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On Bowling

Um.

Don’t let the fancy back leg there fool ya.

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Because this is literally the ‘blind leading the blind.’

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We know about as much about how to bowl as we do about how to yo-yo.

Like nothing.

Which for some reason is okay when you go bowling. Because nobody gives a rip.

But what baffles is that our kids who claim they are too weak to carry a bag of Costco sugar from the garage to the kitchen can suddenly heft a seven pound ball, can clutch it to their hip and walk ten hunched steps, and then can clunk it down the lane. Forty times.

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And right-handed or left-handed?

Who.

Knows?

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So what’s fun about bowling?

Well. That depends on who you are and why you’ve come.

If you’re nine, it might be this.

The anticipation. The hope. The I-can’t-tear-my-eyes-away-from-the-lane-because-my-ball-limping-along-at-2.86-mph-just-might-crush-the-final-pin.

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And when it does… That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

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Which apparently doesn’t get old.

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But if you’re like us, you’ve come to scour the racks for the lightest ball you can pinch your fingers into. You’ve come to announce you’ll get a strike and then, by the grace of the gutter guards, knock down six pins. You’ve come to clap for a kid who tips over two pins; communicate “you’re still awesome” with a thumbs up, hive-five the accidental strike, and massage your aching wrist.

And then, because it’s been an hour, you’re ready to leave. It’s been no amusement park, no heart-pounding novel, no parade with marching bands. But to hear the kids tell it in the parking lot, it just might have been. That fun.

At which time, you suppose–because of the company–maybe it was.

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