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!"

Smith Barney & Me

If you're retired, as I am, Labor Day may no longer hold quite the same significance for you. Although it was great to have Heidi home for a four-day weekend, and the weather has been unbeatable, I spent some time today applying for a couple of part-time jobs and then picked up a substitute gig for a friend of mine on Thursday. 

I like to celebrate my holidays the old-fashioned way: I earn them!

It Takes One to Know One

There was one person who spoke up at the funeral yesterday. "Should I say something?" Heidi whispered to me as we all sat in uncomfortable silence under the expectant gaze of the chaplain.

"Yes, please!" I answered.

She sighed and stood stoically, then strode up the aisle to the pulpit. What followed was an amazing off-the-cuff tribute to the women who had been the longtime secretary at our school when we both started. Heidi recounted all the help and guidance Penny had provided to her each time she switched positions at the school. "It was her job to know all the answers," Heidi concluded, "but she was so good at it. She was a fixer-- she could fix anything." 

Then she looked at the family in the front row and added, "I bet she was your fixer at home, too." They all nodded. "I know you'll miss that." Then she returned to her seat, and someone else got up now that the ice was broken.

"She really was a fixer," the next speaker said. 

It was a sentiment we heard repeated several times for the rest of the afternoon, along with many thanks to Heidi for her thoughtful words.

Considering the Alternative

"No one ever tells you how hard it is to get old," my 88-year-young aunt joked yesterday. "They call it the 'golden years' and the 'glory days.' Good grief!" she laughed.

"Really?" I pushed back. "I feel like I've heard that aging is not for the faint of heart. Didn't Grandma and Granddaddy complain at all?"

"All I remember is hearing them say that everyone they knew was dying and they had to go to funerals all the time," she replied. "They never mentioned not being able to bend over enough to put your own shoes on."

Our conversation took a different path from there, but I thought of it this morning as I scanned my wardrobe to choose an appropriate outfit for an end-of-summer memorial service for a former colleague. And then again as, somberly dressed, Heidi and I sat in the chapel of a local funeral home. 

The service was led by a chaplain who turned out to be the parent of a boy I taught in my first year, and who I knew had passed away a couple of years ago at the age of 41. She opened the service with welcoming remarks and the information that she had been a personal friend of Penny, the deceased. Then, after a granddaughter read the 23rd Psalm, the chaplain opened the floor, inviting any of us mourners to come to the pulpit and share an anecdote. 

Perhaps it was the holiday weekend, but the turnout was small; there were fewer than 50 of us gathered to pay our respects, mostly family, and the ten of us who knew her from school. The silence that followed the request to speak was notable and quickly grew uncomfortable. I sat in my pew two-thirds of the way back and racked my brain for something kind and comforting to share, but when nothing came to mind, I switched to berating myself for coming unprepared.

I realized then that, as my grandparents noted six decades ago, there might be many funerals in my future.  It would probably be prudent to spend some time in advance considering the person we'd be honoring and have at the ready some words and stories to share. 

Now that's something they never tell you about getting older.

The Wave

"There's a Jeep!" Heidi pointed out the minute we left the highway in Maine at the start of our vacation a few weeks ago. We had only been in the state for 30 minutes, but I was hungry and we had time to explore. "There's another one," she noted as we wound toward Kennebunkport. "Two more!" she reported a moment later. "They're everywhere!"

And it seemed like she was right. "Maybe Mainers keep Jeeps and vintage convertibles in their garages all year just to enjoy in the summer," I hypothesized, thinking how fun it would be to roll through the forests and along the coastal roads with the top down, enjoying the balsam and ocean breeze.

"But Jeeps would be good in the snow, too," Heidi replied. "Why did we ever get rid of my Jeep?" she asked wistfully.

We had our reasons at the time. But now? We have reasons to own another one, which is why we drove out to Maryland early this afternoon to pick up our new (used) Jeep.