“Bring white clothing. Everyone will wear white on Wednesday afternoon.”

I thought that was odd. This was to be a conference for chaplains to retired clergy, something my wife and I do for the local Episcopal diocese. What would we be doing at a chaplains’ meeting that would require white? We called the conference leaders to find out. “It’s going to be a surprise!” they said.

I couldn’t think of any white garments I owned apart from ecclesiastical vestments and my underwear. Would a surplice or a pair of briefs be acceptable? I finally found some white seersucker slacks and an old white dress shirt, which I stuck in my bag as Pam and I headed for the airport.

The chaplains’ meeting was at a conference center in Delray Beach, Florida. After lunch on Wednesday, the 40 or so of us---wearing mostly white---boarded a bus and headed for the National Croquet Center.

Who even knew there was such a place? And who knew that croquet players traditionally wear white? As a child, I’d enjoyed playing croquet in an uncle’s front yard (wearing whatever color I pleased), but that was 60 years ago and I hadn’t played the game since. I hadn’t even thought about it.

The National Croquet Center is located in West Palm Beach, about a 20-minute drive from the conference center. West Palm Beach isn’t a poverty pocket, so perhaps I should have expected the elegant clubhouse, the candle-lit dining room, the overstuffed leather chairs in the wood-paneled lounge, and the spacious verandas surrounding the clubhouse and furnished with cushy outdoor couches and plenty of ceiling fans (this was, after all, south Florida).

The verandas overlooked what appeared to be a putting green about the size of a football field, laid out with dozens of wickets. Six or eight croquet matches could take place there at the same time.

We were given a choice of spending the afternoon on one of the verandas under a fan, sipping our favorite beverage, or playing croquet in the hot sun. Why I chose to play croquet, I don’t know, but God was good to us because a pleasant breeze blew all afternoon.

A professional croquet coach (the Nick Saban of the croquet world?) explained the rules of the game to us. Actually, I think he explained a dumbed-down version of the game because my favorite part of croquet as a child, hitting another player’s ball so hard that it landed in the next county, wasn’t part of the game we played. But we did have a grand time.

I learned that croquet isn’t a game for simpletons. Even our dumbed-down version of it called for serious strategy. Croquet can resemble chess in planning your moves. You want not only to hit your ball so that it goes through the next wicket, but to position it so as to prevent the balls of opposing players from going through the next wicket. We played on teams of two, so we also had to think about the position of our partners’ balls. My partner and I learned to plan several shots ahead if we were to win.

And win we did. Our group formed eight two-man teams, which made for a tournament of three rounds. My partner and I won all three of our matches and were awarded a gold ribbon at the end of the day, probably saved from someone’s Christmas wrapping. I tied it to the bag containing my notes and materials for the conference.

In addition to a lawn, preferably a level one with short grass, to play croquet, you will need four mallets, four balls, two sticks driven into the ground, and 9 wickets. At the National Croquet Center, you can buy a lovely imported croquet set with all these items for $389.00. My credit card stayed in my wallet.

Or you can buy a croquet set at Dick’s Sporting Goods in Daphne for $49.99. It’s rather basic compared to the set at the National Croquet Center, but everything is there and I like the price. Now all I need is a big lawn and someone willing to mow it.

Richard H. Schmidt is a retired Episcopal priest, editor and author who lives in Fairhope. He can be reached at courier@gulfcoastnewspapers.com.