Bowling with Professionals

When I found out that he was a professional bowler, I was determined to not talk to him about bowling.

I respect professionalism in all things. Like most guys, I’m especially in admiration of sports professional.

I’m no jock sniffer, you understand.

From playing college sports I know the dedication and work it takes to excel on the collegiate level. How must it be for a pro?

That’s why when my wife casually mentioned that her cousin Joe who was to be visiting our family on the weekend was a professional bowler, my ears perked up.

I used to take the kids bowling 2 or 3 times a month. They were just strong enough to pick up and roll the balls (no fan was I of the dragon roller). I was a 130 average weekend warhorse.

“I thought he works for Sikorsky (helicopter in Bridgeport, Connecticut),” I said.

“He supplements his income with bowling in tournaments,” she said.

“Don’t bring it up while he’s here,” she said.

“I won’t,” I said.

“He’s modest,” she added.

Joe’s visit:

What does a professional bowler look like? Heavily muscled 270 pound line backer? Suave, blond haired, nattily dressed country clubber?

When Joe walked through the front door that Saturday, I was surprised at how normal he looked.

“Hey, Joe; I hear you’re a professional bowler!” I greeted Joe as he walked through the door.

Damn, I couldn’t help myself.

My wife shot me a withering glance.

No answer from the professional bowler himself.

We had a pleasant day showing Joe the sights of Philadelphia, on his first visit.

Joe seemed to enjoy himself becoming more conversationally comfortable as we toured Independence Hall, Constitution Hall, and had a brief look at the Liberty Bell.

When we returned home that evening after dinner, Joe, my two boys and I sat down to watch some serious TV. I was surfing for sports, really any sports, (the excuse males have for sitting on a couch and actually conversing about other things).

I stumbled on the professional bowling tour.

“Really dear, it was the only thing on!” 2nd withering glance of the day courtesy of wife passing on by the couch of guys.

I thought I saw Joe’s eyes light up.

Is this Ok, Joe?

Yeah, I’m good.

Joe, I often take the kids bowling on Sunday. You want to come and watch?

Ok, just watch.

Sunday afternoon, before Joe was to leave for the drive home to Connecticut, the kids and I found ourselves at Devon Lanes renting shoes and signing up for 3 games. In attendance and observing was a professional bowler.

In the first 2 games we bowled our normal 50 to 80 for the kids, ascending score in proportion to age. I came in with a score of 110 (nerves?).

Before our last game:

Wanna join us for the 3rd Joe?

Yeah.

A Triton entered a pool with minnows:

Joe tried on at least 6 pairs of the alley’s rented shoes before he found an acceptable pair. It was somewhat embarrassing, the kids and I went to Devon Lanes all the time. Same guy behind the rental desk.

The balls were even more problematic. Out of the 200 or so balls that were available for guys like me (and, quite likely, you) Joe found none to his liking. He kept pointing out little (microscopic) nicks in the balls on the alley racks .

He finally settled on a ball that was less flawed than the others and rubbed it down with practiced style.

It seemed to be the biggest blackest ball there amongst the smaller blue and red tinted ones. The finger holes on the heavy ball were huge. It was Devon Lane’s most intimidating — I’m sure.

Joe’s game:

I’ll never forget the velocity with which Joe was able to roll that big old black alley ball. It was as if it were shot out of a cannon.

When his ball powered in the pocket, between the 1-pin and the 3-pin, all 10 pins exploded. Ball transferring momentum to the pins in such an impressive fashion that bowlers on adjacent lanes stopped drinking beer to marvel at the power (and the glory) of Joe’s initial roll . They seemed to intuit something special was taking place in the Devon Lanes that Sunday afternoon.

The kids and I ended that 3rd game with our normal score.

Joe’s tally was 260.

I saw Joe to his car just before he left for his drive home to Connecticut. He put his window down and said, “ Sorry Brian, I couldn’t get it on with that ball and shoes. Next time I’ll bring my own. Hope the kids aren’t disappointed.”

This story was previously published in Writers Blokke 11/4/21