The Perfect 10
Deliberately, I pick my ball up off the rack. Cradling the ball in the crook of my left elbow, I wipe the tracks of lane oil off of it with a clean, pink towel, carefully chosen to match my tournament uniform. A superstition of mine. After squeezing the little rectangular rosin bag, I, first, insert the tips of my two middle fingers and then the thumb of my right hand into the finger holes of the ball. I look down at the thin, half inch strips of variegated, blond hardwood and rainbow colored dots embedded in the approach. Carefully, I slide the center of my right foot, encased in a well worn, white leather, Lind's shoe, two boards to the right of the second dot. I notice every detail. The satiny feel of my suede sole gliding across the smooth wood. The pleat of my teal and pink cotton tournament skirt flaring away from my suntanned thighs as I find my position. The scent of lane oil. I grew up with this smell. It reminds me of my father, my 12 year old self, and 5 a.m. practice sessions. Quiet. Private. Reverent. No untoward interruptions. No need for conversation or food or anything but pure dedication.
I look out fifteen feet down the lane to the aiming arrows. My eye finds a little brown spot on the lane about four boards inside the gutter on the right side. I have found my target. Taking a deep breath, I slow every thing down. My mind chatter. My heart rate. My vision tunnels...obscuring peripheral vision. My ears quit seeking information in verbal noises and are soothed and covered by the generic, non-specific din of machines and hundreds of voices. The sounds morph into beats and rhythms. As cosmic as the universe. As visceral as my heartbeat.
I purposely ignore the overhead electronic scoring display, garishly braying the task before me. For the last 10 frames of the game, I have knocked down 10 pins each time. 10 strikes in a row. In bowling, the tenth frame is a bonus opportunity. If you strike in the tenth and final frame, you get two more shots at knocking down pins. On the 11th ball, I also strike which brings me to my 12th and final shot. A strike here ensures my achievement of a perfect game. 10 perfect frames. A score of 300. The Holy Grail of bowling.
I feel as if I am frozen. I can not move. Locked in fear of failure. Locked in fear of success. Yearning to realize the outcome of the perfection that I have trained for all of my life. Afraid of falling short of that perfection, I can't seem to move. Truthfully, I have been here many times before, successful in collecting all 12 strikes. But it doesn't "officially" count if it's not in sanctioned play. Nor, does it count if you have 10 strikes in game one and then then two more in the next game. It is not an "official 300." Right now, I am giving "official" the stank eye.
Finally, I rock back to start my movement forward. I push off with my left foot to get my right foot moving on my first step. Simultaneously, I move the ball out and down toward my target. I let it fall into a free wheeling arc while my footwork follows. I feel the ball reach the top of the back swing. I feel the speed of my movement gently sweep my hair away from my face, like the soft breath of a lover. Mentally I say, don't rush it here. Don't force. Wait...Wait...Wait for it. Wait for gravity to kick in and do her job, pulling the ball back down into the swing pattern. And I feel that shift of weight. And I gently follow the movement down like a dancer following her partner. Easy. Effortless. Weightless. Mindless. That's right. Easy does it. Rest between the beat of the moment.
At the bottom of the swing, I feel the inertia shift. It's time to go to work, time to engage my mind. As the ball hits the bottom of the swing, I feel the weight on my hand. The swing advances past center, upward. My thumb slides out. All the weight of the ball rests on the fingertips of my second and third digits. I curl them as fiercely as I can, as if to resist the ball coming off of my hand. And I give a vicious tug straight up. This is how you create those impressive, massive, board swallowing hook balls you see professionals execute on television. Curling your fingers tips with all of your might as the ball comes off of your hand is what imparts the gyroscopic inertia. In layman's terms, ripping the cover off of the ball.
The ball, out of my hand now, is jettisoned in a straight line, skidding through the oil, heading out toward that four board. Reaching its destination, it hits the dry boards and flips like a gymnast off the vault. It begins its high revving trip back toward the right-handers G-spot, the 1-3 pocket. It is homing in on a strike, moving like a heat seeking missile. During a solid strike, the ball slams the 1-3 pocket to knock all ten pins down. The ball, itself, only hits four pins, the 1, 3, 5, and 9. The remaining six pins are taken out by pin action. My ball hits the pocket and the pins erupt in an explosion of red and white.
I watch the ball roll off the back of the pin deck. I watch all of the pins as they blow off the deck. I watch as the six pin does its job and tickles the belly of the 10 pin, the last man to fall. It rocks on its bottom from side to side to side. Another degree of lean and I have my perfecto. Arghh, agony. The lean is not far enough. The soldier settles and stands straight in a one man salute. My spiking elation quickly rides a rapid descent to dejection. The score of 299 is mine. Still a record score, but I am denied my perfect 10. Today the bowling gods withheld one ray of light of my day in the sun.
