The Game

Tuesday night was league bowling night for my dad and I decided to sub in again. (Fifteen bucks for some pizza, a pitcher of coke, and three games of bowling, not too bad.)

 

Lately, I’ve been in a slump. A couple weeks ago I bowled a 177, but lately it’s been 126 city (the bowling shoes are the only things stinking up the alley.) last night my high game was a 153, not much to talk about, but then again, this story isn’t about me.

 

Two lanes over my dad was bowling with his team, they were bowling a little less than their average, but still not doing too bad. But this night was a bit of preliminary to the league finals.

 

My dad’s team had carved out nice little spot for themselves in first place. Now, I say “little spot” because while they were in first, they were only there by half a point. There was another team hot on their heels. Well last night my dad’s team took on the second place team.

 

It was a “old school vs. new school” rivalry. The bowlers on my dad’s team were all “classic bowlers.” They all threw with a hook, but bowled much like you see average bowlers bowl. (you know, swinging it down past their knees like Granny’s boobs.) but the other guys do the hook throw that looks like a retard hurling a discus. (While it might look retarded these guys were closing in on 300 scores).

 

My dad’s team was doing it’s best, but it was just an off night. A pin here, a pin there, and the score would slowly slip away. Every League nigh there are three games bowled. They lost the first one by a couple pins, but one the second one by a couple (naturally that’s with the handicap in place.)

 

It came down to the last game.

 

No, it came down to the last Frame.

 

Oh no, no just the last frame, but the last bowlers. My Dad Vs The Kid (I forgot his name.) with the handicaps for both bowlers calculated in the scores were neck and neck. The kid had to “Turkey” to win (a turkey is three strikes in a row), and while sweating bullets, he pulled it off. Three strikes in a row. As the last few pins crashed all eyes turned to my dad. It was the whole “two outs, bases loaded, bottom of the ninth” cliché.

 

My dad approached the line; the first throw was a strike. A huge sigh came from every one watching. His second throw missed the mark and left three pins diagonally standing.

 

Just three pins. To tie the other team he needed to pick up two pins, to win, he needed that spare.

 

The pressure in these moments is killer, far worse than you can imagine, there in front of you are three pins clustered together in a diagonal. For those unfamiliar with the game this is one of the easier spares to pick up. The reason is that if you hit that front pin at nearly any point you will cause a ricochet into the other pins (if not with the pins, the ball will defiantly make contact.) an audience had formed around their table, other bowlers stopped to watch this throw. Everything came down to it and my dad’s eyes were focused like a laser.

 

Everyone held their breath as he threw…

 

the ball sailed down the lane, spinning in the oil, spinning faster, faster… too fast. The ball hooked a fraction of a second too late, was off the mark by a single board, it was all it took.

 

The ball slid behind the first pin and took out the last two. The whimsical cartoon bowling pins holding up an “open” sign couldn’t lighten the mood on this one. If the waves of frustration that radiated from this man had been focused at that remaining pin I’m sure it would have taken wing, flown down the alley, and reduced that pin to ash…

 

My dad shook hands with the other team, and they had to admit that to win they had to bowl their absolute best. I reminded my dad that making someone have to fight that hard to win is it’s own victory, but I could tell he upset.

 

It took me a moment to realize that he wasn’t upset that his team lost (he’s not petty like that), but rather this was his first dose of humility.

 

As far back as I can remember my dad has always been the best at everything. Now, I know you’re thinking that this is the whole “my daddy is the bestest ever” thing, but historical evidence backs this statement up. When he was in high school he was the star of his swim team. he married young, had a family, and a career while everyone else he knew was drinking themselves to death. He was the head of his softball team. When I was in high school I remember him bring home trophies from his bowling league like they were airline peanuts (back when airlines gave out peanuts… damn I’m old.) he ritualistically kicked out asses at miniature gold, at batting cages, and any other sport like thing we did as a family. if you needed it he could build it, if it broke he could fix it (and if he couldn’t it’s because I broke it. Hehehe). The only thing he couldn’t do, is lose.

 

The game he bowled was good, damn good, but not as good as he used to do… before the brain surgery he was caring a 186 as his low average. In his prime he could have trounced that other team.

 

His drive to always win and always be the best is what made cancer his bitch, and even though he has made such a tremendous recovery, it’s times like this that send his pride into remission.

 

 

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