Bowling Blues

The winter"blahs" were infesting the household, so I carted my 12-year old daughter and her best friend to our local bowling alley.

Mind you, I have not been a bowling enthusiast since my early childhood days in the 70's when bowling teams and leagues were the rage: Fruit salad colored bowling shirts, embroidered apparel that outshined a military regalia, leather bowling wrist-straps that could put a dominatrix to shame! I remembered the distinctive smoke odor and rank of spilled beer on the industrial carpets topped with a side of greasy fries on top of the coveted scoring desk with the overhead lamp. Who could ever forget the sacred beer frame where one could push the service button to summon the blue haired-beehived waitress swilling Pabst Blue Ribbon or Schlitz.

Hence 2011, the alley no longer smells of Tuesday Night Leagues wafting clouds of smoke nor of sweaty, musty odor of the harlequin-style rental shoes. Since smoking in public places have been banned, I am glad my kids health will not be compromised. However, my sensory lament on the days of lively crowds drowned by the distinctive noise of running cannon balls and toppling pins. Today the alley has an anemic crowd scattered among a few lit lanes which are more pronounced among the many dim alleys.

As we slipped on our leathers and selected our apples, we stake our play on lane five with the bumpers, insisted by the girls to avoid further embarrassment. I told them it was like shooting fish in a barrel or playing darts at point-blank range. After fiddling around the electronic scoreboard to set-up, we were ready for ten frames of debilitating bowl. Rule one: In bumper bowling, there is no such thing as a bad throw. Rule Two: The more bumps, the better engaged the bowler is to the game. Rule Three: If you out to win, refer to the first two rules.

I forgot to add the complexity of the social dynamics in bumper bowling. A shimmering disco-ball, stolen from Studio 54, blaring rap music, coupled with a bunch of pre-pubescent boys next to us spell hilarity. As my girls were trying to focus on the game, they were entertained by those boys "freestyle" bowling (release between the legs, behind, the Fred Flinstone twinkle-toe throw and of course the snail roll) It kind of reminded me of one of those Planet Earth documentaries where an Amazonian bird doing a mating ritual dance with its bright colorful plumes.

The game ended with various scores from60 to 130 - typical scores for the very leisure family bowler. I insisted on using a blank sheet to have the girls try to score for themselves. Afterall, this was one method of learning math in my days. As I offered the pencil, they gave me a blank stare and pointed up to the score monitor, "Dad, why do I want to learn when the point of today is to have fun with you." Touche.

Hence