Self Realization Through Bowling
May 20, 2001
Greg hauled his well-defined body and distressingly well-chiseled jawline into the front seat of the car. We were now at capacity seating.
‘This is my boyfriend, Greg,’ Nadia salivated from the driver’s seat. I attempted to greet Greg, but my voice was rather muffled behind a sheepskin seat cover. Nadia, petite as she was, obviously enjoyed the freedom of leg space which even a basketballer would be swimming in.
Greg nodded at us all politely, if not a little semi-suspiciously. He is a policeman, after all, I attempted to assure myself. And off we drove towards the bowling alley.
A few weeks ago, Adam’s boss had decided as a team building exercise for the company, he would organise a bowling night - employees and their partners welcome. Adam insisted I join them, as apparently Irene and Nadia - his workmates - were quite keen to meet me. I shuddered to think at the personal anecdotes Adam obviously had embelished. I’d met Adam, Irene and Nadia at their work - we were to pick up Greg on route to the bowling alley.
Greg seemed to be munching on something in the front seat, presumably something manly like a steak sandwich. The collective back seat held our curiosity back until Irene burst forth, unable to resist.
‘What are you eating up there, Greg?’ she politely intoned.
‘Mini chocolate patty cakes,’ he was quick to reply. Irene raised her eyebrows but realised it was unwise to continue her probing. After all, that’s what he did for a living.
Judging from the overt high frequency of his telephone calls to Adam’s mobile phone, his boss was rather eager for us to arrive and begin the bowling. Eager enough to be seen jumping up and down waving his hands at us like a madman as we pulled in to the car park, anyway. I guess he didn’t know anyone in the neighbourhood, so it doesn’t matter. I’ve heard wearing bowling shoes in public is coming back into fashion, too; so maybe he knows more than I do.
As we entered the complex and exchanged our sneakers for pairs with a markedly higher tinea count, we were introduced to other people from the company and their husbands, wives, boyfriends and girlfriends. Adam’s boss’ wife was quick to rush over to me as fast as red and white leather shoes permit.
‘Hello Adam,’ she nodded at him. ‘And you must be Adam’s, uh… er…’ she held out her hand to me, obviously unsure if she was able to utter ‘male love slave’ in public.
‘You’re Adam’s mate,’ she breathed out, vigorously thrusting my hand up and down. I could almost hear her brain collapsing with the relief of managing to replace ‘boyfriend’ with a word that simultaneously inferred being friends, but also came across as a verbal nudge and wink. (Still, I suppose this is better than when Leah, her boyfriend and myself saw the band Something For Kate recently. She introduced me to her boyfriend, then quickly added at the top of her voice that ‘Jeb’s boyfriend wouldn’t come tonight because he hates this kind of music’).
Adam’s boss had decreed all partners were to be seperated for the bowling games - we had enough people to fill three lanes. I noted with interest that most employees’ names had been changed - Adam was now abbreviated to simply ‘Addy’, Irene had been decreed ‘Irate’, whilst Nadia, much to her visible distaste, was shortened to merely ‘Nads’.
Much boasting ensued over superior bowling techniques and claims that some people present had actually played bowling for more than one term of Physical Education at high school. (Every true sport-fearing citizen chooses bowling in Phys Ed - I know I did, along with pool and orienteering). Adam’s boss soon began demonstrating some serious bowling gymnastics, even managing to make use of the grip on the back of his heel. He even volunteered to walk down the middle of the alleyway when a ball became stuck in the gutter.
I decided that I’d go for the wussy less heavy bowling balls, in an attempt to regain control over the apparently magnetic gutters. With disgust, I realised that the lighter the bowling ball, the more offensive a colour it was. The least heavy ball was bright pink, and the next size up was a dihorrea orange. I couldn’t bring myself to use either of those, so I reluctantly accepted a bile-coloured ball to hurl down the aisle.
Naturally, this ball had a smaller thumb hole than I estimated, and it very nearly ended up taking me along for the ride. I was straggling well behind my opponents, and I noticed Greg was beginning to perform an interesting little sideways nod of his head whenever he knocked down some pins (usually all of them). I began wondering if his confident swagger back to the seats where we waited our turn had something to do with it all.
I decided to give the swagger and sideways head-nod a shot, but ended up confusing myself over which leg to jut out in front of me when I released the ball, then cracked my neck when I attempted the nod. This resulted in a gutterball before the bile-ball had even traversed a mere quarter of the laneway. On instinct, I looked at my watch - one of my most hated habits. It seems whenever I’m feeling lost I simply look at my wristwatch for the answer. This also seems to happen when people ask me questions about dates - enquire as to when my mother’s birthday is, and I’ll immediately turn to my timepiece for the answer. Displaying numbers may be its only function, but I feel those digital flashing dots laughing at me in spite with every second they measure.
Signalling I needed to use the toilet, I escaped from the alleyway madness for a few minutes and began attempting to work on a winning bowling method. Perhaps I’d overhear some star bowlers’ tips in the bogs. Unfortunately, I became rather unsettled upon entering the toilets as I heard a man scream out ‘PASSIONFRUIT GENTLE HAND WASH? THIS IS NO SOAP FOR A MAN!’, and thought it best to retrace my steps back to the bowling game.
Unfortunately, my competitors had deemed it appropriate to continue the game in my absence, and had hurled balls down the aisle on my behalf. At first, I feigned relief, as their superior striking skills would surely give my low-thirties score a well-required boost. Unbelievably, it seemed they’d bowled quite haphazardly on my behalf - perhaps a little over-eager for their turn to roll around again.
It was when Greg doubled my score that my thumb, back and calf muscles simultaneously decided to celebrate by erupting into painful spasms. I jerked around in my seat in agony, as Adam’s boss racked up yet another strike. The fact that my score had been doubled in less than three minutes was as difficult to comprehend as the possibility that there’s someone out there who knows what every single feature of ICQ actually does.
This was when I had my epiphany: dangling large objects weighing in excess of 20kg from your forefinger and thumb is not a healthy thing to do.
As if I needed a reinforcement of this message, I noticed something unusual about my score on the monitor above me. My score was mainly a series of dashes (representing a zero score) and 1’s. I could swear the monitor was screaming ‘LOSER, LOSER, LOSER’ at me in morse code.
