gutter balls

dedicated to my husband and his forearms

I went bowling yesterday for the first time in a year. It took me an embarrassing number of years to decide which three fingers I wanted to use, which three I wanted to sacrifice to the inevitable next-day cramping. (I decided on my middle, ring, and thumb, which I think are the ones you’re supposed to use but oh well.)

I go bowling maybe once a year (and only that) because I don’t usually find myself wanting it. Meanwhile, my lovely husband has the urge to throw a fourteen-pound ball down a slippery, narrow lane at least once a month, as someone with the forearms of a god does. And as such, he sneaks the bowling option in every time we’re brainstorming potential date ideas.

“What about a brewery… arcade… bowling… Doms and a movie…” It’s like he doesn’t think I’ll notice, but I always do. We inevitably pick any one of the other options, but I can see in his face he’s happy that he at least tried.

Yesterday was the best I’ve bowled in a while (or maybe ever), and it made me understand why he always wants to go, why he’s always down to trek over to Shatto, Xlanes, Highland Park Bowl, whichever. He’s chasing the possibility of bowling the highest score of the night or breaking a personal record. The euphoria that comes with cheering for each other as the ball rolls towards a strike. The experimentation of trying to curve the ball in hopes that it’ll catch the side of the red and white pin at the last second. For me last night, it was the adrenaline of figuring out how to aim that heavy ass ball for one magical night.

But of course, you also have to fight the shame that comes with the gutter balls.

The gutter balls that sink and make that embarrassing thump as it rolls into the abyss. It’s usually the main memory that drives my decision making the next time my husband sneaks bowling into the list of date night options again. Hence, the once a year bowling date. But eventually, we always come back to this rowdy, public sport because of the little tickle of potential, which (funny enough) is the same little tickle that reels me back into writing.

Not every writing session is successful (or remotely close to it). More often than not, I come back from my Friday morning coffee shop having spent $7 on a drink, taken a photo of said drink, and scrolled on Tik Tok in a new location. Rarely do I actually come home with progress.

And yet, I always come back to writing because of the adrenaline of a good session and the still unfulfilled promise of my best piece yet. I’m constantly chasing that moment when inspiration strikes and 2000 words seem to suddenly appear on a page, almost unbelievably so. It’s like a trance that happens only when the Perfect Trifecta appears — focus, inspiration, and creativity. Those are the moments when I can tell myself that I wasn’t crazy after all for standing around and waiting for it.

The same way that I can tell myself it wasn’t crazy to try bowling one more time, every time.