Saturday, January 28, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
That's How I Roll. . . .
Once a year, less frequently than a professional teeth cleaning (well, in theory, but I am overdue on getting the choppers shined), I take to the lanes to bowl with the runners on the Universal Sole racing team. I am no bowler and, fortunately, neither is anyone else I rolled with on Saturday night.
Our evening of strikes and spares occurred on a night few acknowledged for its special place in history. The scene was the Lincoln Square Lanes, a bowling alley hidden Anne Frank-like above a hardware store, adjacent to a McDonald's in a part of Chicago that is now home to fancy houses and new condos. LSL hasn't let gentrification change it.
To reach the lanes, one must climb a too steep flight of stairs with mashed down carpet that reveals both the many visitors to this hidden gem and the need for either a significant carpet cleaning with a cleaner that is yet to be invented or, what the heck, rip it out and put in some new carpet.
At the top of the stairs was a homemade sign that marked the history making day: "On Monday January 16, you will no longer be able to smoke here because of the new law," or words to that effect. Unsaid, but implied, was fuck Chicago for taking away our good, beer swilling, cigarette smoking bowlers. That sentiment was very real and obvious to me as I witnesses plenty of non-bowling patrons, puffing away, pulling on a cold beer and watching Denver end New England's playoff hopes.
We had arrived. Before the bowling starts, two important events must always occur, getting shoes and picking a ball.
Bowling shoe rental is always a funny thing. Who didn't have a friend or two in college who brazenly wore stolen bowling alley shoes? If that was you, well, nice job. It always strikes me as odd that I will wear a pair of shoes many other people have worn, but, of course, they have been professionally cleaned by the guy with the cigarette hanging from his lip (but not after Monday January 16) wielding an imposing can of some sort of CFC laden cleaning spray. Funny, you never see that spray in hospitals, but then again, I guess few infections have been reported from bowling shoes. If I am wrong on that, oh dear.
Finding a ball can be maddening. I am the bad combination of weak arms (give me a light ball) and fat fingers (I need big holes) that rarely mates in a lane-provided ball. Ultimately, I select a ball I can barely lift and then use balls others have picked out, some too heavy, some with holes far too small. If I was good at this, I would own a ball, but I am not, and, frankly, if you own your own ball people will talk.
Time to bowl.
We rolled three games, well, really 2 games plus eight frames of game 3 and then we ran out of time. Game 1 for the irregular bowler is always like getting reacquainted with an old friend. Things look familiar, don't feel familiar and most likely, you don't quite do what you think you want to do. In the first game, three of rolled and didn't manage to knock 300 pins down. We all got a chance to find our way into the gutter though.
Games 2 and 3 were much better. We all got the random strike and spare and that brings everyone to their feet for high fives and much cheering. Do real bowlers react this way?
I had a couple ice cold and, oh so delicious Miller High Life beers. There sure are an unnecessary bunch of fancy beers out there. High Life never fails to please me. Mmmm, mmm that is a good beer. As an infrequent drinker, I think I started to feel the second beer and I got a bit loud. In the late frames of Game 2, I found myself banging on the scorer's table everytime someone marked a frame. Is there anything that feels better than a heart felt "woo hoo!!"? For my money, well, ok, there is, but it sure feels good.
There's more, and I might write more later, but here's what I think - I need to bowl more often, and probably, so do you.
Our evening of strikes and spares occurred on a night few acknowledged for its special place in history. The scene was the Lincoln Square Lanes, a bowling alley hidden Anne Frank-like above a hardware store, adjacent to a McDonald's in a part of Chicago that is now home to fancy houses and new condos. LSL hasn't let gentrification change it.
To reach the lanes, one must climb a too steep flight of stairs with mashed down carpet that reveals both the many visitors to this hidden gem and the need for either a significant carpet cleaning with a cleaner that is yet to be invented or, what the heck, rip it out and put in some new carpet.
At the top of the stairs was a homemade sign that marked the history making day: "On Monday January 16, you will no longer be able to smoke here because of the new law," or words to that effect. Unsaid, but implied, was fuck Chicago for taking away our good, beer swilling, cigarette smoking bowlers. That sentiment was very real and obvious to me as I witnesses plenty of non-bowling patrons, puffing away, pulling on a cold beer and watching Denver end New England's playoff hopes.
We had arrived. Before the bowling starts, two important events must always occur, getting shoes and picking a ball.
Bowling shoe rental is always a funny thing. Who didn't have a friend or two in college who brazenly wore stolen bowling alley shoes? If that was you, well, nice job. It always strikes me as odd that I will wear a pair of shoes many other people have worn, but, of course, they have been professionally cleaned by the guy with the cigarette hanging from his lip (but not after Monday January 16) wielding an imposing can of some sort of CFC laden cleaning spray. Funny, you never see that spray in hospitals, but then again, I guess few infections have been reported from bowling shoes. If I am wrong on that, oh dear.
Finding a ball can be maddening. I am the bad combination of weak arms (give me a light ball) and fat fingers (I need big holes) that rarely mates in a lane-provided ball. Ultimately, I select a ball I can barely lift and then use balls others have picked out, some too heavy, some with holes far too small. If I was good at this, I would own a ball, but I am not, and, frankly, if you own your own ball people will talk.
Time to bowl.
We rolled three games, well, really 2 games plus eight frames of game 3 and then we ran out of time. Game 1 for the irregular bowler is always like getting reacquainted with an old friend. Things look familiar, don't feel familiar and most likely, you don't quite do what you think you want to do. In the first game, three of rolled and didn't manage to knock 300 pins down. We all got a chance to find our way into the gutter though.
Games 2 and 3 were much better. We all got the random strike and spare and that brings everyone to their feet for high fives and much cheering. Do real bowlers react this way?
I had a couple ice cold and, oh so delicious Miller High Life beers. There sure are an unnecessary bunch of fancy beers out there. High Life never fails to please me. Mmmm, mmm that is a good beer. As an infrequent drinker, I think I started to feel the second beer and I got a bit loud. In the late frames of Game 2, I found myself banging on the scorer's table everytime someone marked a frame. Is there anything that feels better than a heart felt "woo hoo!!"? For my money, well, ok, there is, but it sure feels good.
There's more, and I might write more later, but here's what I think - I need to bowl more often, and probably, so do you.
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