We called this morning to reserve a lane at the local bowling alley. "Uh," said the attendant, "we don't do that on weekends, but at 1:30? I don't think you'll have any problem."
When we were younger, my dad used to take us bowling. It was a fun hour or so where we all could haplessly throw heavy balls at pins, he could drink a pitcher of beer, and we could enjoy a basket of popcorn and a soda. I can still picture my dad's right foot, clad in olive and burgundy rental shoe, gracefully kicking back and to the left as he spun his bowling ball right into the 1-3 pocket for a strike.
Later on in college I took bowling as one of my PE requirements, and I have to say that I spent many cold snowy upstate NY afternoons in the toasty little 8-lane bowling alley tucked away behind the field house on campus. Back then, I always chose a yellow eleven pound ball, I would rotate my wrist from 2 o'clock to 10 on the last of my three steps to the line, and my best score was a 230. So, a hot summer day in Atlanta seemed like a perfect opportunity to take Richard and Annabelle on what is practically a traditional recreational experience in our family.
"What's your bumper policy?" I asked the attendant as we traded one of our shoes for two of theirs.
"Really little kids, only," she told me, and off we went intrepidly to test our skill against Lane 28. The guy on the phone had been correct: it was not very crowded, and we had no trouble gathering a rainbow collection of balls ranging from 8 to 12 pounds.
"I'm glad I'm not first," Richard remarked when he looked at the video screen that would be our scribe and mentor for the next 90 minutes, but he needn't have worried. We all weathered the bumps and blemishes in our skills to bowl two complete games, as well as enjoy hot dogs, chicken tenders, fried green tomatoes, nachos, and a couple of blue raspberry icees. And in the end? It turned out pretty even, and although 230 was never within range, we had a pretty good time.
When we were younger, my dad used to take us bowling. It was a fun hour or so where we all could haplessly throw heavy balls at pins, he could drink a pitcher of beer, and we could enjoy a basket of popcorn and a soda. I can still picture my dad's right foot, clad in olive and burgundy rental shoe, gracefully kicking back and to the left as he spun his bowling ball right into the 1-3 pocket for a strike.
Later on in college I took bowling as one of my PE requirements, and I have to say that I spent many cold snowy upstate NY afternoons in the toasty little 8-lane bowling alley tucked away behind the field house on campus. Back then, I always chose a yellow eleven pound ball, I would rotate my wrist from 2 o'clock to 10 on the last of my three steps to the line, and my best score was a 230. So, a hot summer day in Atlanta seemed like a perfect opportunity to take Richard and Annabelle on what is practically a traditional recreational experience in our family.
"What's your bumper policy?" I asked the attendant as we traded one of our shoes for two of theirs.
"Really little kids, only," she told me, and off we went intrepidly to test our skill against Lane 28. The guy on the phone had been correct: it was not very crowded, and we had no trouble gathering a rainbow collection of balls ranging from 8 to 12 pounds.
"I'm glad I'm not first," Richard remarked when he looked at the video screen that would be our scribe and mentor for the next 90 minutes, but he needn't have worried. We all weathered the bumps and blemishes in our skills to bowl two complete games, as well as enjoy hot dogs, chicken tenders, fried green tomatoes, nachos, and a couple of blue raspberry icees. And in the end? It turned out pretty even, and although 230 was never within range, we had a pretty good time.
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