I am showered with darkness as I take my first steps into Stuy’s home bowling alley. The familiar sound of pins shattering and balls thudding on the lanes greets me as the DJ blasts and mixes some pop tunes. I head toward the recognizable crowd of high school students. The bowling coach, just as stern-looking as the basketball one, takes down our names and spreads us out. I wind up on the same lane as some of the returning members.
BAM. Strike. BAM. Another strike. They keep on coming, and my feeble spares cannot keep up with the scores of the pros. I try to focus in more on the target and not listen to the conversations that buzz behind me. I walk into my routine and start on my backswing. Suddenly the bowler in the next lane sprints up from behind me and slides into his shot, bringing all ten pins down and a roar of cheers in the background. I force myself to stop midway through my routine and start over. Glancing quickly at the crowd of spectators as I head back to the beginning of the lane, I notice the coach watching my every move.
My hands freeze and become icy cold but sweaty. The house ball I am holding becomes very heavy and uncomfortable, and my fingers jam in the holes. I take quick, deep breaths and try to calm myself.
“Come on, already!” people start to yell and jeer.
I run into my routine and swing furiously. The ball rumbles off course down the lane and smacks two pins down, sending the crowd into a fury of snickers. Trying to keep a poker face on, I walk back to the start and prepare myself for a good spare shot. “OK, I have to make this spare. This will show the coach that I can control my emotions. I can do this.”
The ball comes thundering back from the return machine and slams into my finger, which isn’t supposed to be there. I flinch in pain, killing the straight face and causing me to wince. Pretending nothing happened, I focus on my target of the third arrow from the right and, with deep breaths, I march on forward and launch a decent swing.
The ball rolls smoothly down the lane this time, and promptly creams the remaining eight pins, silencing all my doubters. I head back to my seat with a triumphant look on my face, even though it isn’t much of a big deal. The coach comes over and asks, “What’s your name, son?”
“Simon Man.”
“Alright, Simon, I’ll see you tomorrow during the second cut.”
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