Which of these balls has a nine-hundred series in them?
The following is another installment in a series of articles based on the real life sports exploits of our gallant protagonist, the Weekend Warrior.
A man stood, smug and relaxed. Surely he knew something the rest of them didnt. He had carefully parked his 83 Buick Skylark, and looked up at the sign outside his domain. It read: eagues orming. He snickered.
He popped the hook on the bungy cord out of the rusted hole that used to house the lock, and the hinges squealed as the massive trunk lid slowly rose. He gathered his tools from the cavernous trunk. A modified oxygen tank holder from his late grandfather crudely carried two ancient bowling ball bags, a pair of green-grey-navy-red bowling shoes, and a third bowling ball bag with the initials WW, which he dangled from his left shoulder as he strutted confidently through the double doors of the hallowed Golden Pins Lanes.
It was early evening, just past dinner time on a Wednesdayhump day as he called itbut while the masses came home from work, ate a late supper, watched Seinfeld re-runs, or fired down the last of their happy hour beverages- the Weekend Warrior stood gallantly, listening to his anthem. It was a symphony of bruised wood echoing out in pain, the low rumbling of a ball searching out its destiny. And the shrill crack of pins cascading from wall to wall to hard wood only to have to face the same assault moments later. He was at the lanes, and it was league play.
He double-checked behind his ear to make sure his cigarette was still resting atop its perch, and it was. Only one per frame tonight, he thought to himself.
A thick layer of smoke hung heavy in the air like a civil war battlefield a few hours after the fighting had stopped. Time to make Pete Weber proud, he thought to himself as he laced up his bowling shoes, pulled up his knee-high nylon bowling socks, fidgeted with his glove, adjusted his collar, slicked back his hair, ordered a pitcher of The High Life, polished up his balls, fired up his first heater of the night, and prepared.
A little oily today, man, he commented to an alley employee passing by. The worker paid him no attention at all. No matter, it was a new night; his night, and he was confident he would find the pocket for his hook and the ball would be rolling true for 30 magnificent frames.
He looked forward to a slow moving, three game series. His sights were set on only one number: the goal, the mystical pursuit of a perfect series. The 900. He brimmed with confidence as he chalked his hands and scuffed the bottom of his shoes with a key.
He tossed a practice ball to loosen up. It popped off his thumb perfectly and set down on the lane with barely a whisper. As it sped between the gutters, the ball furiously spun searching for traction through the oily glaze on the beautiful white maple. Finally it gripped and turned into the pocket decimating the pins in a masterpiece that was more art than physics.
"No need to waste another one of those before the match. Thirty-six more and Ill be home free, he murmured as he tried to calm his nerves. Twelve turkeys.
He was anxious. A tributary of sweat trickled down his forehead disappearing momentarily in a thicket of chest hair which protruded out from his collar, and then into the larger body of water located in his underarm.
Man, its hot in here, he said, almost in disbelief at the desert-like temperature inside the alley.
You know what I always say man, quipped a teammate, nothin breathes like these here polyester uniforms my cousins wife got us fuckin whore that she is. And with that the following announcement came over the loud speaker:
All bowlers, please hold your ballsThank you. League play is ready to begin. If you are participating in the 50/50 raffle, please have your tickets paid for by the fifth frame. Sorry, we are not running tabs on the raffle tickets Good luck.
He was more truck driver than athlete, more sphere than man, and his gut hung heavy pulling the back of his shirt taught over his broad shoulders. Unlike the majority of the U.S. populous, he cared nothing about his physical appearance, and paid even less attention to the fad diets found on women's talk shows and in grocery store magazines. In the majestic sport of bowling, he knew having a massive, steadying gut meant more power and power meant PA! The holy grail of bowlingpin action.
He scanned the lanes wondering who, if anyone, would stand against his charge. And if the other lanes were just as oily as his. He knew the unkempt lanes would be unpredictable and that could effect his game. But there was little he could do about that now. He just needed a little luck- a good 7-pin kick here and a clutch Brooklyn there. He already owned an unfair advantage: he had found the pocket on his first toss. He was like a hunter stalking prey at night dressed in all black, hiding in the shadows, and wearing night vision goggles.
The concentrated, forty-yard stare of the Weekend Warrior.
