Bowling

The scout troop went bowling today. There were four boys and two leaders, both moms. We split into two groups of three people. I scored the very lowest of everyone over two games, and my team trounced the other team anyway, which makes me laugh. Joshua and I both got good advice on how to bowl. The other mom is a much better bowler than either of us. She told Joshua about moving his fingers to give the ball a spin, and encouraged me to give it less speed. She said a lower throwing speed lends itself to better control of where the ball goes. My speed varied between 15 and 22 miles per hour, according to the lane monitor. Her speed averaged closer to 10 or 11 miles per hour. I tried letting the ball go slower, and it did help… a little… sometimes. I’m not a bad bowler; I’m just inexperienced. She’s probably bowled more in one year than I have in my entire life.

The only reason I know much of anything about bowling is a nine-week class in high school. For one quarter of a school year our gym teacher made arrangements to take us a mile to the nearest (and only) bowling establishment in Greybull, Wyoming. It was an interesting class. I got pretty good, I thought, at hitting both pins when they were split. The physics of it interested me. However, I didn’t bowl again until my husband and I went bowling, years later.

My husband had been a pinsetter, age 16, at the Turner’s club where his father was a member. In those days the pins had to be set back up by hand between rounds. My husband and a friend set pins regularly and earned good tips from the men bowling, especially good tips when the bowlers were drinking. The Turners was a club for men, with drinks and food. They did community service as well as hung out together playing games and talking. There was probably a women’s auxiliary, but my husband’s mother wasn’t noticeably involved in it by the time I knew her. We lived with my in-laws for six months and then lived in the same town for a couple years; my father-in-law would come home from managing a bar and grill to set on the couch sipping a beer and spitting tobacco into a disposable cup. Several times a week he’d walk around town to three or four bars/clubs/delis, meeting friends and talking, having a beer or snack. It was his me-time. He walked a couple miles each time, up the hill to the deli, down the hill to the Eagles club, and to the Turners. My three-year-old eldest son walked with him sometimes. Pappap was so proud of this little boy, his mini-me.

At night I’d come outside to see Pappap sitting in the dark with his beer and his tobacco cup, watching the stars and thinking. His wife had the TV remote most of the time so he didn’t decide what we watched. He didn’t seem to mind. If he had expressed a wish to watch something particular, they probably would have watched it; they both liked keeping up with the nightly news broadcast. The nightly star-watching felt restful. I sat with him once or twice. We were not close, more like watchfully co-existing and trying to grow alongside each other without rubbing raw. I can see now I was an interloper inside his home; I was not so aware then. He put up with me pretty calmly, considering.

Bowling was something I associated, then, with my husband’s family. For years the extended family got together at a bowling alley the night before the family reunion picnic. My children were introduced to bowling there. Everyone welcomed everyone else; the adults bought snacks for the children. The older men bowled with laughing competition, between sips of beer. The younger children used the rolling rack and raised the gutter bumpers. Some women bowled and others sat and talked the whole time. I bowled alongside my husband and children. We enjoyed the time together.

I have to not take the score seriously. I’m not going to win; I’m not going to bowl a 300, ever, in this life. It’s not succeeding in the game that matters; it’s connecting with other people. The scouts talked and laughed, kidded each other, cheered each other on and downplayed each other’s skills. One of the boys had a score high enough to beat two of their scores, himself; he was not proud but shook his head at not doing even better. He smiled and cheered the others on. I’m proud of them for enjoying their time together. That’s why we went.