My father used to go bowling when I was a kid. He would sometimes take me along. He’d want me to watch (“zzzzzzz”) but I’d go play the pinball machines over by the exit. Ready to make a fast getaway. My dad’s team members all wore the same color short-sleeved shirt (gray) with their names stitched on. “Pete” “Dave” “Carl” “Al” and so on. But the stitching was in pink which I never understood. I still have my father’s bowling shirt in the closet. Or attic. Somewhere. I remember trying to bowl a few times. As I recall, my best game ever was a 141.
Does anyone “bowl” anymore? And if so, for what purpose? You have this big heavy ball. And you throw it — trying to knock “pins” down. You spend time in the alley. And then you’re in the gutter. You do well and you get a “strike.” Just like what unions do — which is always bad. Do okay and you get a “spare.” Like a spare tire. And if you do poorly, and don’t knock the pins down, people avoid looking at you (like this dude is really bad. . . . .).
I have never understood bowling or why the fuss. I haven’t bowled in years. I may never again. The last time was some neighborhood thingee 30 years ago (“Let’s all go bowling“). Donna said “oh please” so I smiled, drove to the bowling alley, rented the shoes (have you ever smelled the shoes they rent at bowling alleys?) and I didn’t bowl. I drank some Dos Equis beer and looked at the pinball machines. But I had the shoes on. And a Hawaiian shirt. I guess I looked like a bowler. But my feet haven’t been the same since. I just can’t understand. Rolling a big, heavy black ball around. Trying to hit some far off target. Makes no sense whatsoever. I’m going golfing. . . . .