It seems like all of my life I've been dragged into bowling alleys. From an early age, I thought it was kinda dumb, barely a sport at all. I didn't like the sounds of the alleys (thrumble, thrumble, thrumble, SPACK-BAK-CLACKETY-CLACK!) and I certainly didn't like the idea of sharing shoes with fellow sweaty outta shape men (and isn't bowling the sport for sweaty outta shape men?).
But everyone I know has always wanted to have a bowling experience with me. A rite of passage, I suppose...to HELL.
Which brings us to "Brad."
Really it's my fault that I found myself bowling with Brad in the first place.
Let me 'splain... I knew Brad back in the day when he worked at the same company I did. He was an affable enough guy and we became acquaintances. First came happy hour, then came friends, then came Stuart in the bowling alley.
Most definitely against my will, I was dragged into the alleys of deep, dark depression.
It's funny you don't really know someone until you either A) get hammered with them (I had many "friends" turn into ugly, violent drunks); or B) go camping with them (I wouldn't know, though, because a guy's gotta draw the line somewhere); or C) go bowling with them.
Things got worse with Brad. MUCH worse.
Once I entered the loud and odoriferous den of despair, I discovered Brad fancied himself an expert bowler. On the other hand, I knew I was a horrible, no-good, embarrassment-to-amateurs bowler. I had been conned.
Nine outta ten balls I sunk into the gutter. Hell, I didn't even have the coordination to ever launch off the correct foot. Just isn't in my clunky nature.
And every time I sunk a ball into the gutter, my ego sunk even further. Mainly because Brad sat at the table, roaring with giddy delight over crap beer, basking in his moment of supreme schadenfreude.
See Brad laugh! See him giggle like the broken wind! Listen as he brags about how well he handles big balls! (Hold up...that didn't sound right...)
He didn't stop at guffawing. Soon, the "good-natured" insults began.
"Hey! Hey, Stuart! Your lane's the one in front of you! Hoo-HAH!" and "Ha! I didn't know you were blind!" and "Maybe you'll get one pin this time! Ha HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!" and other choice bon mots.
As if my fragile male ego hadn't been battered enough into the gutter, the next thing I know, Brad's got his arms around me, trying to show me his alley expertise. Completely emasculating.
And I haven't.
Coincidentally enough, on my last visit with my daughter, she told me of her last time in a bowling alley. A chip off the ol' block, she was dragged in kicking and screaming by a "bowling ace." He then berated, laughed, hooted at, and denigrated her lack of alley skills. I'm so proud of her.
Anyway, this guy, too, ruined bowling for my daughter for life. We commiserated (even though we both agreed "the sport" sucked to begin with).
Let's put an end to bowling alley bullying (say that three times!). Make a difference today. Only you can do it. Help save the children. Please send money and gifts to me, Stuart R. West, care of Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley (or should that be "Bowling Alley?") to help me battle against bowling bully PTSD.
Speaking of shameless plugs and desperate Trumpian level grifts for your hard-earned cash, check out my short story horror (and dark humor) collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There aren't any bowling bullies in the tales, but there are some dark characters that could give Brad a run for the gutter. Plus, it's one alley that's even scarier than a bowling alley.
No comments:
Post a Comment