Weekly Bowling Report

 

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.

Built-in Learning Curve

Tuesday is my bowling day, and I look forward to it with a mixture of pleasure and dread. Each week, the balance tips in favor of enjoyment, though, especially as I get to know my teammates and the other ladies. The stakes are both high and low; having a handicap evens the competition, but no matter their skill level, those bowlers play to win. As such, I don't want to let my team down, even as we cheer for the other team's successes. 

I bought my own bowling ball a few weeks ago. The guy at the pro shop asked me a few questions about my bowling style, and I readily admitted I was a novice. "You're in a league, though?" he clarified, and when I said I was he asked me even more questions about the lanes, the center, the other bowlers in my league, and the balls I had been using until then. He advised me to go with a ball that had a little spin action, especially since at the weight I was purchasing, 12 pounds, it would only make a minor difference. Then he measured my hand, placed my fingers in some cylinders, and went and drilled the ball for a custom fit.

I was eager to try it out, but I wanted to practice with it first, so Heidi and I went bowling over the weekend. I found that when I threw it, the curve was quite pronounced, and over the three games we bowled, I wasn't able to figure it out. I was frustrated and worried that I had chosen the wrong ball. Consequently, I've continued to bowl with the center's ball each Tuesday, trying to work on my own basics before introducing a new variable.

Today was the day I actually brought my new ball to the league. After a moment's hesitation, I put it on the rack along with my usual loaner and prepared to warm up. Everyone else was off looking at one of the bowler's new baby (a cute little month-old guy with white noise-canceling headphones on, because his mom couldn't wait to get back to bowling), when I stepped up to throw a few practice frames. 

My first ball was a strike, and I never picked up the borrowed ball again. I bowled 12 pins above my average for the day, too. I guess that pro shop guy knew what he was talking about!

Status Check

One of the women in my bowling league was the teacher who had the room next to me my first year.  Linda taught self-contained special ed, but moved to ESL the next year, and on to Spanish a few years after that, but we both stayed at the same school for the next thirty years. She called me "rookie" for at least the first ten; it wasn't until I was team leader and instructional lead teacher for the whole school that she finally said, "I guess you're one of the veterans now!" 

Because we taught on opposite ends of the building, we could go for weeks without seeing each other, especially if the monthly staff meeting was canceled. Even so, we remained, if not friends, a little closer than just colleagues: I attended her first wedding; I commiserated over her divorce, congratulated her on her second marriage, and cheered when she earned her doctorate. 

I was as surprised as everyone, though, when she pulled an Irish goodbye of a retirement by submitting her paperwork over the summer a few years ago. She was just gone when the rest of us showed up in August. 

I was looking forward to seeing her again when I heard she was one of the Ladies Executive League bowlers. The way the draw is set up the league has ten lanes and every week my team competes against one other team of three, so while I've seen Linda, it wasn't until this week I got to bowl with her. And it just so happened that the other two bowlers on her team were out-- one had pre-bowled and the other took a vacancy score-- so we had a lot of time to catch up.

She is the same as ever, a funny mix of kooky and very serious. She laughs readily, but is very focused and competitive. She is also supportive and a good coach, cheering for and giving pointers even to a competitor like me. 

"It's been really fun bowling with you today!" I told her at the end of the match. "Thanks for all the help."

She gave me a quick little hug. "You did well!" she said. "Especially for a rookie!"

Bottom of the Standings

I was optimistic that my new bowling shoes would improve my game this week. And? During warm-up, they seemed to. I bowled three strikes in my five practice frames. Unfortunately, I only bowled three more the rest of the morning, and with mostly open frames, my average actually fell. All around me, women ten years (or more) my senior were killing it, especially compared to me. 

My teammates were patient, but our third-place ranking from last week is gone, and I know I'm substantially responsible. "I look at it like this," our team captain told me philosophically, "you have some good days and some," she shrugged, pointedly, "better days. It's just a game." 

And afterward, a friend told me that when she first joined the league a few years ago, her husband asked her how she did. "Not too bad," she told him. "I got fifty-something."

"Aren't you bowling ten frames?" he replied incredulously.

She laughed when she told me the story and added, "We have a lot more bowling this season! Have fun and don't worry."

Even so, I went right out to the pro shop and got myself a ball. And you better believe I'm going to practice this week!

The Big League Part 3

I was a Road Runner, and my teammates were Maria and Renee. We were bowling against the Pin Pushers, but they were down a player, so it was just the five of us on two lanes. Today's match of three games would also be used to establish our handicaps, a concept I had heard of but had no understanding of the logistics behind. In our league, your handicap is determined by subtracting your scratch (or raw score) from 180 and then multiplying the result by 90%. Using handicaps levels the field for team competition, allowing bowlers of all skill and experience to participate without penalizing their teams.

