Bowling Alleys, and Rekindling Fun from the past:

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Bowling Alleys, and Bowling Balls!

I’ve recently decided that the knees and lower back deserve a little more attention than just groaning about them.

Which is partially how I found myself standing in a bowling pro shop, paying more than I ever thought I would for a ball.

Ok, I never thought I would be the owner of a bowling ball, but hey, life is full of little surprises, anyway…

But this was not just any ball, mind you. A custom-drilled ball, fitted to my hand like a fine pair of boots.

Not that you drill boots—the custom fitting part, you all know what I meant.

Oh, I felt like royalty for a while: great care was taken in measuring and fitting my hand just right.

So many details…

A thousand questions about how much spin, how much hook, how fast I normally threw, what weight I needed.

Umm, what?

And other important facts like color, special logo, team, or engraving.

And of course, “What is your price range?”

(Feels like they should have started with that last one.)

I’ll skip over the must-have new matching bag and shoes.

Wow, writing this out, it’s starting to sound like an episode of Sex and the City—except without the city, hmm, well, or the sex.

This was about bowling!

Let's take a step back shall we. Just how did I get here in the first place?

Let’s talk about that.

I always liked to bowl every now and then.

When I was a teenager, I spent a great deal of time at the bowling alley. Playmore Lanes in Muscatine, Iowa—ah yes, good times.

That was the place to be: bowling alley, food, drinks, an arcade, music, moonlight bowling, and, of course, that’s where the girls were.

When I think back, I did far more talking to girls and playing arcade games than I ever did actual bowling.

But I was there!

Those days of pizza, sodas, and the excitement of the teenage condition have cemented a soft spot in my heart for the place where the sport of bowling takes place.

Decades later, the hair’s grayer and the knees creak, but the glow of a bowling alley sign still has a way of pulling me in.

Which is how I found myself pulling out of the credit union parking lot on a rainy day a couple weeks ago, spotting the bowling alley across the street.

It didn’t look busy, and my schedule didn’t either, so I thought: why not?

Aside from crappy shoes and a little sticker shock at the price of those wooden lanes, I had a pretty good time.

Just me on a lane, a beer, and no one around to see the dismally low numbers I was putting up.

We need to be grateful for the little things. That is the theme here you know.

I also found it was a fun way to get a light workout. “Who knew?”

So, I told myself: when the weather isn’t Harley, campfire, or golf-course ready, this might be a nice alternative. “Your back and knees will thank you.”

After a few hours, I went home and got busy around the house, putting aside the crash of the pins and the amusing scoreboard animations.

But the next day it was raining again. And my thoughts went right back to the alley.

Was yesterday just a nostalgic hallucination?

Only one way to find out.

So back I went.

This time, it was busier. I bowled… well, let’s not talk scores. But I had fun.

Strangers struck up conversations, and regulars offered tips. An overarching theme came through:

“Get a ball made for you—it’ll be a game changer.” No pun intended, but implied.

Yes, this is how I ended up in the pro shop.

Wings, beer, and encouragement from strangers have been many a man’s downfall, of that, I am sure:

"Somewhere far behind women that is", but let's walk away from that one.

In retrospect, they could have been pro shop plants recruiting the obvious new guy.

And apparently one ball isn’t enough anymore—now serious bowlers have a “spare ball, or ball for spares I guess is more accurate”.

I passed on that one. My logic: I should probably get good (or at least beyond YOU SUCK) before I start needing a ball for spares.

Back when I bowled (or went to the alley where people bowled), you had one ball, rented ugly shoes, and drank beer while hoping for a strike.

Times have changed, my friends.

Still, there’s something refreshing about learning a new rhythm, even if it’s an old game.

Bowling has a way of humbling you. That perfect hook in your head?

Yeah, it usually ends up in the gutter.

But it’s also laughter with strangers, a test of patience, and a reminder that not everything has to be about speed or strength.

Except for the “stats” guys a few lanes down: DUDE, you threw that one 21 MPH!

Anyway, sometimes it’s about slowing down and rolling with it—literally.

And that’s the thing about getting older.

Bowling won’t turn back the clock, but it does remind me: staying active isn’t about being perfect, it’s about showing up, laughing at the gutters, and rolling again.

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