July 4 Kegling

IMG_6111What could be more patriotic than a little bowling on Independence Day?

Grandpa Neal would be proud.  It turns out that Russell is really starting to enjoy bowling with his friends up in the Motor City, so when he came for a visit this weekend he wanted to roll a few frames with Kish and me.  Yesterday afternoon we went down South High Street to Wayne Webb’s Columbus Bowl.  It was largely deserted, but we had fun and there was red, white, and blue to be found in the riotous colors that were everywhere we looked.  It was a useful reminder that you never want to have your home decorated by the same person who also has devised the color scheme at a bowling alley.

It was the first time I’ve been bowling in a year and a half, and in my first game I had my worst game in decades — a 104.  I’m happy to report, though, that I righted the ship and followed it up with a 155 and then a snappy 209.


The Fireballs And Their Trophy

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.

Grandpa’s Bowling Team

IMG_3667I 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.

Disturbing Bowling Alley Artwork

IMG_3408Don’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.

Hard-Ass Keglers

IMG_3420The 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.

Not Your Grandpa’s Kegling

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.

On A Romantic, Court-Ordered Date At Red Lobster

In Florida, a judge hearing a domestic violence charge has ordered the husband accused of the misconduct to take his wife to dinner at Red Lobster and then bowling.

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?