Is This Anything?

David Letterman used to have a bit called, Is This Anything.  Usually, it involved a performer who juggled, danced, balanced or managed some combination of the three, although it could also get bizarre.  Anyone remember the Grinder Girl shooting sparks off her hips?

So, in the spirit of Letterman, let me ask, is bowling anything like a sport?  David would probably consider it something, but what exactly?  Physical activity?  Social?  Both or neither?  For me, it was mostly an act of independence, going off to a bowling alley on my own with enough money in hand to pay for a few lines.  The score was incidental.

Let me confess here that I have a weird arm.  For the first game midway into the second, every ball I roll goes straight down the center of the lane, which requires me to move ever so slightly to the right of center.  (My politics may or may do the same.)  Then, halfway through game two, I don’t so much start to curve the ball but angle it, which means starting far to the right; call it my Tea-Party approach.  And that’s pretty much how it goes for the rest of the night.  Pick a number between 90 and 180, and I’ve bowled it.

I used to take Clare bowling every blue moon or so, if only to work on our Flintstones’ imitation; I could make the ball bounce, and so could my little Pebbles.  But giving instruction was hard, considering the arm thing.  Basically, I just wanted Clare to let go of the ball and not fall face-first into the lane.  I’ve seen it happen, and you know who you are.

The sound of a strike is nice, as is the cheering and even a little of the bench jockeying.  It’s amazing how much you see of yourself during your approach, legs moving, ball in one hand steadied by the other, and then, if everything goes right, arms and legs synchronized into a delivery that leads to a strike or spare.  Repeat over the course of ten frames.

I might go bowling more, if they’d just stop tearing the alleys down—Miami/Clearing/Gage Park Bowl, the haunts of my youth, all gone.  Even the place I took Clare—named appropriately enough, Mt. Clare Lanes and Banquets—is gone.  Anything keeps turning into nothing.