Saturday, July 29, 2006


Last night, myself, my lovely wife, Angry Tim and Mick headed to the alleys for some beer and bowling--a classic American combination.

I'm not a bowler, really. I can't do this cool flip action that makes the ball curve. Hell, I can't even find a ball that I can fit my fat-ended fingers into except for those senior league balls that way 30 freaking pounds. So from the second I step in there, I'm convinced that by equipment availability alone, there's a cap on how high I can score in bowling--about 120, I figure. Certainly not bad (for a ninth grader), but if there's no improving from there, I'll suck this bad 20 years from now.

I started out as I normally do--with two gutter balls as my back, arm and legs adjust to the jarring pain that my delivery often envokes. My lovely wife pokes out of the gate as well. By the time we get to the eighth frame, Angry Tim's distant in first, I'm in second, my lovely wife third and Mick bringing up the rear. Girl goes up there and rolls a strike with her 7 mph fast ball. I was surprised there was enough momentum to tip one pin over backward much less ten.

Next time up, she rolls another strike.

Tenth frame, last chance for glory and girl rolls a turkey ball like a champ.

If you're counting at home, that's three straight strikes.

Now, the extra frames, where hearts are broken, dreams are realized and mere mortals become legends. She steps up, does her little wiggle up to the line, let's er fly and like a machine knocks every pin down for her fourth straight strike. A downright Wyrickian performance, if I may say so myself--vaulting her from second to last to first place ahead of Angry Tim (which certainly didn't help his anger issues).

She's a natural, what can I say? She loves the game. Good game, sweetheart. Yahtzee tonight.

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