Man vs. woman, editor vs. editor, friends that can become foes. That’s what bowling was about on March 26.
It began simply enough. I screwed around with the computer while Heather bought a beer, (Heineken). She offered me a sip, I declined. I wanted to keep my mind clean for the battle of might.
The first game started with a spare for both of us. All was going as planned. After the sixth frame, I was still in the lead. Then Heather had a strike while I only hit three pins in the seventh frame. It was at this point that I thought, “I can’t believe a girl is beating me.” Then I thought, “I can’t believe, as a feminist, that I actually thought that.” Finally, I came to the simple conclusion: “Screw her, she’s going down.”
It was not to be. Even though I matched her in the final three frames with one strike each, and in the final frame we both scored 9, Heather defeated me, 124 to 105. I declared a rematch. I would have my revenge.
New game, new blood. Heather began the game with an eight, a spare and a strike. I only scored a pathetic three, nine and five. She went on a three-frame streak later in the game in which she scored two strikes and a spare. I only had one strike and two spares the whole game! It was in the ninth set, in which Heather only got six pins, that she said, “The fatigue is setting in.” I had to point to the Heineken, even though she only had one. But it was Heather who got the last laugh, beating me 131 to 95.
The point of this venture was to evaluate if bowling is a sport. Some of our fellow bowlers seemed very convinced that it is. After reeling from my loss, I cannot fully support the sport of bowling, but I can say that next time I bowl against Heather, I will have my revenge (and get her more drunk to assure my victory).
I came. I saw. I bowled. I humiliated John, rather than myself for once. It was a Wednesday. It was raining outside, but I didn’t mind. I was in the zone. I was going to outdo my co-sports editor even if it took all night.
Off we sped through the streets of Ewing. We burst into Slocum’s high on competitive adrenaline, but the place was overrun with large men with dry elbows. It was either a league night or the local ‘Order of the Moose’ was convening. Who knew? Not these two grand poobahs. We peaced out to Curtis’ Suburban Lanes, a more suitable location to battle it out.
John was all a fluster trying to figure out how to fit my new very uncool nickname (Shady McDeaf Girl) in the computer, so I got up and got myself a Heiney. When I came back, he was still messing with the computer, so I made friends with the guy sharing our ball return. His name was Eruc (spelled with a u) and he was a Yuengling man.
Finally, we were ready to roll. (Ha! Get it? Roll!) The competition brought a new excitement to the game. I started off with a spare and was ecstatic, being that I’m horribly uncoordinated. John came right back with a spare of his own yelling, “oh man, they’re still falling! WTF!” Eruc looked over and gave us a little nod; he was impressed. I finished that game with two spares and three strikes, beating John by 19 points. I rule.
I was pretty content and could have left right then and there, but John’s pride was wounded so we played another game. I was cleaning up in our second game. His mood changed drastically, giving me dirty looks. Two of my favorite bitter John utterances of the game were “Ha! Nine, I hope that’s all you get.” and “What? Is this funny for you?” It ended, 131 to 95. My good friend slumped over in his plastic seat, his pride shattered. He should have taken the sip that I jokingly offered him to ease the pain.
Our goal in this excursion was to decide whether or not bowling could indeed be considered a sport. I don’t know if I can in good conscience call bowling a sport. There are lots of crusty elbowed folk out there that would disagree with me, however. I think the real sport of this outing was beating John. Don’t go entertaining any thoughts of revenge now, brah!