Striking Out

When I was 18 and then 21 and then 24, I viewed New Year's Eve as a magical night. A night where the possibilities were endless. Where the mistakes and mishaps, hiccups and hook ups, loves and jobs lost would magically dissipate into the cool, crisp night air. And when that clock struck midnight, Cinderella didn't lose her pumpkin - or her killer gown and updo - but instead, I had the possibility of finding my prince. I drank the New Year's Eve Kool-Aid. All 130 bucks or so of what each of these potentially life-changing nights cost me...at 18....and then 21...and then 24. 

Until I moved to Chicago. 

That is when I quickly learned that New Year's Eve is the night you have to get through in order to get to the real deal: New Year's Day. And it was on a very special New Year's Day in 2009 that I met P. He was everything I wanted on paper...tall, great hair, Big Ten alum, Seven jeans, Belgian beer in hand...could the Heavens have finally aligned to bring me a boy with the Three B's? What are the "Three B's" you ask? I'll tell you. Big Ten, Belgian beer and...wait for it...bowling. Now, how, you ask again, did I find out that he was into bowling upon our first meeting at a very special dive bar in Lincoln Park? Because, I respond. I'm sick. That's why. 

In college, I became somewhat of a regular at Colonial Lanes - the epitome of a townie bowling alley. And this was back when you could still smoke indoors. So, it gave "townie" and "alley" epic new meanings. I used to walk in, gangsta-style flick my chin up at the first waitress I saw, wink (which stood for 2 pitchers of Miller Lite at my table stat), grab my shoes from Billy behind the counter and start the hunt for my strike ball (10 lbs) and spare ball (12 lbs). Yes, I was a regular. Yes, I used bowling terminology such as "rolling," "PDW," and getting a "gobble gobble." Yes, I rolled a 220 at one point and averaged 180. Yes, I had a lane name that I used when I rolled: Thugpassion. Yes, this was all true.

But, note this, my friends. Burn this in your brain as you continue on with the rest of my story: I did NOT own my own ball. I figured it was a slippery slope. Once I committed to a ball, there was no telling how many times a week I would be at Colonial. I had visions of myself dropping out of school, buying a quaint house/trailer a few blocks from the alley and spending my days rolling game after game, soon forgetting what daylight looked or felt like. I'd raise my children, Converse and Levi, there with their father close by my side as he deejayed cosmic bowling. Slippery slope.

So, I resisted the urge to buy my own ball. I remained a "casual bowler."

My first date with P was set. We were headed to Southport Lanes, the hot spot for the casual bowler. I say this because it is 80% restaurant/bar and 20% bowling alley. The bowling alley length is not up to regulation standards (yes, I know this) and they don’t have mechanical arms that reset pins mid-roll. They have dudes who smoke pot at lunch and stand behind the backs of the lanes with PBR in one hand and cane in the other. They reset the pins when they feel like it (or when you yell, “A little help here?!”). They can be bribed. If you’re not doing well, simply stuff a few dollar bills into your bowling ball thumb hole and pretty soon everything’s coming up roses. Or in bowling terms: you’re throwing down strikes. In other words, it’s not real bowling. At all. I thought it would be better this way because I’m extremely competitive. Like certifiably competitive. So, I thought I was doing myself and P a service by picking a fake bowling alley with real alcohol.

I thought.

I arrived on time, ponied up to the bar and ordered a beer. P arrived a good ten minutes later. I was less peeved by his tardiness when he sheepishly, and somewhat secretively, made his way to my bar stool. His hands were behind his back. Oh em gee. Did he bring me flowers?! Or a bottle of Patron? I was stunned and excited. This guy is legit! I knew Big Ten was the way to go! That was, until I saw what was really behind his back.

HE BROUGHT HIS OWN BALL.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to yell here, but seriously?

1.     When your date also shows up with a purse, you’re in trouble

2.     When that purse has a 12 lb personalized bowling ball in it, you’re in bigger trouble

My reaction fell somewhere between confused and horrified. His reaction was pure horrification.

“I thought this was like a legit bowling alley! Not a bar slash bowling alley,” P squealed, attempting to shift his bowling ball bag under his trench coat.

“Yeah…not so much.” I slowly responded…not really offering much help to his plight. I mean, have you ever heard of the Google? Do a little recon before you don accessories to your first date, brah.

We made our way over to the two lanes with our rented shoes (I guess he didn’t want to bring a full workout bag on the Brown Line) and set up shop.

The next 32 minutes were painful. P threw gutter ball after gutter ball.

“What’s on these lanes? It’s like oil or something. Or butter! What the $%#*”

“Yeah…I’m not sure,” I replied. “My house ball seems to be handling the lane just fine.”

This only served to further infuriate P. I gave him a $5 bill to send down the lane. He took it. And he still lost. Even after the pot-smoking, PBR-drinking dude used his cane to knock down strike after strike. I guess when you strike out early on, there’s no coming back from it. (Yep. That’s what we writers call a parallelism.)

Turns out, P was also certifiably competitive. Folks, when two certifiably competitive people compete, one person wins and the other person gives themselves a hernia.

After losing handily in bowling, P’s rage had made its way from his bowling hand to a pulsating vein on his forehead. “You shoot pool? Let’s do this. Rematch!”

Holy hell, I thought, this guy was nuts. I was immediately attracted to him again.

We headed to the pool tables and racked the balls. I pride myself on knowing my way around Billiards, but that particular night was not my night when it came to pool. Ball after ball, P shot them with such force into pocket after pocket (while also yelling out, “Yes!” “Suck it” and “Booyah!”) that I turned into the one who was no longer having fun. Around ball four of his run on the table, P excused himself for a bathroom break. I immediately summoned the waitress over and took shots of Patron with her.

The night ended shortly after our pool game. We couldn’t exactly go to another bar…because of the excess baggage.

So, we walked outside and hailed two cabs heading in the same direction.

P yelled over the top of his cab door, body half hanging out of the car, “Welp…that was…so, have a great…yeah.”

It was his best strike of the night.