Im going to call my wife when they put my name on the Wall of Champions, and give me a plaque commemorating my perfect series, he confidently thought. Sadly, there would be no celebratory calls home on this particular evening, partially because his cell phone could only get two bars of reception inside the bowling alley. Fuckin thing, he mumbled as he re-clipped his phone to its holder which hung proudly from his belt.
He waited impatiently as the other members of his team prepared for battle. The wait gave him time to mentally ponder his exceptional bowling pedigreethe prestigious, First 100+ Pins in a Series Award as a 16-year-old, the honorary Score Keeper's Award his senior year as an alternate on his high school JV team, captain of his office league team 1986. These trophies were displayed proudly on his fireplace mantel among his other sporting accomplishments, and the mere mention of them by acquaintances, or strangers who had once visited his humble home, often brought a quirky smile to his worn face. Even the thought of them could lighten his mood. This time was no exception.
After carefully studying the throws of his three teammates, it was his turn to roll. He aligned himself with the small arrows on the floor and stood motionless for what seemed like an eternitystaring straight ahead at what he surely knew would become his destiny.
Nine-hundred nine-hundred, he repeated softly to himself, over and over attempting to visualize his quest for perfection. Finally, he took his first steps toward legend and legacy, approaching the lane with short, choppy steps. With a grand jerk of his body, his trunk rotated counter-clockwise from right-to-left in a movement that somewhat resembled a mans contorting, lifeless body giving way to the force of gravity the moment his neck snaps as he is hanged. His hand shot into the air in a wild spasm. Then a follow through like a second-grader jubilantly raising her hand in class. The ball fell to the ground below with a resounding thud that echoed throughout the alley like a shotgun blast inside a quiet wooded ravine.
Heads jerked, and all eyes now focused on the source of the booming noise. The Weekend Warriors pulse quickened as his ball approached the pinseverything was in slow motion. He saw his ball beginning to break early, it was drifting...drifting.
Goddamn excess lane oil, he muttered. With a last gasp effort of Body English that nearly turned the whole damn bowling alley on its side, the Weekend Warriors ball gently knocked over two pins and disappeared. He moped back to the ball return, devestated.
He stopped and turned back to stare down the pins that refused to yield to their destiny, and his. He reached his weapon out over the vent. Cool air blew on his clammy hand, his fingers outstretched. He looked as if he were reaching for some unattainable answer, a grand wisdom somewhere in the cosmos. His majestic journey for perfection had ended abruptly, absent of fanfare, reduced to another dream gone unfulfilled.
Then, with a long exhale and a quick retightening of his two-fingered Ebonite Pro-Form Positioner glove with built-in wrist support, he put the last frame behind him. He needed to focus. A 290 was still in the cards, and that ain't too bad.
But it wasn't to be. His crushing disappointment couldn't be overcome, and his confidence waned as his game crumbled. He stood at 48 pins after the fifth frame, and his focus was completely gone as his mind wandered. Would it be more embarrassing to walk out or roll weak? He pondered the question even as he tried to save face with a grimace and a pained rub of his shoulder. His shoulder felt fine, but the show wasnt completely counterfeit. He was hurting to be certain, but no massage could cure the damage to his pride.
Triple digits were the low watermark, but he had even fallen below that modest pace. He needed to pull it together. Another sub-one-hundred score would be a tragedy. He simply had to break the triple-digit-barrier. But alas, he would fall short in all three gameshis series score that night: a paltry 249just two pins better than the previous weeks debacle.
He sat in shock, finishing another pitcher of the High Life as his teammates packed up and offered empty encouragement. For him, each gulp of the Champagne of Beers was another step toward forgetting the sorrow that now swelled inside him. He would also exceed his intended pace of one cigarette per frame and instead go on a nicotine bender, burning though four-packs in the course of the evening.
As he sat listless and confused, his binge drinking and smoking took a toll on him. Things were hazy now, and his mind battled his emotions in a fierce war of attrition in which there were no answers, only a dark place, deep down in the bowels of his soul where he buried his pain.
Sad, tired, and drunk, he now looked to his cell phone, an object that had held so much promise only hours ago. He slowly packed up his gear and approached the parking lot, hoping for at least four bars of reception.
Slowly, his sausage fingers dialed his home number and his wife answered the phone, Its me can you come pick me up? No, Im at the lanes Theyre gone alreadyIm the last one here and I'm FAR too drunk to drive OK, Ill wait for you OK Alright OK Jesus Christ, not now WOMAN! And with that he knelt down, covering his leathered face with his greasy hands.
