When I was a kid UJ and I bowled in a youth league at Riviera Lanes in Akron, Ohio. It was a 16-team league of 12 and 13-year-old boys. Our team was called the Fireballs, which we thought was a pretty cool name. It was a more innocent time then, and we were oblivious to the connotations that more mature people might assign to our team’s moniker.
It was a handicap league that bowled on Saturday mornings during the school year. Every week you bowled a three-game set against another team and earned points for each team victory in each game. It was fun, but we were, at bottom, competitive adolescent boys who really wanted to win. We would follow our team in the standings and watch our individual handicaps move up and down based on each week’s performance.
To our mild surprise, our team was pretty good. We weren’t the best team by a long shot, but we soon were among the top five teams in the league and we stayed there as the season wore on. Winning a trophy at the end of the season became a realistic possibility. In those days, trophies weren’t simply handed out to every participant. You had to earn them, and in our league only the top three teams got one. Ending up in at least third place became our goal.
Finally, we got to the match that would decide whether we would get that coveted trophy. I felt pressure like I’d never felt it before — not in a spelling bee, not in a school play, not messing around playing baseball in our neighborhood. A real trophy was on the line! And bowlers are up there all by themselves, with no referees or teammates to blame. I remember standing in the approach area, hoping desperately that I wouldn’t throw a gutter ball, miss an easy spare, or trip and do a humiliating face plant. We all felt that pressure, yet we were somehow able to get up there, win the match, and finish in third place.
It made us feel good about ourselves, and when we received our trophies — small pedestals less than a foot high, with a gold bowler on top and a third-place plaque at the bottom — it was sweet. I took it home and put it in a prominent place on the dresser in the room UJ and I shared.
I ran across this classic photo recently and had to share it. It’s a picture of Grandpa Neal’s bowling team, circa the mid-1920s. That’s him in the middle of the back row — the slender, square-jawed fellow who still had some hair to part.
A pretty somber bunch, aren’t they, with their little bow ties, and long-sleeved, buttoned-up white shirts, and carefully shined shoes? I doubt if they ever called a beer frame or engaged in any horseplay that might detract from their ability to pick up the ten pin. Bowling was serious business in those days, when Akron was one of the centers of the bowling universe and dozens of teams competed for bragging rights in the Akron Masonic League.
Grandpa Neal loved bowling, and he participated in the Akron Masonic League for more than 60 years, until well into his 90s.
Don’t get me wrong — I love bowling. I’ve bowled for as long as I can remember, starting when UJ and I, as kids, bowled with Grandma and Grandpa Neal. I like bowling alleys and bowlers, too.
Still, there was something vaguely disturbing about this bit of bowling alley wall art found in the locker area at Wayne Webb’s Columbus Bowl. It’s not exactly calculated to dispel the common myths about kegling and encourage occasional bowlers to become regulars.
The firm Carmen Salvino bowling tournament was tonight, at Wayne Webb’s Columbus Bowl Lanes on South High Street. Our team may not have been the finest bowlers, but we definitely sported the most headband accessories and displayed the most compelling hard-ass look.
Oh, and the Buckeyes won their first NCAA Tournament game, too.
Last night we had the firm’s annual Carmen Salvino bowling tournament at Sawmill Lanes in Columbus. It wasn’t exactly tournament conditions, with the building darkened, disco lights strobing up and down the lanes, music pulsating, lighted images moving around the alleys, and huge TVs everywhere you looked. But nobody was there for serious kegling, and a good time was had by all.
Spurred on by the mighty Kong’s pitched battle with the T-Rex, I rolled two games over 150, which isn’t bad for a guy who bowls once a year.
The case arose when the man failed to wish his wife a happy birthday. They got into a fight, and she says he pushed her against a sofa and grabbed her neck. The judge noted that the husband had no record and concluded the incident was “very , very minor.” So, rather than setting a bond or requiring jail time, the judge ordered the husband to buy flowers and added, “then he’s going to go home, pick up his wife, get dressed, take her to Red Lobster. And then after they have Red Lobster, they’re going to go bowling.” The couple also will be required to get counseling.
Grabbing someone’s neck doesn’t seem “very minor” to me — although, in fairness, I haven’t heard the evidence or presided over countless domestic violence cases — and a husband who doesn’t remember his wife’s birthday has committed an unforgivable sin.
In any case, the sentence seems ill-advised on other grounds. For example, why would you order a husband who has been accused of domestic violence to stoke up on fried foods at Red Lobster and then take his wife to a place where the guy will be provided with 16-pound projectiles and expected to hurl them with as much force as he can muster?
The case raises other questions, too. Will the couple’s attorneys accompany them on the date? (“Honey, I think I’ll order the Ultimate Feast.” “Objection! That’s the most expensive entree on the menu!”) As between the generic dinner options available in suburban America, how did the judge decide that Red Lobster was more romantic than, say, Olive Garden or Outback Steakhouse? And finally, how many people eating at Red Lobster on any given evening are there by reason of court-ordered punishment?
Being semi-retired I’ve had some time to reflect back on events of my childhood that probably helped shape my character and one such event included little brother Bob.
When we were youngsters we spent a lot of time with Mom’s parents Gilbert and Maude Neal shown below. Grandma and Grandpa Neal were active grandparents, participants in several bowling leagues and both obviously loved to bowl.
No matter what the weather they would be at our house early every Saturday morning to pick us up when we lived in Akron and we would head off to Riviera Lanes to bowl. When they first took us we couldn’t even pick up the bowling ball so we would set it on the foul line and push it down the alley.
One Saturday Bob began his game by rolling two gutter balls in the first frame and followed that up with two gutter balls each in both the second, third and fourth frames. Being competitive brothers back then I couldn’t have been more thrilled with what was happening and was obviously hoping for more of the same.
Fifth, sixth and seventh frames all gutter balls from Bob, are you kidding me this was too good to be true I was delighted and started to wonder if maybe he wouldn’t get a single pin for the whole game. Ha – wouldn’t that be great, boy then I could really rub it in !
The eighth and ninth frames came and went with two more gutter balls in each frame from Bob. Wait a minute something was terribly wrong, the elation I felt just a couple of frames earlier was gone, it was no longer there. I actually found myself wanting to root for him in the tenth frame, come one one pin at least let him get one pin !
Unfortunately it was not to be, two more gutter balls followed in the tenth frame and Bob walked back and started to cry. So what did I do – I started to cry too ! Grandma Neal looked at me and said “Jimmy why are you crying Bobby had the bad game and I said I feel bad for my brother”.
Ha Ha – kinda a corny story, but true. I think the life lesson I learned from bowling that day is that nothing positive is gained from using your emotions in a negative way !