Bowling for Chumps
My friend dropped me an email late on Friday afternoon asking if I’d like to go bowling with her that night.
I’m not a fan of bowling – unless you count trick bowling (oh yes, it is real) on ESPN2 (we call it the Ocho at our house). I do, however, enjoy the cheap beer and fried food found at find bowling alleys around America.
And I’m starting to have a fondness for Candlepin bowling, which, as far as I know, is unique to New England - like frappes, triple-deckers and pro-choice Republicans.
We rolled into the bowling alley sometime around 9:45 to meet up with the rest of the group. They’d been there since 7:30 waiting for a lane. It was faster to wait for the regular 10 pin lanes. Oh yes – 2+ hours for the privilege of wearing rented shoes is why I don’t bowl more often.
We chatted, waited, and I ordered a drink. It cost $6.25. It came in a plastic cup with too much ice. Bowling was really starting to lose its luster for me.
We waited some more and eventually got a lane at around 10:40. I sat in a lane next too some enthusiastic high school students. I remembered what my Friday nights in high school were like. I wasn’t especially cool or hip (or popular) but I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a bowling alley.
We bowled. I was the worst bowler of the night with an astounding 43. I can say that my arm was pretty sore before bowling thanks to a particularly rousing training session on Thursday, which involved a tremendous amount of boxing. I was really working through some frustrations on the heavy bag and my trainer.
I think having a sore arm probably made me a better bowler. Another reason I don’t frequent bowling alleys. I like to keep my humiliations private and less sports-oriented.
As a bowler, I can’t offer you much. Except a lot of clapping and good moral support. And thanks to being the daughter of a jock, I know when to use the appropriate sports aphorisms.
Gutter ball – just shake it off. That’s what the spare is for. I may have been off when I suggested that someone had good hustle when they got a strike. But I did know enough not to pat them on the ass afterwards.
My friend dropped me an email late on Friday afternoon asking if I’d like to go bowling with her that night.
I’m not a fan of bowling – unless you count trick bowling (oh yes, it is real) on ESPN2 (we call it the Ocho at our house). I do, however, enjoy the cheap beer and fried food found at find bowling alleys around America.
And I’m starting to have a fondness for Candlepin bowling, which, as far as I know, is unique to New England - like frappes, triple-deckers and pro-choice Republicans.
We rolled into the bowling alley sometime around 9:45 to meet up with the rest of the group. They’d been there since 7:30 waiting for a lane. It was faster to wait for the regular 10 pin lanes. Oh yes – 2+ hours for the privilege of wearing rented shoes is why I don’t bowl more often.
We chatted, waited, and I ordered a drink. It cost $6.25. It came in a plastic cup with too much ice. Bowling was really starting to lose its luster for me.
We waited some more and eventually got a lane at around 10:40. I sat in a lane next too some enthusiastic high school students. I remembered what my Friday nights in high school were like. I wasn’t especially cool or hip (or popular) but I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a bowling alley.
We bowled. I was the worst bowler of the night with an astounding 43. I can say that my arm was pretty sore before bowling thanks to a particularly rousing training session on Thursday, which involved a tremendous amount of boxing. I was really working through some frustrations on the heavy bag and my trainer.
I think having a sore arm probably made me a better bowler. Another reason I don’t frequent bowling alleys. I like to keep my humiliations private and less sports-oriented.
As a bowler, I can’t offer you much. Except a lot of clapping and good moral support. And thanks to being the daughter of a jock, I know when to use the appropriate sports aphorisms.
Gutter ball – just shake it off. That’s what the spare is for. I may have been off when I suggested that someone had good hustle when they got a strike. But I did know enough not to pat them on the ass afterwards.
Labels: 2006
1 Comments:
My family, so NOT the bowling types, have gotten "into" bowling. We stand out so bad at the local bowling places that all the regulars just stare at us. What? Are we that freaking WASPy looking? Anyway, my arm always hurts after I bowl... and my pinky finger, too. And I only use an 8 lb ball. What a wuss I am!!! ;-)
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