The sound of the automatic doors whishing open, the feel of machine cooled air, the subtle musky aroma of sweat, the scent of nachos wafting from the snack bar. I am home.
The Bowling Alley
The weight of my custom drilled bowl in my bag, it’s calming. Powder on my fingers fighting away any cruel moisture. My special made shoes that slide in the perfect way.
My ball, thirteen pounds of destructive fiery resting on my finger tips. The high of rolling a perfect frame hitting what I aimed for at the end of the lane. The feel of a bowlers callous on my thumb, proof of my obsession.
The smell of lane oil, thick and comforting in the air, the rumbling sound of the ball return as my baby rolls back to me. It’s amazing and thrilling as I roll a score easily exceeding one hundred. However, there is pain.
Arthritis
I am slowly losing my hand to the cruel disease. Holding a pencil is brutal. Flipping the page of one of loved, well worn books is torture. The harsh truth that in less than ten years the only ball in my hand will be a small exercises one, trying to fight the crippling genetic disorder.
However, when I am standing up on the approach, there is only peace. There is peace beneath the bright lights and nearby amateurs cheering for five pins. As I step up to the line and swing back my practiced arm there is true happiness. As the ball leaves my hand, my fingers giving it a perfect hook, there is relief. Then in the moment as all the pins collide and fall helplessly and for the next nine frames there is only……
Satisfaction