Rolling Rivalry

Vignettes from the alley

When I was in college and before I moved from Indiana to New York, I started going bowling with my best friend, Mark. I was going to Purdue, about an hour northwest of Indianapolis while he attended the University of Indianapolis on the south side of the city. We stayed in touch via text and AOL Instant Messenger, despite the distance. One night he sent me a message: “hey Western Bowl has all you can bowl from 8-11 for $24. we should go.” I was down. I used to go bowling every Saturday night with my sisters and cousins while in high school and had developed a healthy affection for the sport. I even had my own ball (I still have it, actually; thanks Mom).

“I’ll pick you up at 730 when I come up from Greenwood,” he wrote. And so, a Wednesday-nights-in-summer tradition was born. Here are collection of happy memories from our adventures, in no particular order.

Kickstart My Heart

Mark pulled into my driveway. He drove an old Cadillac Fleetwood he’d been bequeathed by a grandparent. I said bye to mom and hefted my red bowling bag. I always wore the same thing on competition night: a pair of football practice shorts, a t-shirt and one of my Purdue football hats. I slid into the passenger seat of his car.

“You ready?” he asked. I just glared at him. “What?” he asked, concerned.

I had my phone set to max volume and hit play. Mötley Crüe’s Kickstart My Heart revved out of the tinny little speaker. I turned my baseball cap backwards and started headbanging. “It’s so over for you.”

He laughed. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

But from then on, this is how the night started, with Kickstart My Heart. Sometimes I’d mix it up with AC⚡DC’s Hell’s Bells first, or if I was feeling particularly aggressive, I’d play Lil’ John’s Throw it Up, but Kickstart always came next. He’d usually tell me to “Kickstart it” when I’d get in the car. It put us in the proper mindset.

The Trophy

Mark and I have always been competitive with each other. If you’re into astrology, he’s an Aries and I’m a Leo, so it’s only natural. If you’re not into astrology, it’s because we’re, at heart, juvenile boys. Before we got into this bowling business, we’d play serious rounds of Monopoly on a site called PoGo.com and competed over who could catch the most fish at the local reservoir.

It wasn’t long before we decided we needed a trophy: whoever won the most games would get to keep it. We needed this.

Any good Midwesterner knows that one of the best ways to kill time in the early 00s was to go wander around a Target or Walmart and just look at stuff. As it turns out, there was a Target about 10 minutes from the bowling alley; we’d often stop there before our games to buy big bags of Starbursts to munch on while we duked it out. We decided we’d find a trophy there. We had nothing particular in mind; we knew we’d find something that spoke to us.

It didn’t take very long. “Dude look at this,” Mark said. We were in the home and garden section, looking for something kitschy. He hoisted a gargoyle. It was a snarling gorilla with bat wings and devil horns.

the thing we found for our trophy

“It’s perfect,” I said, because it was. “Who is this for, anyway?” It seemed like the kind of thing the Target target audience wouldn’t be into. Whatever. We carried it up to the front with our giant bag of Starburst.

While we waited in line, Mark said, “Oh I have an idea.” He grabbed a package of those stick-on rhinestones (the ones women used to use to decorate their phone cases) from the impulse rack. “We have to give him a grille.” Incredible idea.

When we got to the alley, we paid for our lane and got to work at one of the uncomfortable tables behind our lane. We stuck little jewels on the gorilla’s teeth and around the base. To top it off, we pulled a pink starburst and red starburst (our favorite flavors) out of the bag and stuck one on the gorilla’s spiky wingtips. Whoever won the night got to eat them both.

Karaoke

At around 9pm, after any of the leagues that were playing that night were done, the alley staff would turn on a kind of music video channel and pump the volume. Bowling with loud music was something I loved; my high school days were almost exclusively Cosmic Bowling—this is an event where the lights were turned off and blacklights were turned on. There were lasers and smoke machines and really loud music. It ruled. This was pretty close, minus the psychedelic lighting.

Before this though, we could hear the people singing in the karaoke bar. One night we heard the familiar piano opening of One Republic’s Apologize start. The fella who requested it started singing and Mark and I froze. We made eye contact not quite believing what we were hearing.

“He sounds like the ‘Where’s the paperboy pervert’ from Family Guy¹,” Mark murmured. We both nearly wet our pants laughing. “It’s toooo laaaaate” would quickly become a taunt we’d throw at each other when we’d knock down a strike.

After this song, someone queued up Linda Ronstadt’s When Will I Be Loved which opens with “I beeeeen cheeeeeaaated!” Whoever was singing put their whole chest and then some into their belting. It was fantastic. This became another one of our refrains whenever we’d get an almost-strike or leave ourselves with a spilt.