My first frame was passable; I got a nine. I stepped up for my next turn and rolled the ball right into the pocket for a strike. Before I could celebrate, though, my teammates broke the news that in league play, you alternate lanes so my strike didn't count. "You can just do it again on the other side," they encouraged me, but that did not happen. Although I had a few good frames out of the next 28 I bowled, with my fresh new handicap of 75, I have lots of room for improvement.

One of my teammates, a former PE teacher, offered some helpful coaching. She and her husband, a former professional football player, bowled all summer and took some clinics and lessons, and she shared some of the tips they found helpful. Our team captain is somewhat reserved, but she was welcoming and supportive. The age span of the league is 39 to 80, and I was told that some of the women just walk up to the line and drop their balls for strikes. I can attest to that story-- I saw it happen several times just a few lanes away.

As I approached the desk to return my borrowed shoes, the manager of the bowling center crooked her finger at me. "I know this was your first week, but you need to get your own shoes after this." 

I nodded.

"You're going to need a ball, too," she added, giving me the name and address of the local pro shop.

I thanked her and headed back to my group to say my good-byes. "We'll have the league fees published by next week," Mimi told me. "Bring your checkbook! We don't take Venmo," she laughed.

This is going to be a pricey little hobby, I thought to myself. Thank goodness it was fun!

The Big League Part 2

I confess that I was nervous when I pulled into the parking lot at the bowling alley. Our former principal, Sharon, had been very specific about arrival time. "See you between 9:20 and 9:29," her welcome email to the league had read. The preseason meeting would start at 9:30 sharp, and bowling would commence at 10.

I had read the detailed message carefully and reviewed the bylaws again right before heading down there. Now, at 9:10, I sat in my car and watched the arrival of other bowlers. They all seemed to be seniors with rolling equipment bags, which made sense considering the weight of bowling balls. I didn't recognize anyone, but there were other leagues there, and I didn't know everyone in our league, either. I took a deep breath and headed in.

The bowling center was packed, but in the far left-hand corner, I saw that the chrome and red pleather chairs had been pulled from their formica-topped tables and arranged into makeshift rows. Several women were milling about, and as I approached, Sharon waved to me from the front. I found a seat and introduced myself to the lady sitting next to me, who, it turned out, was also new. The next few minutes passed in a blur of shoe rental and bowling ball hunting. I noticed my initials on the monitor at the end of a lane and put an 8- and a 10-pound ball on the return.

Back at the meeting place, I looked around to see who I knew and waved to a couple of folks. The staff at the center was making loud announcements about lanes, rules, and outside food and drink as our meeting was called to order with a prayer. Lord bless all your children who traveled here today. Give them and their families good health. Let us have fun and fellowship today: make our balls roll straight and our pins fall down. Amen!

"Amen!" we replied, and the season had begun.

In the Big League

At my former school, there is a legend among women of a certain age, specifically those nearing retirement, of a local bowling group where many of our already retired colleagues gather every week. Over the years, we've heard rumors that our former principal, assistant principal, director of guidance, and several teachers and other staff members participate in this mythic activity. It is such a familiar tale that whenever anyone retires, they can be sure they'll receive the tongue-in-cheek suggestion that they "can always bowl with Sharon."

The specific details of this weekly bowling outing are vague, however. For example, I heard it was on Thursdays in Falls Church, which isn't really very actionable intelligence. But this summer, when a former colleague passed away, I found myself on the phone with Mimi, our retired assistant principal. It had been a while since we had spoken. 

"So how do you like retirement?" she asked.

"I'm still getting used to it," I replied non-commitally.

"You do have to find things to do," she agreed sympathetically.

"Like bowling?" I joked.

"Well, yes," she answered, seriously. "Would you be interested in that?"

"Sure," I laughed. "It's legendary!"

"I'll talk to Sharon," she said. "It would be fun to have you!"

A few days later, I received a message from Sharon explaining that they had no openings this year, but substitute slots were available. If I was interested, she asked that I let her know. As I was mulling the offer, the phone rang. "I spoke too soon," Sharon told me. "We do have an opening!"

I was definitely interested, but I needed to know the details before making a commitment. I was stunned as Sharon explained that they were a formal league sanctioned by the United States Bowling Congress. Their league, The Ladies Executive Bowling League, consists of thirty women who bowl every Tuesday (not in Falls Church) for 32 weeks of the year. They have dues, officers (with stipends), and cash prizes at the end of the season.

"I had no idea it was so formal!" I told her, thinking of the picture in my mind of a half-dozen or so old friends lounging on the plastic chairs at the end of a couple of lanes at the bowling center, drinking coffee and rolling a few games. "You guys are the real deal!"

"Are you still interested?" she asked.

"You bet!" I told her.

"Then you're in!"