Reluctant strike

From behind us the DJ appeared from nowhere. “And our first request is Macarena by Los Lobos, requested by Katie from Poole”. As the music started a group of teenagers formed a line. Not only was it the worse song officially made, ever, I suddenly found myself surrounded by dancing youths high on Coco-Cola, jelly beans and adolescent love.

Sunday evenings for most people mean one thing. The last bit of freedom before a new week at work. Even though you tend to do nothing, time still evaporates like the morning dew on s summers day. You don’t expect calls from you friends. Films, music and relaxation take centre stage. “Coops, are you up for bowling tonight?” came the voice from my vibrating phone. Within five seconds I would have to give my answer. Right let me think……….

Ten Pin Bowling always makes me wince. The first thing is the shoes. Their design can only be justified as some sort of anti theft device. The two tone pieces of leather would only be realistically stolen by clowns. They have the effect of making your feet look a lot longer than they actually are and without question they smell. Of other peoples feet. This makes it all the more laughable that you actually have to trade your shoes with the clowns feet. You may be thinking ‘Who cares, everyone else is wearing them’. Well, whilst on a work ‘team building’ afternoon two years ago we went ten pin bowling. The fire alarm went off and we had to get outside. As it was raining I walked around the shops wearing my two tone clown feet. All I am saying is that you never know when clowns feet have to go public.

Okay, it’s not just the shoes. Bowling does strange things to me. I always try and start with the big black 14 ball. It’s only when you try and lift the black 14 ball that you quickly realise maybe it would be better if you put it down before anyone sees you. A quick glance over, of course, the finger holes are not right, nothing to do with the weight. Why is it I can bench press by body weight but have to down grade to a pink size 10 bowling ball?

Well maybe it’s because we are not meant to pick up large, heavy round things with our fingers. The last thing I picked up and put my fingers into was a glove. Then there is the action. I look more like a penguin on slippery ice than a swan gliding down a lake. I must have been sick when they taught bowling lessons at school.

So I always end up the pink ball, I look like some drunk heading towards the alley, but it’s only a bit of fun right? Wrong. There is always someone in the group who played for the local under fourteens bowling team when they were younger and fail to mention this. The sort of people that glide down the alley. The sort that put reverse outward spin on the ball to increase their chances of a strike. The sort that try and give you that look of ‘it was just lucky really’ after getting their tenth strike in a row.

…… “Yeah, meet you down there at seven”. After all Sunday nights were, Sunday nights after all. I am a big believer in giving as opposed to receiving. They could all have a laugh at my expense.

As I stood with pink ball in hand ready to make my approach along the ice, I was suddenly halted in my steps by a beaming voice. The lights went out, the pins illuminated in front of me. This wasn’t just normal ten pin bowling. This was disco glow in the dark bowling. Then I realised just whey I had not been ten pin bowling for such a long time. Twenty something blokes don’t go ten pin bowling. More to the point they don’t go on ‘disco night’ on a Sunday. Not only was my bowling ball glowing pink now, I was standing in the middle of a disco. All I needed now was my parents to pick me fashionably early.