Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…
The sound is truly unmistakable.
I would bet that if any of you, should you be in a situation where you were, say, blindfolded — a thick black canvas bag thrown over your head.
Two large men — at least you assume they were men, and that they were large the way they handled you like a ragdoll — toss you into the back of a van. The van is going somewhere, and you can tell it is in a hurry. Sharp turns have you rolling all around the back of this otherwise empty van.
Then, suddenly, you come to a screeching stop.
The van’s sliding door crashes open, and the sunlight comes in piecemeal through the thick black canvas still obstructing your view. They drag you out of the van and across some open space — your feet dragging behind you — before that sunlight suddenly disappears.
It’s dark again. Darker than usual, though. You are thrown into a high-backed, very straight, and uncomfortable chair. And then you hear it…
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr … KRA-KLACK!
Over and over again, you hear it Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr … KRA-KLACK! Rrrrrrrrrrrrr … KRA-KLACK!
“Why the heck did they bring me to a bowling alley?” you think to yourself.
At just that moment, someone whips the black canvas bag off your head.
The combination of the darkness in the alley and the bright lights everywhere you look blinds you momentarily. Your vision finally starts to come into focus just as the whole group standing directly in front of you yells, “Surprise! Happy Birthday!”
Like I said, you’d all know if you were in a bowling alley.
Casinos get all the bad publicity, but if you really think about it, bowling alleys are basically the same thing. You know, minus the whole robbing-you-blind-via-the-vice-inducing-machines thing. They are both large, dark rooms with no windows and flashing lights everywhere you look. Only one of them gives you a sweet pair of kicks, though.
“Smokey, this is not ‘Nam, this is bowling, there are rules.”
Bowling is a niche world that I’ve never fully been initiated into.
Some families are “bowling families,” some are not. Mine was not.
My wife’s family, on the other hand, loves to bowl. The funny thing is, they are still not really “bowlers.”
With the amount that they play, you’d think some of the minor quirks of the game would have sunk in over time, if only through some form of osmosis. Nope, they just like to drink some beer from a pitcher, eat some bar bites, and roll some balls down the lane.
That is the only way bowling should be done. That is the right way. They get it.
A true bowling family, however, has their own shoes and their own balls that they bring with them in neat little bowling bags. They can probably even explain the math behind a bowling score.
I cannot.
Thank goodness I live in a time when the computer does all the scorekeeping for me. I’d be a lot less into bowling if I had to figure that out myself.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: a bowling alley would do wonderfully in Rockaway. You’d have your slow summer months, but the other eight months of the year, you’d crush it.
There would be leagues — a winter version of RBVL — that would become just as hyper-competitive.
Before long, locals would be talking about oil patterns and seven-ten splits over beers at the bar.
Speaking of bars, the tap lines would be kept pristine by the old-timers playing there four days a week for the early-bird special.
This week brought with it some inclement weather. What better time to hit the lanes than when it rains? Unfortunately, that meant a trip off the peninsula, and I found myself deep in Long Island for the simple pleasure of bowling.
I don’t say this often about leaving Rockaway — almost never, in fact — but it was worth it.
Maybe one day, I will be able to just hop on my bike and hit the alley without having to cross a bridge. A boy can dream, can’t he?
As the great Walter Sobchak once said, “Let’s go bowling, Dude.”
