Nice Balls Yesterday, in an at first reluctant agreement, I went bowling with my grandma and Godzilla. And wouldn't you know it, but I felt strangely at peace as I waited for them to show up at the Bonnie Doone bowling alleys. It was empty save for a table of bantering gossippy employees, and the smell of pinesol permeated my nostrils as I dug into my takeout food at the table with the odd assortment of chairs surrounding me. Worn carpet, old wooden creaking benches and slick old linoleum that the signs declared as "tiles", creaking boards under my feet on the lane.

It was just me and the ball. Me, the ball, and the tightly wound bundle of anxiety that has been building up inside my softening body. I bowled a miserable first game, but started studying the man that bowled next to me. He had these beautiful turquoise and white swirled balls, no doubt of optimal proportion to height, body mass and other according factors that go into making hard plastic spheres of frustration venting. He held his ball close to his chest at first, like cradling a newborn. His head would be lowered, and at times it seemed like he was talking to it, communing with the bowling ball deities, or reassuring them that he would no sooner kill his own mother then mis-use the temple of worship within the sport. Every single shot he made would be preceded by this ritual, which I'm sure spanned at least two minutes or more. And wouldn't you know it, he bowled like a bat outta hell. I'd never seen anything like it. This man was obviously engineered for the sport exactly. His skull was distinctly bowling ball shaped, and his hair cut only emphasized that to lop his head off beneath the chin would benefit the executioner a superb piece of bowling equipment. To any other person, this man was unexemplorary, but to me, he was a bowling God. I wanted to ask him if he was pro, but got distracted by the hot employee who was obviously the only employee that exerted himself there.

He was constantly sprinting to the back of the alleys commandeered by screaming six year olds, to untangle lines, to alley anxiety brought on by the shrill squeals of foul line sirens, of malfunction buzzers. His chucks were faded, and carried him like a bird down those sleek alleyways without incident, and I was temporarily enraptured by his jet black curly hair set off by a clever checked shirt and thick framed glasses. That, and everytime he passed us, sweeping meticulously (more meticulously? : P) around our alley, he would often capture my gaze with his, grey eyed and pale, and blush, sweeping away any of the words he could have said that I would have wittily replied to. Damn you shy alternative boys! Ah well...no friendship gained, none lost.

I started mimicking the pro in our second game, curling the ball confidently into my hand, the crook of my arm, making eye contact and urgently whispering, "you best hit some pins bitch, or I'll lose to my stupid aunt." It was spiritual, moving, and hence, very effectual. I bowled a 181. Downsides- I don't think anyone wants to start a team with me. I beat my grandmother. My grandmother now thinks I'm a bowling prodigy and thinks I'll be wasting my "talent" if I don't do something about it. I gotta say though, I really enjoyed it. Looking at it like a revival of a somewhat decaying sport (face it, old people, and birthday parties...?) and feeling decidedly in peaceful solitude whilst doing it, and as a result, so hip it hurts, made me think I should pursue it more. Maybe on my own, but hey, all you Edmontonians! If you want to start a team with me, just lemme know. I'll hook you up.

  ¶ 2:19 PM