From then on, we’d always request lane 44, the closest one to the karaoke bar. Happily, whatever group sang these songs also came every Wednesday night and always sang these two songs one after another. We had no idea who these people were, and they had no idea how important they were to us.

Pregame Rituals

Any competitive sportsperson knows the importance of ritual and superstition for peak performance. After we’d pay for our lane, we’d go sit on our bench and plug in our names. I called him Wolfman because he was very flirty with any woman we crossed in the alley. Mark was an attractive guy; he was a champion wrestler and was the sort of person who would get up at 5:30 in the morning to run a 5k before going to class. He had an eight-pack and beautiful ice-blue eyes. He topped all this off with unstoppable charisma that was very effective at earning a blush or a batted eyelash.

He called me “Dirty Bird” but because the scoreboards only allowed 8 characters, he always typed me in as “DIRTBIRD.” I’d so earned the name because I could throw a mean hook shot that would teeter on the right side gutter and break all the way over to the 7-pin (that’s the one in the back left corner). It was my most gimme shot.

I’d slip on a wrist band while he dropped a rosin bag beneath the ball return (yeah we were those guys; we even had our own shoes so we didn’t have to pay the $6 rental fee). He’d clap his hands. “You ready for fuel?” Fuel meant alley sodas: big 44oz cups filled to the brim. He’d usually Do the Dew while I’d opt for a Dr Pepper. We were still 23 and could get away with drinking sugar. These were very important to our performance, and we’d often buy a second round when we started struggling. We’d play at least 10 games on these nights, and very often played 12 or 13. Even though we were both in good shape, that’s a lot to ask of your arms and knees (and focus).

If the refuel didn’t work, we reset in one of two ways: a granny roll (walking up to the line, tucking the ball between our knees, and using both hands, push the ball down the lane); or a “longsnap” which was basically the same thing, except we pushed the ball between our legs with our back to the pins. Laugh all you want, but this usually resulted in a spare or strike on our next throw.

Theme Songs

During the loud music sections of the night, the music rotation was same fifty songs or so. We each had songs that made us bowl better. Britney’s Oops I did it Again really worked for me, and he liked P.O.D.s Still Alive. But we each had a song that practically guaranteed us turkeys (three strikes in a row, for those unfamiliar).

His was BloodRaw and Young Jeezy’s Louie Bag. He’d throw his strike, turn around, flex and yell “Stick that in your Louie Bag!” and I would fume and shake my head.

My track was F.L.Y.’s Swag Surfin. After each one of my throws, I’d perform the Swag Surf at the end of the lane and say nothing. What a BOP.

Spare Guy

One night a group of college buddies were playing a few lanes down from us. We couldn’t get enough of this one guy there. He looked like Big Bang Theory’s Sheldon Cooper²: tall, rail thin, a quirky graphic tee. This guy was far less uptight than his doppelganger; flamboyant might be a good word to describe him.

We first noticed him because he would do a nasally Austin Powers “yeeeeah bay-BEE” after every single one of his friends took their turns. He had us laughing when he yelled “Reeeevenge of the NYYYYEEERDS” for some reason. He became a hero when he picked up a spare and jumped up high as could be and clapped his feet together twice before landing. While doing so, he cheered “SPAAARE!”

From then on, we’d pay him homage whenever we got a spare.

Good Equipment

“Look at this,” Mark said, unzipping his bowling bag. “I got fingertip plugs.”

I snorted. “Needed an edge to beat me, huh? Using technology.”

“Guy in the pro shop said, ‘you’d be surprised what good equipment can do for ya.’” He quoted it with the cadence of a middle-aged Indiana man. We both laughed.

Naturally, after every strike, Mark would repeat this line the rest of the night. He still texts it to me, to this day. In fact, he sent it to me just three days ago.

I think about it whenever I buy a new tool.

The Horn

One night, Mark picked me up absolutely exhausted. “You alright?” I asked him before firing up Kickstart.

“Man, listen to this. I was driving back from Greenwood, right? And just as I was about to get off 465 my horn started going off. It was stuck. I couldn’t get it to stop. I drove through town like an idiot.” I couldn’t stop laughing as I imagined his car’s foghorn going off at nearly midnight.

“My neighbors were pissed,” he continued. “Dad tried to help me stop it, but there was nothing we could do. Eventually it ran out of air. Watch.” He thrust his palm into the center of the steering wheel and nothing happened.

I won the trophy that night, but he still played well.

Best Games

One night, I was on an unbelievably hot streak. I started a game with seven strikes in a row. Swag Surfin’ must have been on.

“Damn dude, you’re gonna break 200,” Mark said. I’d never done it before. With all our practice, we were pretty consistently shooting between 150 and 160, and sometimes we’d flirt with the 180s.

