Rolling In Washington.

Once when I was ten years old I mistook the sun for the moon. It was a breathless winter day in Chehalis, a small town in southwestern Washington State. The cold seemed to absorb all sound, making it ring hollow. A high bank of altostratus clouds could be seen through the gaps of gray cottony, cumulous that hugged the land. The high clouds were smooth and taut, tan like the color of skin. The lower clouds were dark and ruffled; I swore I could touch them from a rooftop. The sun's play through the two banks created an illusion. At one point I looked up and cried, “There’s the moon! It’s full.”

I was with my mother and father. It was an early Saturday morning; we were driving into town. I was in a league bowling tournament and every Saturday we went to the alley. My parents laughed until I understood my mistake. I turned red alone in the backseat. That made them laugh harder.

They dropped me off at the front door and went to find parking. I was late. I ran inside and quickly slipped my bowling shoes on. I found my teammates right before the first game started. We called ourselves The Scorpions. We thought it sounded tough and intimidating. Our first game was against The Alley Cats. We all had a good laugh at that, as if team names would determine the winner.

Most of the kids were my age, but a few had reached the glory of teen. We looked up to those ones, admiring their developing muscles and sprouts of hair beneath their arms. Although we didn’t share the same age, we all held one thing in common: our parents were alcoholics. Even at nine in the morning, already many of them were on a second or even third drink. Cans of Miller High Life and Rainier lined the countertops, cigarettes burning in the ashtrays. Most kids only had a mother or father watching, but not the two together. In that way, I was different. My parents were seated together in the second row. I could see them already rummaging for the wine they’d brought along.

Bowling was never a popular sport in our town, as it likely wasn’t in many towns. It was more of a weekend activity, or a place for highschoolers to bring their sweethearts. We played it as a sport though. We rolled the ball with intensity and determination. We calculated our spin and aimed for the third hash mark. Adrenaline pulsed our veins as the ball drove into the center pin. It was a poor kid’s sport and it made sense, because we were all poor. Our team uniforms were homemade. We’d drawn scorpions on the front of three red t-shirts and wore black pants. Seattle was an hour away. Only an hour to find our heroes: the Butthole Surfers, the Posies, Black Flag, or Nirvana.

Maybe other kids saw us for what we were, poor goodwill shoppers with a permanent marker. But I don’t think so; we were all on the same train together.

We rolled a good game against The Alley Cats. We taunted them with weak meows on every strike or nine spare. We were ruthless and cruel and having a good time. The final decision was ours and we moved to the next round.

Our next opponent was The Kingpins. They held a town legend on their team, a scrawny redhead named Paul. He was seemingly harmless, but looks deceive, and man could that kid raise hell. His father was the leading alcoholic in the crowd. The man had more drinking experience and no-how than everyone combined. He liked to hit Paul a lot and many Saturdays Paul would show up with bruises about the face. Rumor had it that Paul would soon be a father to a fourteen year-old across town by the name of Lindsey Taylor. We were all in love with her; she was sweet and incredibly sexy. And now Paul had knocked her up. It’d also been said that Paul had once vandalized Sheriff Hamilton’s patrol car in the 7-eleven parking lot. Old Hamilton was likely filling his mug with coffee and talking some questionable material with Sue behind the counter. Little did he know, while he was trying to get laid, his car was in the hands of Paul. The car was a canvas, and Paul the artist held his tools: spray paint and a switchblade.

Paul was a fighter but he bowled like a lover. He would caress the ball before gently laying it down with such quiet force upon the lane. He had the most wicked spin; the ball would cut so hard at the last second, driving into the side of the kingpin. In that explosive instant, pins would leap in every direction. The invisible dust would settle on a lane lay barren of pins. Paul didn’t show emotion when it came to bowling. He would casually approach the scorecard and place an ‘x’ in the frame, before taking a seat.