Having a gut means only one thing... pin action.
Goddamn oily lanes, he whispered.
A tear of embarrassment streamed down his face as he looked to the moon and shouted out into the emptiness of the night, Why? WHY?! His body retreated to the ground and he passed out, laying motionless, as he waited for his wife to pick him up. Gently, the skies opened and a soft, misting rain fell upon him, for he knew Mother Nature was laughing at him, washing away his successes and baptizing him cruelly, in unmitigating failure.
Weeknd Warrior Final Stat Line: Games Played: 3 High Game: 89 Strikes: 1 Spares: 2 Gutter Balls: 17 Series Score: 249 Pitchers of Miller High Life: 7 Packs of Cigarettes: 4 Shattered Dreams: 1
Great Writing Posted: 8/23/2005by: just me Great writing, MTL... finally some actual WRITING on this site. Nice job mixing humor with atmosphere. For a minute there, I felt like I WAS the WW!!! the answer tom is evolution Posted: 8/16/2005by: M.Thomas L. An excellent question Tom... as a man the Warrior is growing, evolving through life's strange complexities. He has a child-like passion for the games of his youth, but as he adopted bowling as a 'sport' in his adult life, he took this loss a little harder (in addition he's coming off of three consecutive horrible games in basketball, softball, and football) and his confidence is wavering. His once blind faith in his ability is somewhat shaken, and his athletic soul is quivering. Doubt has, for the first time in his life, creeped into a picture he always viewed through rose-tinted glasses. I hope this helps explain things. Question Posted: 8/16/2005by: tom I thought the weekend warrior was oblivious to his shortcomings. This is the first time we see him distraught and embarrassed. Not like I'm trying to delve into the psyche of this pathetic character but I was wondering why the emotion with bowling? With baseball and football he seemed to ignore the jeers and managed to keep himself motivated. BRILLIANT Posted: 8/16/2005by: RockOut with my CockOut The WW is the funniest piece the PP has going. It is consistently funny and ironically true...for most of us who attempt to play sports.
The haters just want to read TITTIES and CUNTS and PUSSIES and COCKS and BALLS..that type of humour can only be found in a trailer park..
This is great stuff....look forward to the Hockey WW Excellent piece Posted: 8/15/2005by: Neil S For some reason people dont appreciate MTL's work. Ridiculous. The WW is always point on, and while it seems long-winded to people, that's part of the style that a lot of readers have become accustomed to. So say what you want about the articles, there are plenty who love the WW and look forward to seeing more pieces on "him" in the future the weekend warrior at war Posted: 8/10/2005by: M.Thomas L. First off thanks to all of ya'll for reading. I guess the Weekend Warrior series has become a love it, or hate it piece. Some of you get him, or connect with him while some of you think he is (yawn) bor-ing. Either way, you're entitled to your opinions, just as I'm entitled to my perspective as a writer. So keep spreading the love or the hate... I got balls as big as bean bag chairs, and none of you can hurt my feelings (although my psychologist seems to disagree with that statement at this point and has instructed me to do daily affirmations in the mirror to keep my self esteem high). NOBODY fucks with the Thomas Posted: 8/7/2005by: Buddy Christ MTL- I know that you weren't at the office on the evening of the red bull and vodka binge drinking. I saw you with "the dude", this was some good sasparilla buddy. Oh yeah, and anybody that ever shits on the weekend warrior takes a long dirt nap from this day forward. My buddies didn't die face down in the muck for you bitches to talk shit about good articles to channel your envious rage and homosexuality. Peace be with you my friends. great writing... Posted: 8/6/2005by: c ...but c'mon, 249 is a bit low for three, huh? I'm the suckiest bowler ever and I can get 125... Brilliant Posted: 8/5/2005by: Earl Anthony You had me at "eagues orming." Great piece of work. Read it twice just for pure enjoyment. Spare poor Mr. Jablowme Posted: 8/5/2005by: J. Bruckenheimer It's not surprising that a guy with "Haywood Jablowme" for a moniker would find it "crappy". But maybe he and the others are right. Maybe you should forget about prose and originality and go staight for the low brow schtick that the kids seem to enjoy. Give up and give 'em what they want. Make every article about football and WWF(E) wrestling. Oh, and include gratuitious T&A references.
