Bowling

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. . . . .

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