Down the Boards

Breath in… Bend your knees. Remain focused on the task at hand—keeping the mental game in check, while executing a routine that seems all too familiar.

At the age of 22 I found myself in awe of my favorite athletes as their courage (worn on the outside of their jersey) left the audience bewildered by their presence and performance.

Exhale, and take the first step of 5.

I was not born with pure talent for the professional level, nor did I have a pedigree blood line for others to reference, stating “well he is so-and-so’s son... He will figure it out.” The fact is I had to push myself to reach the level. But this is not a story of how I came from nothing, and turned it into everything. No its the foundation of an experience 16 years in the making. While being young, I had captured the eyes and hearts of the spectators. At times hearing such encouragement as, “Man that kid can hook the ball” “I have never seen anyone bowl the way he is, its… different, but amazing”. But while encouragement from the novice bowler partialy filled my ears, the would be colleagues of mine flooded what space remained, “He is a 1 trick pony“ “Yeah he hooks the ball, but can he control it and repeat the shot?” The sport was cutthroat, anyone and everyone for themselves. But the competition was not your fellow bowler but instead the lanes, and more so yourself—the mental aspect I have tried to keep clear during all tournaments.

Step into the second step, crossing it front of the left foot (right foot if you are left handed). Drop the ball down, allowing gravity to begin the pendulum process.

Fast forward nearly 16 years, recovering from bursitis of the right throwing shoulder. An injury the doctors had told me was worse than a torn rotator cuff—the later being able to surgically repaired with a shorter recovery time. While playing catch with my son, the strength of my should seemed evident. I quickly took to the lanes wanting to see physical proof of the recovery. My first game after a 9 year hiatus—279 with a lone spare in the 5th frame, an 8 pin standing stout as the rest of its comrades escaped the pin deck. But this is not a story of my new found success.

The third step sets up the balls trajectory, allowing for the 4th step to proceed without delay.

One year after spending 4 days a week in a bowling alley, fine tuning and scrubbing the rust away, the PBA had entered back into my life. With a full cast of support, both family and friends, the time was now to fulfill my dream. I had entered my first time at the same location where it all began. In the past there was nothing but pain, anguish, sweat, and tears at this establishment. But this year would be different, and boy was it. Just not as it would seem with how this narrative is playing out thus far.

Plant the 4th, allow the ball to descend down towards the power zone. Push away from the approach, lunging forward into the 5th step—the slide step. Clear the hip by swinging the right leg “Trail Leg” behind the left like a dancer doing a curtsy.

Halfway through the 4th game out of 8, the chatter began. The younger generation mocked my foot work. They took verbal shots at my game play, asking if it past my bedtime. Every bit of their derogatory remarks were aimed at my age, speed—or lack of—while throwing, and my score. There was an expectation on the pro cicruit. But the new generation were like a gaggle of junior high girls, plotting and giggling. It was evident I did not belong at the tournament. Any novice bowler or spectator could see I was the equivalent of a race horse with broken legs—no longer of use, and waiting to be taken out to pasture. The last remark crippled me, sending me to the shadows casted by the emotional pain that had been mixed in an aluminum container filled with hate, resentment, and shame. My learned talent was no longer sufficient. I did not belong with the professionals. The window of success had closed, as told by 22 year old competitor “Time to hang it up old man.“

At 37 years of age, old was the last thing I referred to myself as. Beaten, broken, oft injured from years of construction and manufacturing jobs—hard labor. The insults and self-realization pushed me out of the picture. They had me standing in the dark corner of the alley, hidden away from the prying eyes who have come to watch the best of the region perform.

Slide to the line, and lay the ball down, clearing the thumb and rolling it off the fingertips while lifting forward and upwards. We call this hitting it.

For 2 more years I would make the attempt to improve and compete. For 2 more years all I did was further drive the comments of the younger competitors into my mental game like a wooden stake, made for a vampire but destined to destroy hope. An emotional retirement was in order. Not because I couldn’t compete, but more so because I did not belong.

Watch the ball slide through the heaviest part of the oil pattern, reaching the exit before changing into its roll phase. When the hooks begins to take shape, a smile on last time while watching the last tournament shot enter the pocket at the 17 board, creating chaos amongst 10 wooden pins.

A strike like no other, but more meaningful than all I have thrown throughout my career as it was my last one. But even then in the eyes of my former competitors, the nature of the strike was not good enough. They called it lucky. They called it unconventional. I called it, the one that wasn’t enough to show them I belong.