Deliberately, I pick my ball up off the rack. Cradling the ball in the crook of my left elbow, I wipe the tracks of lane oil off of it with a clean, pink towel, carefully chosen to match my tournament uniform. A superstition of mine. After squeezing the little rectangular rosin bag, I, first, insert the tips of my two middle fingers and then the thumb of my right hand into the finger holes of the ball. I look down at the thin, half inch strips of variegated, blond hardwood and rainbow colored dots embedded in the approach. Carefully, I slide the center of my right foot, encased in a well worn, white leather, Lind's shoe, two boards to the right of the second dot. I notice every detail. The satiny feel of my suede sole gliding across the smooth wood. The pleat of my teal and pink cotton tournament skirt flaring away from my suntanned thighs as I find my position. The scent of lane oil. I grew up with this smell. It reminds me of my father, my 12 year old self, and 5 a.m. practice sessions. Quiet. Private. Reverent. No untoward interruptions. No need for conversation or food or anything but pure dedication.
I look out fifteen feet down the lane to the aiming arrows. My eye finds a little brown spot on the lane about four boards inside the gutter on the right side. I have found my target. Taking a deep breath, I slow every thing down. My mind chatter. My heart rate. My vision tunnels...obscuring peripheral vision. My ears quit seeking information in verbal noises and are soothed and covered by the generic, non-specific din of machines and hundreds of voices. The sounds morph into beats and rhythms. As cosmic as the universe. As visceral as my heartbeat.
I purposely ignore the overhead electronic scoring display, garishly braying the task before me. For the last 10 frames of the game, I have knocked down 10 pins each time. 10 strikes in a row. In bowling, the tenth frame is a bonus opportunity. If you strike in the tenth and final frame, you get two more shots at knocking down pins. On the 11th ball, I also strike which brings me to my 12th and final shot. A strike here ensures my achievement of a perfect game. 10 perfect frames. A score of 300. The Holy Grail of bowling.
I feel as if I am frozen. I can not move. Locked in fear of failure. Locked in fear of success. Yearning to realize the outcome of the perfection that I have trained for all of my life. Afraid of falling short of that perfection, I can't seem to move. Truthfully, I have been here many times before, successful in collecting all 12 strikes. But it doesn't "officially" count if it's not in sanctioned play. Nor, does it count if you have 10 strikes in game one and then then two more in the next game. It is not an "official 300." Right now, I am giving "official" the stank eye.
Finally, I rock back to start my movement forward. I push off with my left foot to get my right foot moving on my first step. Simultaneously, I move the ball out and down toward my target. I let it fall into a free wheeling arc while my footwork follows. I feel the ball reach the top of the back swing. I feel the speed of my movement gently sweep my hair away from my face, like the soft breath of a lover. Mentally I say, don't rush it here. Don't force. Wait...Wait...Wait for it. Wait for gravity to kick in and do her job, pulling the ball back down into the swing pattern. And I feel that shift of weight. And I gently follow the movement down like a dancer following her partner. Easy. Effortless. Weightless. Mindless. That's right. Easy does it. Rest between the beat of the moment.
At the bottom of the swing, I feel the inertia shift. It's time to go to work, time to engage my mind. As the ball hits the bottom of the swing, I feel the weight on my hand. The swing advances past center, upward. My thumb slides out. All the weight of the ball rests on the fingertips of my second and third digits. I curl them as fiercely as I can, as if to resist the ball coming off of my hand. And I give a vicious tug straight up. This is how you create those impressive, massive, board swallowing hook balls you see professionals execute on television. Curling your fingers tips with all of your might as the ball comes off of your hand is what imparts the gyroscopic inertia. In layman's terms, ripping the cover off of the ball.
The ball, out of my hand now, is jettisoned in a straight line, skidding through the oil, heading out toward that four board. Reaching its destination, it hits the dry boards and flips like a gymnast off the vault. It begins its high revving trip back toward the right-handers G-spot, the 1-3 pocket. It is homing in on a strike, moving like a heat seeking missile. During a solid strike, the ball slams the 1-3 pocket to knock all ten pins down. The ball, itself, only hits four pins, the 1, 3, 5, and 9. The remaining six pins are taken out by pin action. My ball hits the pocket and the pins erupt in an explosion of red and white.
I watch the ball roll off the back of the pin deck. I watch all of the pins as they blow off the deck. I watch as the six pin does its job and tickles the belly of the 10 pin, the last man to fall. It rocks on its bottom from side to side to side. Another degree of lean and I have my perfecto. Arghh, agony. The lean is not far enough. The soldier settles and stands straight in a one man salute. My spiking elation quickly rides a rapid descent to dejection. The score of 299 is mine. Still a record score, but I am denied my perfect 10. Today the bowling gods withheld one ray of light of my day in the sun.
