Breaking 100

When I went to high school, the state of Illinois required 1 credit of PE.  The high school gave you one quarter credit each year, so to be in compliance with the state we had to take 4 years of gym.

In theory, this was good.  Growing minds and growing bodies both need to be trained and nurtured, and habits of study and exercise are both worth acquiring.  Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way.  By making everyone take PE, the school ensured that classes were overcrowded.  We got 10 minutes of calisthenics, followed by, if we were lucky, 10 minutes of the sport of the day.  In the fall it was field hockey and archery, in the winter badminton, gymnastics and basketball, in the spring field sports. There were too many students to give any one student more than a few minutes on the floor, and if you were not talented physically, you spent as much time as possible on the sidelines, where the coach/teacher was happy to leave you.  I spent most of those classes on my back with my legs up the wall:  little did I know that I was practising yoga.

I was not bad at sport, actually.  But I wasn't naturally talented at it, I lacked the interest and the stamina, and there was no incentive.  If you aren't talented at something, you don't tend to do it, and it doesn't tend to be on your radar of possibilities.  Mediocrity is not tolerated, so you aren't supposed to enjoy things you don't do well.  Moreover, I had a family stereotype to uphold:  my twin was the athletic one, I the brainy one.  This stereotype was a disservice to us both; in later life I became more physically active, and she is by no means stupid, but we neither of us developed a respect for those parts of our beings. We have continued to operate at a disadvantage.

Today, I mourn the lost opportunities.  In fact, I strongly believe that our culture does not honor the multiplicity of the human body and brain.  Sport, music, theatre, art, journalism:  all are electives in school, only pursued by those with talent (or parental push).  Because mine was a small school, I was able to be active in anything that interested me.  That meant, I did not do sports.  I went to speech contest, edited on the newspaper and yearbook, acted in plays and musicals, etc etc.  I also took orchestra class, which, unlike the extra-curricular activities, garnered a quarter credit and met 1st period 2 days a week, alternating with gym.  My senior year, the music teacher lobbied for a real orchestra class meeting 5 days a week.  Because of the state law, the high school had to resolve the dilemma.  Some of us were college bound, and could not give up two hours to gym and music.

The result was the very first independent study at my tiny high school.  We were allowed to earn PE credit by putting in 5 hours a week of sport or exercise.  We had a little score card where we kept track of activities and time.  It was my first experience with an honor system.  They were very broad in the definitions:  it could be a walk to school, or a game of pool.  We just had to record some sort of activity.  While I fudged a little, for the most part I tried to do something vaguely athletic.  I played squash at the college courts with my older sister, swam in the college pool, and went bowling at the college lanes, all of which were a few blocks from my home.  Because of my other activities, I was usually crowding the hours in on the weekend.  Sadly, I was not learning to have a consistent exercise schedule.

That's when I first developed my bowling skills, which can best be described as erratic.  A strike frame would be followed by two gutter balls, a spare by one.  Only once, in my experience, did I break 100.  But I loved it.  There's something about the sound of the ball rolling down the lanes (or the gutter), crashing into the pins (or the back wall.)  Something about the way the ball reappears in a swoosh of cool air, popping out of the ball return shoot, rolling into the slot.  Something about putting on the special shoes, wearing them for an hour, giving them back, and reassuming the heavier sneakers.  Something about coming out, overheated and dazed with the noise, into the cold still winter night, blue-white stars glinting in the black sky.

So, it's a little confusing why, when we first got together,  I was so resistant to D's desire to join a bowling league.  Some of it was because I was so busy with other activities.  Some of it was because that was something he and S did, during their 7-year relationship.  I wanted us to have experiences that were not repetitious of old relationships.  But that was over 10 years ago.  We have 10 years of joint experiences.  I watch football with him and go to Blazers games.  He attends my concerts (sometimes.)  We both go to jazz and rock concerts, movies, plays.   And I have gone bowling with him.  But I wouldn't join a league.

Until now.

D's knees bothered him at first....

I am now the proud possessor of the highest handicap in the 5 Warm Bodies league, which meets on Tuesdays from 6:30-9:30.  I still have the most erratic game possible.  My average is 92, and my handicap is 115.   D's knees bothered him at first, and it took awhile for him to get back his skills, but he is getting better.  The other couple on our team (Busted Flush), is a mixed bag too.  He's actually quite good, and they have their own equipment.  He is a short, light-skinned man in his early 40's, with glasses, an asthma inhaler, medium build, and a shaved-bald squarish head.  He stands holding the ball chest high in that special hunched-shoulder bowling stance, moves forward with a sinuous feral crouch, the bowling ball curling behind his back before the smooth release, curving down the lane to hit the headpin just right.  His wife is plump, with shoulder-length squiggly blonde hair, parted in the middle.  She wears the same flower-patterned blue tunic and jeans every week.  Her bowling ball is purple swirls, but she does not have the power or skill of her husband.  She picks up the ball, walks slowly to the lane and lets it go with a thud.  She turns and walks back, not watching as it trickles down the lane, usually straight to the head pin, which it usually hits straight on.  The rest of the pins slowly fall, sometimes all, sometimes a split, sometimes a few to the side.  She watches us to see the result, smiling her sweet shy smile.

We have the same handicap and average.

Her husband plays several nights, but this is their night together.  They are polite, but don't talk much to us.  They know most of the other players.  He is involved in a roving poker game, and continually leaves the area to pick up his cards.  He also partakes in a football pool. He takes charge of the scoring and the technical aspects of the games, which continue to baffle me.  The pinfall and marks scores don't seem to be attached to any actual activity on our part, and I can't figure out whether we are winning or not.  They give me laconic explanations which only serve to confuse me further.  I very much doubt I'll ever get it.

D waiting for his turn

But they are kind, and so are our opponents.  When I roll a strike or a spare and turn around to do my happy dance, face beaming, thumbs up, arms weaving, they all applaud and give me high-five hand strikes.  When I choke, they smile sympathetically and give the closed fist bump:  nice try.

Last week I bowled 116, 98, and 72.  When I bowled my last strike, in the 10th frame of the 3rd game, followed by 2 gutter balls, one of nice (and talented) guys on the opposing team threw up his hands in disbelief.  "I've seen you bowl so many strikes, your first game was great, what happened?"

Hell if I know.

But the beauty of a handicap league is that, despite the scores of 200+ the other team put up, we actually won a game.  And, maybe by the end of the year I'll be able to consistently break 100.  Even though I am not an athlete.