I followed up with two more spares and went into the 10th frame hoping for a clean game—this is a game where you get all strikes and spares. It’s enormously difficult. I picked up a third spare but left my final roll open. I ended up with 235, my current personal best score.

One thing about good rivalries: when your friend is playing well, you tend to play better. Losing is always humiliating, but if you can stay within 10 pins, the hit to your pride is far less injurious. Mark ended up with 208 that game (he’d best me the next week with a 238 pin game, the jerk). We talked all kinds of smack to each other, but we both cheered for each other and wanted to see each other do well. The etiquette of our rivalry demanded this remain unspoken, but I can say it here outside the constraints of competition: I love my friend.

Clean Game

A few weeks after setting my personal best, I came close to beating myself. Another clean game was within my grasp. I hadn’t been striking consistently, so I probably wasn’t going to beat my record, but I was hungry for the clean.

In the tenth frame, I rolled a strike, earning myself two more rolls.

Mark grinned. “You’re gonna do it.”

I pointed at him. “Don’t you dare jinx me.” His grin broadened. My next throw landed a little too far to the right of the pocket (just between the 1 and 3 pins). I left myself with an ugly split: the three front pins on the left and the 10 pin in the back right corner. Mark swore. I glared at him.

I lined up my final throw, just off the center line and threw a gentle cure. It looked good. I held my breath. It broke at the right time, clipping the left side of the 1 pin and kicking it back and to the right. My curved shot took out the three pins on the left easily enough, but the one pin rocketed back and killed the 10 pin like a sniper shot.

Clean, baby.

I have just once picked up a dreaded 7-10 split³, but I consider this roll the best of my life, given the stakes.

Post Game

We’d finish up around 11pm every night, but we were young and always hungry. We’d almost always go get food at one of the establishments that stayed open late after our games. We’d usually go to a place called Steak n’ Shake (famous for Steak Burgers). Usually we’d get chicken tenders and split some of their terrible shoestring french fries. Sometimes I’d get vegetable soup. Often, we’d get one of their shakes. I loved the Mint Chocolate Chip and he went for the Oreo.

We’d sit and recap our games, relive the best moments. The conversation would shift to school, the girls we were into, other ridiculous stories of our adventures. Sometimes we’d “remember-when” about High School or mention an old friend we ran into. He’d tell me about the saltwater fish he kept, the new corals he was growing and selling. He ran a fish tank business on the side and had a few lucrative contracts with doctors offices. After he dropped me off, he’d usually go over and clean them before going home to bed. We’d both flirt with the cute redhead manager and eavesdrop on the two cooks bantering with each other.

Once, a new employee came in and had an argument with the staff about starting his shift. “I didn’t hire anyone,” the manager said. “You must mean the other Steak n’ Shake down the road.”

“No it’s here,” the guy insisted. She eventually told him to leave because she was overstaffed at midnight as it was. He swore loudly and stormed out.

Mark looked at me with a stricken look and laughed. “Man, that guy was so mad.”

“Some people,” the cute manager muttered to us and gave us free refills.

Train

Getting over to the alley meant crossing some train tracks just outside our hometown. Since it was nearly 1am by the time we went home, we often got caught at the crossing as a freighter rolled through. We’d usually turn on B105.7 and listen to Delilah’s sexy, soothing night time advice and easy listening music.

“I tell you about the wildman?” Mark said while we waited one night. Some sick medieval lute song was on that we found while we looked for Delilah. I shook my head. “I was coming through here the other night after cleaning a tank, right, and I got stopped for this train. The dude in front of me got out of his car. He peed all over it and flipped everyone off, then got back in and drove around the gates. I thought he was gonna die,” Mark said.

“You’re lying,” I replied.

“Swear to god. He turned off right in there. I can’t believe it happened. Craziest thing I ever saw.”

Godspeed, wildman, we love stories of reckless abandon.

Last Frame

When I moved to New York in 2012, I was in possession of the trophy. I tried to give it to Mark before I left, but he refused. That’s not how it worked. I flew back to Indiana for his wedding a few years later and stashed the gorilla (along with a big bag of starbursts) in with his wedding gift. Most of the jewels had fallen off. He’d open it later when I wasn’t around for him to protest. He texted me, laughing. “What’s this?”

“You got the love of your life, buddy, I think you deserve it,” I said. “You two look so happy.”

They still are.

He sent me a photo of a beautiful fence and trellis he built for her birthday; he was putting in a garden for her. “I rented a post digger,” he texted, sending me another photo. “Be surprised what good equipment can do for ya.”

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Playlist

Songs mentioned in this article for those of you interested. Note that these might contain explicit lyrics in case you’re listening with sensitive ears nearby.

1. Herbert from Family Guy

2. Sheldon Cooper

3. A 7-10 Split