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The Perfect Game by G. K. Chesterton. We have all met the

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man who says that some odd things
have happened to him, but that he

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does not really believe that they were
supernatural. My own position is the opposite

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of this. I believe in the
supernatural as a matter of intellect and reason,

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not as a matter of personal experience. I do not see ghosts.

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I only see their inherent probability.
But it is entirely a matter of the

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mere intelligence, not even of the
motions. My nerves and body are altogether

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of this earth, very earthy.
But upon people of this temperament, one

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weird incident will often leave a peculiar
impression. And the weirdest circumstance that ever

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occurred to me occurred a little while
ago. It consisted in nothing less than

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my playing a game, and playing
it quite well for some seventeen consecutive minutes.

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The ghost of my grandfather would have
astonished me less. On one of

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these blue and burning afternoons, I
found myself, to my inexpressible astonishment,

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playing a game called croquet. I
had imagined that it belonged to the epoch

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of Leech and Anthony Trollope, and
I had neglected to provide myself with those

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very long and luxuriant side whiskers,
which are really essential to such a scene.

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I played it with a man whom
we will call Parkinson, and with

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whom I had a semi philosophical argument
which lasted through the entire contest. It

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is deeply implanted in my mind that
I had the best of the argument.

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But it is certain and beyond dispute
that I had the worst of the game.

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Oh Parkinson, Parkinson, I cried, patting him affectionately on the head

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with a mallet. How far you
really are from the pure love of the

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sport? You who can play,
It is only we who play badly who

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love the game itself. You love
glory, You love applause, You love

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the earthquake voice of victory. You
do not love croquet. You do not

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love croquet until you love being beaten
at croquet. It is we, the

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Bunglers, who adore the occupation in
the abstract. It is we to whom

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it is art for art's sake.
If we may see the face of Croquet

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herself, if I may so express
myself, we are content to see her

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face turned upon us in anger.
Our play is called amateurish, and we

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were proudly. The name of amateur
for amateurs is but the French for lovers.

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We accept all adventures from our lady. The most disastrous or the most

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dreary, we wait outside her iron
gates. I allude to the hoops,

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vainly essaying to enter. Our devoted
balls, impetuous and full of chivalry,

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will not be confined within the pedantic
boundaries of the mere croquet ground. Our

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balls seek honor in the ends of
the earth. They turn up in the

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flower beds and the conservatory. They
are to be found in the front garden

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and the next street. No Parkinson, the good painter has skill. It

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is the bad painter who loves his
art. The good musician loves being a

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musician. The bad musician loves music
with such a pure and hope as passion.

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Do I worship croquet. I love
the game itself. I love the

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parallela gram of grass marked out with
chalk or tape, as if its limits

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were the frontiers of my sacred fatherland, the four seas of Britain. I

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love the mere swing of the mallets, and the click of the balls is

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music. The four colors are to
me sacramental and symbolic, like the red

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of martyrdom or the white of Easter
Day. You lose all this, my

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poor Parkinson. You have to solace
yourself for the absence of this vision by

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the paltry consolation of being able to
go through hoops and to hit the stick.

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And I wave my mullet in the
air with a graceful gaiety. Don't

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be too sorry for me, said
Parkinson, with his simple sarcasm. I

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shall get over it in time.
But it seems to me that the more

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a man likes a game, the
better he would want to play it.

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Granted that the pleasure in the thing
itself comes first, does not the pleasure

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of success come naturally and inevitably afterwards? Or take your own simile of the

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Knight and tis lady love. I
admit the gentleman does first and foremost want

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to be in the lady's presence.
But I never yet heard of a gentleman

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who wanted to look an utter ass
when he was there. Perhaps not,

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though he generally looks it, I
replied, But the truth is that there

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is a fallacy in assimile. Although
it was my own, the happiness at

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which the lover is aiming is an
infinite happiness which can be extended without limit.

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The more he is loved, normally
speaking, the jollier he will be.

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It is definitely true that the stronger
the lover of both lovers, the

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stronger will be the happiness. But
it is not true that the stronger the

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play of both croquet players, the
stronger will be the game. It is

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logically possible. Follow me closely here, Parkinson. It is logically possible to

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play croquet too well to enjoy it
at all. If you could put this

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blue ball through that distant hoop as
easily as you could pick it up with

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your hand, then you would not
put it through that hoop any more than

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you pick it up with your hand. It would not be worth doing.

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If you could play unerringly, you
would not play at all. The moment

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the game is perfect, the game
disappears. I do not think, however,

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said Parkinson, that you are in
any immediate danger of affecting that sort

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of destruction. I do not think
your crow cat will vanish to its own

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faultless excellence. You are safe for
the present. I again caressed him,

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with the mallet knocked to ball about
wired myself and resume the thread of my

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discourse. The long, warm evening
had been gradually closing in, and by

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this time it was almost twilight.
By the time I had delivered four more

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fundamental principles, and my companion had
gone through five more hoops, the dusk

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was verging upon dark. We shall
have to give this up, said Parkinson,

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as he missed the ball, almost
for the first time. I can't

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see a thing, nor can I, I answered, And it is a

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comfort to reflect that I could not
hit anything if I saw it. With

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that, I struck a ball smartly
and sent it away into the darkness,

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towards where the shadowy figure of Parkinson
moved in the hot haze. Parkinson immediately

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uttered a loud and dramatic cry.
The situation indeed called for it. I

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had hit the right ball. Stunned
with astonishment, I crossed the gloomy ground

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and hit my ball again. It
went through a hoop. I could not

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see, though, but it was
the right hoop. I shuddered from head

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to foot. Words were wholly inadequate, so I slouched heavily after that impossible

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ball again. I hit it away
into the night in what I supposed was

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the vague direction of the quite invisible
stick, and in the dead silence,

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I heard the stick rattle as the
ball struck it heavily. I threw down

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my mallet. I can't stand this, I said. My ball has gone

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right three times. These things are
not of this world. Pick your mallet

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up, said Parkinson. I'm another
girl. I'd tell you I dan't if

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I made another hoop like that.
I should see all the devils dancing there

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on the blessed grass. Why devils, asked Parkinson. They may be only

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fairies making fun of you. They
are sending you the perfect game, which

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is no game. I looked about
me. The garden was full of a

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burning darkness, in which the faint
glimmers had the look of fire. I

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stepped across the grass as if it
burnt me, picked up the mallet and

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hit the ball somewhere somewhere where another
ball might be. I heard the dull

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click of the ball was touching,
and ran into the house like one pursued.

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End of the Perfect Game by G. K. Chesterton