Last night, we bowled. And when I say “we,” I mean about twenty people, and when I say “we bowled,” I mean we bowled the hell out of that alley — at one point, we had the whole place to ourselves, which is probably fortunate for our fellow bowling Brooklynites, because it’s really not a group that greets a 7-10 split with G-rated grace.

And I didn’t expect that many people to want to come, either. Scrapper and I had been talking for a while about how we should go bowling, and then Mr. S said he and The Future Mrs. S would totally jump in on that, so I sent out an invitation email titled “Tonight, We Bowl,” thinking that most of the responses would run along the lines of “Tonight, Bunting Bowls, And We Stay Home, Because Get A Life.”

No. The responses actually ran along the lines of “Oh HELL Yeah We Bowl,” even though the Tonight-We-Bowling would require participants to travel fairly deep into Brooklyn to Melody Lanes — and on that note, you would think Brooklyn would have more than a handful of bowling alleys, but it doesn’t. What’s up with that? Why hasn’t some smarty-pants capitalist put a Bridge Bowl in the basement of the Atlantic Center? What Brooklyn needs is not a stadium, or venues for the Olympics. We need venues for the Bowlympics. Yeah, I said it. Bruce Ratner could work off a fair bit of bad PR by plunking an alley down somewhere.

And this is not a knock on Melody Lanes by any means. The last time I went to “the Mel,” I went with Tempus, and we had just had a conversation earlier that day about how we should really bring Dictaphones everywhere we went, just in case, and then that night we take a smoke break between games and outside with us is this woman who, apropos of Lord knows what, went off on this brilliant rant that began, as all the best rants do, with “let me explain to you a few things,” wended its way through “I am Puerto Rican, okay, enough said,” and made a beeline from there straight into the Sidewalk Outburst Hall of Fame, and through the whole thing, which lasted for several cigarettes, Tempus and I kept looking at each other like, “Dic. Ta. Phone. DAMMIT,” but did either of us have one on our person? No. So most of the Famous Melody Lanes Monologue is lost to history. But it was awesome. And so is the Melody Lanes staff, because we ran them off their feet yesterday and they were completely chill about it, God bless them.

We just need more bowling venues in the 718, is all I’m saying, because people don’t even know they want to bowl until they actually…go bowling. And then everyone is skipping back to their seats after pulling off a spare all, “Why don’t we do this more often?”

Well, for starters, not enough alleys, but also, bowling injuries. Yes, it’s possible to injure yourself bowling: pulled forearm muscles; the one butt cheek that hurts the next day from pushing off; hyperextended knuckles from trying to be a big shot and roll a twenty-pound thunderball instead of just using a twelve-bagger like everyone else; weird little cuts on the insides of your fingers from your own fingernails; a large round bruise in the large round shape of the large round ball you clonked into the back of your leg somehow, and don’t ask, because I just don’t know how I did that. Oh, wait, I totally do. I got set up at the top of the lane; I started my approach; Mr. S made a huge sssppppprrrrt! fart noise in the middle of my backswing; I burst out laughing and whonked myself in the quadriceps with the ball; ow. Furthermore, hee. It took me five tries to roll that frame because he kept mouth-pooting and I kept giggling, and then he stopped, but could I stop giggling? No. Put up the bumpers, because: five years old. And let’s not forget whatever got pulled when my shoe hit an overwaxed spot at the top of the lane and I did a nutty split and my ball kachanked across three lanes, landed in a faraway gutter with absolutely no momentum, and inched agonizingly down the lane before stopping finally, and an alley employee had to walk down there and get it, and the whole place was giving me the Lucas slow hallway clap, and that seriously happened like eighteen years ago but I still blush just thinking about it.

Another reason not to bowl: the scary scary germs that surely nest in the ball holes. I choose to believe that the shoes do not contain typhoid fever, and that the spray they use works, but I have never seen them disinfect a communal ball, and…man. I had dirt under my fingernails from the fifties. I came home and washed my hands and my nailbrush died of the mumps. So, word to the wise: bowl righty, eat greasy alley snacks lefty.

Yet another reason: latent competitiveness. “It’s bowling, Sarah.” Yeah, you say that. Hell, I said it. “This’ll be fun.” Ten minutes later, I was stomping back to my seat all grouchy: “What are they, weighting that seven pin? I had that spare, fuck this!” Sterling and Voz came into the alley like, “Okay, whatever, it’s just a game,” and the next thing we all know they’re locked in a bowl to the death that ended in a tenth-frame showdown, and I think Sterling won, but I got distracted by D3, normally one of the mellowest people I know, pointing down the lane and growling, “That pin has been mocking me all day!” G-Force, same thing. Sweet, happy, enthusiastic person, glaring at three remaining pins so intensely that I am genuinely shocked said pins did not burst into flames as a result. We were not kidding around. I mean, we were, because the Bunting contingent was actually cawing like crows at the ball for good luck…and yet we weren’t, because I left a single pin standing at one point and then demanded “jokingly” why nobody had cawed to help me. Sarah: “I blame you for this, this, this…travesty!” Mr. S: “Heh.” Sarah: “[folds arms]” Mr. S: “…Er. ‘Caw’?” Meanwhile, one lane to our right, A Plus had brought his own ball, and his own shoes, and was rolling these nutty southpaw hooks and rocking strikes left and right, and everyone was frowning at me all, “What’s with that guy? …Hey, isn’t that the same guy who ringered it up at Frisbee golf? Do you want to find a game the Bowlai Lama sucks at or what, because I’m rocking a thirty over here and that dude’s just pissing me off.”

But none of these reasons is sufficient; the reasons you should bowl outweigh all of them easily, starting with the opportunity to watch small children bowling. Genius, I’m telling you. Balls that zigzag off the bumpers all the way down the lane, then happen to hit the lead pin and knock them all over, and the kid marches back to his seat all “I? Am AWESOME”? Genius. Two five-year-olds rolling one giant fifteen-pound ball — together? Genius. The kid who nonchalantly plucks a ball off the rack and promptly drops it on her toe because it’s too heavy, then has to hop after it because it’s rolling away? Geeeeeenius.

And then there’s seeing whose outfit clashes the worst with the shoes, and naming your balls things like “Big Red” and “Brown Bomber” and “the Green Machine,” and the fact that you can’t discuss anything bowling-related without saying the words “ball” and “holes” about a hundred times, but the best part is standing beside the lanes, near the bar, so all the lanes spread out before you, and just watching all the different strategies people use to try to look like they know what they’re doing. You’ve got the wooden-tennis-racket-era waltz up to the line, followed by a big wind-up (my favored approach); the “just fling that bad boy as hard as you can and hope gravity takes care of the rest” method (guys love that one); the meditative, Zen roll where you wander up to the line and drop the ball into the lane very slowly; and of course the myriad giving-it-English poses adopted after the ball is in motion. Pounding the floor. The Heisman stance, stock still except for wiggling fingers willing the ball in the desired direction. Frantic waving akin to castaways hailing a passing ship. Hands-on-hips Carrie staring at wayward slices. Disco pointing. Karate moves. Twyla! Twyla! Leaning over and blowing a lungful of air in the direction of a wavering pin. And of course the gutter ball, followed by the that-does-it-I-have-had-it stomp off the lane, out of the seats, through the lobby, and outside — always a crowd-pleaser.

Crap, now I want to go bowling again. Like, right now. Damn job.

July 11, 2005

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