We knew we needed a better game to beat The Kingpins. We played our hearts out, withholding our usual taunts and name calling for another team that didn’t have Paul on it. My teammates were Jared and Sarah. We were all in the sixth grade together. At school we were friendly and would pass greetings in the hall. But the true friendship lay at the alley. Sarah didn’t have the physical strength to drive, but her accuracy was astounding. That girl could draw a strike from the slowest roll. Jared, on the other hand, would throw the ball so hard he sometimes lost his balance, falling over the line and drawing a foul. I once saw Jared roll it so fast into the gutter that it ricocheted into a strike. Jared was strong and sloppy. He reminded me of Jose Canseco, either a homerun or a strikeout. There was never a medium. Jared either fit the gutters or blew the pins away.

The game was neck and neck. Sarah chipped away on spares, making a pair of incredible splits that drew a few “oohs,” “aahs” and scattered claps. Jared played his game and somehow managed more ‘x’s’ than ‘0’s.’ I rolled in between, grabbing a few strikes and a handful of spares. It was a tight game. The Kingpins held a small lead throughout the match. On Jared’s final frame he stunned everyone present with an incredible assault upon the pins. His ball became an amazing missile in his grip, detonating on impact sending ‘x’s’ across the board. It brought us to a ten-point lead. We were excited, but far from convinced as Paul stepped up to the lane. It was all up to Paul. A strike would send us to our knees; a spare would only extend our certain death with a third roll.

Paul was nervous, everyone could tell. He looked back toward his father, who bellowed, “Whatya waiting for kid? Roll the ball! Beat these little shits!” He was tanked. I saw my dad take a good long look in his direction. My dad wasn’t far behind, having just polished the bottle of pinot noir and currently moving well with the cabernet.

Paul returned his gaze to the alley. He shuffled four methodic steps to the line and let roll a spinning ball of fury. The Scorpions gasped, every last one of us. The pins exploded, but as they cleared, we saw the corner pin standing. It wobbled slightly and then stood strong.

“C’mon boy!” Paul’s father shouted. “Don’t wimp out now!”

Paul remained staring at the pin as it settled, rooted to the lane. He was fixed and deaf to everything around him. He held out his right hand to the air vent, collected his ball from the shoot, and took his position once more. He must have stood that way staring down the lane for thirty seconds. His eyeballs were drying out in that determined gaze. He stepped forward and let fly another spinning mass. Paul’s ball kissed that pin; I mean, it was that close. I’m sure they touched one another on the way to the rack. But, there the pin stood and The Scorpions were victorious. We politely shook hands and then wiped the sweat from our foreheads.

“Come here Paul!” I look up to see Paul’s father beckoning him with a strong hand. Paul walked toward him with his head slightly bent. That’s when a loud slap resounded in the alley. Paul’s father stood there with his hand still outstretched, frozen in place, as his face swelled red.

“Hey! Whatya think you’re doing?” I heard my dad shout.

“Mind your own business, why don’t ya!” Paul’s father shot back.

“I’ll be minding yours real good if you do that again.” That’s when he shoved Paul to the floor and pulled himself to his feet. Everyone was quiet and watching. Not a single ball fell to the lane, not a single beer was cracked open. All eyes were intently observing this scene unfurl.

I had never seen my dad this angry before. He was a simple and peaceful man. But on this day, I don’t think anyone bore witness to that. Within a split second my dad was on his feet and in front of Paul’s father. My dad’s fist slammed into his chin and Paul’s father fell back against the row of seats. His Pabst Blue Ribbon was knocked to the floor and made a puddle beneath him. My dad stood over him with his head cocked to the side, his right hand still hanging clenched to a fist. It reminded me of the famous photograph of Muhammad Ali standing over Joe Frazier daring him to just try and stand up.

We left early that day, the three of us nearly running out of the bowling alley. I don’t think my father was worried about getting in trouble, he just thought it was the right thing to do. No one liked the man who still lay sprawled across the seats. No one would help him to his feet.

I remember watching Paul as we left. His face was expressionless, his mouth a thin straight line, as he studied the crumpled body of his father.

The drive back home was silent. My mother was furious. But by the time we reached home we were all laughing. They congratulated me on the game, patting my back as we stepped inside.