Monday, September 13, 2010
It's all over when the pretty ones call for your head
It all started with my shortcomings. It was the summer after I had graduated from high school and i was suddenly blessed with a wealth of free time and no certain direction in life. I found myself spending more time with other individuals on their own undefined paths in life. Through boredom, or out of the necessity of frugality, we all started bowling together. I was never much of an athlete as someone of my build and abilities is better suited for working the Hot Dog on a Stick pump. Sports of every persuasion were never in my blood and I was fine with that. But bowling was different. Bowling is like a beacon of athletic achievement hope to the broken backed, overweight, chili cheese fries eating masses. It's essentially the only sport a pear shaped man can ever hope to excel in. Which was exactly what I wanted in my competition, ridiculously lowered standards and adversaries with beer bellies.
I'd like to say I was the Rocky Marciano of bowling, the greatest there ever was. But i just wasn't. Still, I took bowling seriously. Very seriously. You can't discount the small things in life, and just like anyone else, I like to win. Even if it is at the hands of a group of sub par bowlers. Having always had the upper body strength of an 85 year old man, or 10 year old girl depending on your outlook, I had to improvise in my rolling technique. I'd build up momentum and force by running about 15 feet up to the line where a sane bowler would normally roll and then I'd let the ball roll. Did this make even the slightest, discernible difference in my scores? Probably not. Did it render me vulnerable to attacks by lesser bowlers? Absolutely! Would this maverick approach to the plumbers sport nearly land me in a correctional facility? Sort of.
"He might have to go to the hospital, Luke". I remember being told that and recalling all the movies I'd seen with a man being loved in all the wrong ways in prison and how I thought that if I could set aside moral, ethical, vaguely religious issues aside, the main deterrent in my avoiding incarceration is the sanctity of my ass hymen being desecrated by a man serving life in jail. You see, just 15 minutes prior to seeing my friend blacked out on the floor of the bowling alley at Sam's Town, I was leading the game and needed to pick up a spare in the final frame to insure I was going to win. For whatever reason, there was an
unproportionate amount of beautiful women to strange looking men at the bowling alley on this night. I didn't pay the women much regard as I ran to toss my ball at the remaining bastard pins that stood between me and another small victory. At this time my childhood friend Chris decided he'd stick his leg out and send me sliding down the lane, ball in hand. Now all those women were shrieking and laughing like they were at a male strip club. One minute the bowling alley sounds like a wake, and the next it's One Night At The Apollo. A regular chucklehouse. It was the laughing that sent me over the edge, and I went into a fit of rage comparable to that of a small dog, more annoying and less intimidating.
I managed to exit the lane but not before falling again as the lane itself is extremely slippery and not intended to be stood on , or exited. As I made my way back to the group of fellow bowlers I saw my buddy Chris sitting there with a look of self-satisfaction chiseled onto his face. Upon seeing his smug expression, I lifted up my 13 pound ball and tossed it at him. I was ok with my actions till I realized where the ball was heading. Chris was seated and the ball landed directly in his lap. My soon-to-be-unconscious friend blacked out and hit the floor of the bowling alley. Gone were the unencumbered sounds of laughter at my expense only replaced by a now angry mob calling for my head. Life is funny like that. I had thought that after all those women witnessed my retaliation they'd hoist me high above their heads like the Ewoks lifted C3PO over theirs.
But no, everyone was calling me an asshole, which I certainly was for having did what I had done. But I wasn't concerned about what the now enraged bowling female masses thought of me. I was preoccupied with the probability of Chris being able to be make future performances in the bedroom or father children. After Chris came to, he crawled into the men's room to do some damage assessment. One of our friends followed him in, then emerged from the bathroom to inform us that the ball had merely landed on "the shaft and not ruptured his balls but I guess his shaft is black and blue".
A little while later Chris left the bathroom to return to our lane. I apologized profusely, not having intended to maim anyone while bowling that night. Chris reminded me of the time in December 1995 when he broke my nose with a fairly impressive uppercut. He said my dropping a bowling ball on his manhood should just about even us up. I thought that was fair.