The Alleghany County Writers group meets monthly at the Sparta, NC, library to share writing inspired by a prompt. We rotate who leads and August’s leader left an opening for “other.” This thrift store bowling ball, bag and only one shoe prompted me to find its story.
The Perfect Game
Every Saturday, Stanley burst through the swinging glass doors of Brookhaven Lanes and headed straight to the buffing machine, dropping in a precious quarter. He studied his twirling ball as it was cleaned and polished. Lifting it out, he enjoyed seeing the reflection of his front teeth, exposed in a smile as wide as his favorite lane, number seven.
No other guy had the hutzpah to roll a purple bowling ball, and no other bowler had a Galaxie 300, perhaps inspired by the recently introduced Ford automobile. With silver streaks and swirls, that purple orb might as well have been a visitor from another solar system. It spun wildly from his wicked hook until it found purchase on the maple and curved into the pocket with an assertive crash. In his bowling league, only George consistently scored over 220, proud that his dull black ball had not been polished since new. Where Stanley was a trim, athletic welder who worked at the shipyard, George was a disheveled accountant who worked out at the gym excessively. When their teams played each other, the rest of the league enjoyed their fierce rivalry, always gentlemanly. No trash talking between these guys – but oh man, the glares and stares!
Today, the teams squared off on lanes seven and eight, alternating each frame. By frame seven, both bowlers had rolled nothing but strikes. Could one of them be on their way to a perfect 300 game? Other bowlers began to check the overhead scores between their own rolls. A perfect game was so rare, to see the league rivals share that possibility was wild.
By the ninth frame, everybody gathered to watch history being made, one way or the other. The entire alley was unnaturally quiet; nobody talked, no other pin-setting machines made noise. The drone of the ball returns with their hand-drying fans set down a background hum like monks chanting.
Stanley and George needed all the help they could get, each waging an internal war with self-doubt and distracting thoughts. Somehow, both tapped into their strike-throwing grooves to stay perfect. Murmurs of wonder broke the silence, but nothing loud enough to break the tension. Neither bowler dared make eye contact with the other.
George took his position for the tenth and last frame, one white shirttail hanging out. Jaw clenched as he retrieved his ball, he quickly took his position. Only then could you see his shoulders relax. His brusque, powerful steps delivered his black ball with its expected bang and curved towards the strike zone. The crash sounded good, but the seven pin remained standing, no matter how much he jumped up and down. Involuntary gasps came from the other bowlers, sad to see him be denied. He made the spare and flung himself on his seat. He nodded at Stanley.
Stanley stood, dried his hands, grabbed his ball, and placed his feet just to the left of the center dot on lane seven. Still as a statue, he took an audible deep breath. Nobody could imagine what he was doing to calm his mind and focus on his routine. He slowly hoisted the Galaxie from his waist, chin down as if to whisper sweet nothings into its purple swirls. His first step was slow as the ball moved forward from his chest. Each movement after that grew in intensity until the ball exploded at release like a cannon. It was the speed, not the sound, for he lay that ball down silently and smooth as silk. Arcing towards the first marker, seemingly bound for the gutter, the spin finally overcame the forward thrust. It curved towards the pocket. Strike! He needed two more to score 300. The crowd silently rooted for a miracle. Several were twisting their bowling towels into knots. Strike! One more to go. Stanley somehow seemed even calmer. There was absolutely no sound as he rolled, until the crash and he could confirm that all ten pins went flying. His arms pumped the air as his smile lit up the alley. Cheers erupted from everyone, even George, witnesses to amazing nerve delivered with style. Stanley became a legend. The lanes bronzed one of his bowling shoes to display on a plaque by the door. He kept the right shoe in his bowling bag with the Galaxie for luck, planning to put it back on only if he again got through frame seven with all strikes.
