Please Spare Me - Ten Pins & One Rotator Cuff

It began innocently enough. Most bad things do. Nobody ever says, “Hey, I’m let’s go to the bowling alley and see if you can suffer an injury in front of your grandchildren.” But there I was, standing under the glow of fluorescent lights and the smell of rented shoes, about to learn yet another important lesson about aging.

It wasn’t my intent. I had just stopped by because I knew my son was at the bowling alley with three of my granddaughters. I decided to make a surprise guest appearance and watch them bowl. And that’s when it happened. One of them asked me to bowl a frame.

One frame. That’s two rolls of a bowling ball. Two. Not climbing Mount Everest. Not competing in the decathlon. Not wrestling an alligator. It’s bowling - the . sport most commonly associated with pitchers of beer, chili-cheese fries, and men named Earl.

In fairness, I used to be a decent bowler back in the day. I even bowled in a league when I was a kid. I owned my own bowling ball at one point in life, which in the mid 1960’s was about the height of my athletic accomplishment. 

And apparently deep in my brain, buried beneath Medicare information and passwords I can’t  remember, I still thought of myself as “a bowler.”

So naturally, I figured this would be easy.

I’d stroll up there, casually throw a strike, and my grandchildren would look at me with awe and admiration. They’d whisper among themselves, “I’ll bet Granddaddy was an elite athlete in the 1800’s.”  

I smugly grabbed a ten-pound ball. Not too heavy. Just enough weight to let everybody know I still had a little thunder left in the ol’ arm.

I took my stance, faced the pins, then looked back at the kids and spoke with the confidence of Barney Fife explaining law enforcement procedures. 

“Now this,” I announced proudly, “is how you throw a bowling ball.”

And then, Thud, thud, klunk! I promptly bounced the ball directly into the gutter.

That’s not a typo. It didn’t roll - it bounced. Twice. 

I don’t know exactly how that happened. I’m still not sure how I apparently defied the laws of physics But there it was, my grand athletic comeback lasting about three seconds before disappearing into the gutter.

Children don’t believe in protecting their feelings. They haven’t developed that filter yet. Most adults will at least pretend not to notice your humiliation. Kids treat it like live entertainment.

The laughter started immediately.

Not polite chuckles either. We’re talking full-body laughter. One of them may actually have pointed at me and giggled - I’m not sure. But if that indeed did happen, I may consider rewriting my will.  

Now, at this point, a wiser man would’ve laughed with them, sat down, and returned to eating pizza.

But no.

The competitive spirit awakened inside me.

I became determined to make the greatest spare in bowling history. This next roll of the ball would redeem everything. Rocky Balboa had his comeback. Roy Hobbs had his moment in The Natural. I was about to have mine at the Spare Time bowling alley.   

I stepped forward again, trying to ignore the tiny audience now waiting to see what fresh disaster might occur. 

Once more I carefully went through the proper bowling procedure. Grip. Stance. Focus. 

And once more, I dribbled the ball into the gutter.

At that exact moment, I felt something in my shoulder go “pop.”

Not a loud pop. More like a quiet little internal memo from my body that read: “Hey. We are no longer equipped for this kind of activity.”

Translation: I’m pretty sure I pulled a muscle.

Think about how pathetic this sentence is. I injured myself bowling.

Bowling is considered a low-intensity sport, if it’s a sport at all. Bowling is what people do while eating nachos. Nobody has ever completed ten frames and said, “Whew! I am worn out. It just took it out of me today. I’m gonna need an ice bath and some recovery time.”

And you never see ESPN cutting live to “Bowling Injury Reports.”

“Earlier this evening, Frank suffered a pulled hamstring in the seventh frame while reaching for his mozzarella sticks.”

And yet somehow, I managed to leave the bowling alley injured.

What does that say about my physical conditioning? Apparently, now my body considers minor  recreational activity to be a hostile attack.

It’s humbling when you realize your grandchildren can survive trampoline parks, monkey bars, and bicycle crashes while you’re one bad bowling frame away from physical therapy.

By the time we left, my shoulder hurt, my ego was bruised, and my grandkids had a brand-new favorite story.

Meanwhile, I have begun reevaluating which activities are still medically advisable for me. They’re going to play putt-putt next week and asked me to come along. I told them I’d think about it. After all, you do have to bend over to pick up the ball. 

At this point, my safest athletic option may be sitting at home playing Candy Crush and hoping I don’t sprain a thumb.