Once We Were Bowlers

Back in the G-Burg days of Friday Tiki nights and neighbor get-togethers, a funny thing happened.  Like many things that entice, then are quickly cast aside for brighter, newer objects (like karaoke), the sport of bowling captivated some of us.

We actually went bowling a few times; beer, electronic scoring and Midnight Mist.  A wicked one-two-three punch that clouded our minds and better judgments.  I've heard it's happened to others: Mrs. Wombie still has her custom made bowling ball from earlier days.  But I would never have thought I would succumb to the siren call of waxed lanes and clown shoes.

The ringleader and Svengali for this pursuit and perhaps the best of us was John (Bob).  The worst of us was very likely me, your loyal blogger, Bob.  You could see the former glory of the current Mrs. Blythe (Bob).  And the smooth mellifluous grace of John (Bob).  The competitor Dave (Bob) and the give-a-shit-who-fucking-cares of Tarasa (Bob).   

As you have realized now, we were bowlers, so we were Bob.  We got matching bowling shirts, all with Bob on them.  We got high on the strikes, and sniffed out the rolling fog they created at the witching hour like dogs on the scent of 10 day old rabbit.  

          

Life was good, and Fridays became the gateway drug to the bowling  culture.  We began spending more time finding the perfect ball than hailing a round of beers.  We actually began pumping our fists when the strike or the spare were struck.  We'd place our hands over the jet blow like the pros.  And then, one by one, we fell into the dark side of bowling. 

    

I ate Alley food.  Exercise consisted only of lifting my ball up to my chin, then releasing it in a flurry of smoothness that was like a human concerto. I was Bob, complete with laurel wreath on one arm and a tribute tat to Earl Anthony on the other.  The Midnight Fog was no longer an entertaining sidelight, it was a call to arms.  I succumbed to the dark Forces.

I had lost my way.  Tiki no longer was a quiet calm event of chatting  with a small group of friends.  It was the thing that kept me from my mistress, the lanes. Yeah, I yelled "Push", and was courteous to a fault to the guy in the adjacent lane.  I was this close to getting my own ball at Sears.  Then the intervention.  My friends took me and made me Mike again.  They whispered to me like Moe whispered "Cheese" to Curly.  They gave me coffee and bacon roll-ups and, eventually, I came back from the abyss.   

Since those days I have not bowled again.  I haven't even felt a slight pull when driving by a sign that has either Bowling or Lanes, or, God help me, both.  I was saved.  Believe it or not, I still have my shirt name with Bob on it.  It is cardinal red with two black strips around the shoulders.  And, even to this day, if I awake around 11:55 pm, I can still see those lights dim and that fog floating across my world.

(Most of the above is true except what isn't.)