The Pro Shop

I'm not sure what I expected a few weeks ago when I walked into the pro shop on a mission to purchase a bowling ball of my own. I did not enter the chore blindly; as a citizen of the 21st century, I YouTubed it first. There, I found a video of a kindly avuncular gentleman in a bowling shirt and cardigan guiding a young woman as she chose her first bowling ball. 

He asked her all sorts of questions about her game and experience before revealing that he had seen her bowl a few times. Then he offered her some suggestions, "Don't go too light," he had advised her, "that's a rookie mistake." In the end, she chose a flashy little 14-pounder, and they cut to her rolling it down the lane for a strike.

The next day, I pushed my way through the plate-glass door into the pro shop and stood uncertainly in the middle of the deserted showroom. As I scanned the three rows of bowling balls lining the wall to my right and the shoes displayed in the rear, an owlish man in a craftsman's apron hurried out from the back. "I'm the only one here!" he informed me, "I'll be with you in a minute." Then he disappeared.

I was looking more closely at the balls when he returned, wiping his hands on a bright orange cloth. "What do you need?" he asked.

"I'm here to buy a bowling ball," I said and paused, waiting for the guidance. 

Perhaps I expected him to say something like, "The ball chooses the bowler," or "Every ball here at Carmen-Don has a core of a powerful magical substance," but instead he gestured impatiently at the shelves and said, "Which one do you want?"

"To be honest," I confessed, "I have no idea. I'm a beginner. But I'm in a league, and they recommended I get my own ball."

He sighed impatiently. "What weight do you usually use at the bowling center?"

"Ten or eleven," I answered.

"I'd recommend at least a 12 then," he said. "Does it go straight or curve when you throw it?"

"I have a bit of a natural curve, I think," I told him.

"Pick one from the bottom row," he waved. "You should just choose one you like the looks of, you don't need anything specific," he shrugged. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

I scanned the half dozen balls he had indicated. Most were garish swirls of neon colors, and I recognized the siblings of some of my fellow bowlers' balls. But there was one at the end that spoke to me. It was classic black with a single orange dot and a matching hammer. "I'll take this one," I told him when he returned.

He nodded thoughtfully. "That ball does have a little action in the core," he said. "It's not much at 12 pounds, but it will be something to work with." There was a grudging note of respect in his voice. "Let's measure your hand."

He led me over to the glass counter and pulled out a set of cylinders. "Hold out your hand," he directed. I splayed my fingers wide, and he took my wrist. "Interesting," he commented. "Have you ever broken your fingers?"

"No," I shook my head.

"They're crooked," he noted. "Bend your knuckles." I did. "Interesting," he said again. "Would you ever consider a finger tip grip? Your middle fingers bend at the first knuckle."

I laughed and shrugged. "Maybe for my next ball. For now? Let's go traditional."

He measured the distance between my fingers and thumb and then slid them into some of the cylinders and wrote the measurements on a small pad of paper. And it all did seem a little magical, especially when he withdrew into the back again, calling over his shoulder that he would be back shortly.

A few minutes later, he reappeared in a cloud of urethane and oil scent, bearing a simple black bowling ball. He draped my hand over its crown and fit my fingers and thumb gently into the still-warm holds. "How does it feel?" he asked, turning my hand palm up and releasing the weight to me.

I bent my wrist, feeling the heft of the ball. My thumb slid neatly in and out. "Nice," I nodded, as he stepped across the room.

"Roll it to me," he instructed.

I took a step and bent, releasing the ball in one smooth gesture. It rolled directly to him, and he clapped once. "Bravo!" Then he scooped up the ball, replaced it in its box, and stepped to the register.

It seemed my ball had found me.