home in his hand luggage. As airport security opened the case for inspection, one of the officers cheerfully announced to the rest of the group that Roger was "having his balls checked."
He meant bowls.
Probably.
By that stage, after three unforgettable days together, nobody was especially interested in clarifying the distinction.
The Friendship Trophy was a wonderful idea.
The friendship itself turned out to be even better.
We travelled to New York expecting to play bowls.
We came home with something far more valuable.
A second club.
And a few dozen new friends.