If you are skeptical, let me extol on the wonders of the sport. Here's a hint: not even a little of the appeal has to do with the fact that I am a skilled player. In fact, I fucking SUCK at bowling. 84 for a two-game best, anyone? It's more my love of the ambiance, the sheer non-prissiness of the game, and the fact that, as a true descendant of the Hebrew Peoples, I am seriously cheap.
I don't know about your town, but mine has a little thing we like to call "Dollar Game Nights." Now, this is tricky--it doesn't mean that you can party all night for a buck. Nope--I learned this the hard way. Only on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays from 9-12, each game is a dollar. PER PERSON. (The pin jockey at the counter explained this to me at the end of the night, with a smug little piece of shit tucked under his mustache.) Factor in a dollar per pair of shoes,too, but who's counting, really? For my money, Two or three dollars doesn't get better than John Cougar Mellencamp on a pull-down projector screen, fat bald guys fist pumping, and the smell of nacho cheese mashed into carpeting. Make that $6 if you through a Coors Light into the mix.
After you get your snazzy shoes (which invariably fit like you're 4 years old and toddling around in Dad's work boots) you get to select a ball. Decisions, decisions: Hot pink swirled or midnight blue sparkles? Or how 'bout that one with just two finger holes that's labeled "Ron"?
No one ever said this was going to be Simple.
Once I select a ball, I hop on the lane and start playing--But not without scoping out my neighbors' skillz prior to making any moves. I glance over to the electronic scoreboard above lane 19 to check out the competition: "Tammi" and "J.R". Snickering, I sashay up to the lane and execute my first frame, resulting in a highly expert gutter ball. I frown and scurry back to my seat. Then, J.R. takes his turn next door. (He later explains that it's common lane courtesy to take your turn after the person next to you is finished, so no one is distracted. You sure do learn something every day!)
J.R. steps up to the lane in his Faded Glory jeans and white Marlboro t-shirt, licking his lips in concentration and smoothing his baseball cap. He pulls back his right arm, and in a fluid motion, pivots forward, releasing the ball down the lane and crossing his leg behind him. The ball flies straight down the polished runway, spinning into the pins and resulting in a "CRACK!" so rich and resonant that it could be a stock sound clip labeled; "bowling strike."
J.R. turns around, offers Tammi a modest grin, and takes a seat at the score table.
I sheepishly approach the ball return and bowl a frame that earns me one pin down for my efforts.
Meanwhile, Tommy is asking J.R. for bowling tips. "How do you get the ball to spin like that?" he asks in thinly masked awe. Seated in my nest of shame, I rock out to "The Boys are Back in Town" by Thin Lizzy in a pitifully controlled manner, bobbing my head and swaying a little bit. It's ridiculous. One really can't jam to 70's glam rock in any way other than reckless abandon.
To my left and right, guys like J.R. and Earl are racking up the points, each one doing the graceful bowling tango that results in a leg poised behind another after the ball is released. These guys are bowling 240, 285, and scowl at the lane when less than 10 pins fall. I have, thus far, bowled a 72. There's nothing like the sight of bowling league champions in the zone, excelling to eerily biographical "Blue Collar Man," by Styx. I am truly humbled.
Honestly, where else are you going to go on a Thursday that will allow you to stay out all night, drink some decent beers (they have Blue Moon!) hear some sweet tunes and enjoy yourself thoroughly for less than $10? Fucking Del Lanes, dude.
See you this Tuesday at 9.
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