Author: internetbowlingpersonality

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Giving Thanks

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, November, 2016

If you’re a member of a television family, Thanksgiving means putting a fake turkey on the table and telling your fake extended family everything for which you’re fake thankful. If you’re a member of a real family, you don’t have to do any of that stuff and simply hope the football game is visible from your chair. If you’re a member of a bowling family, it’s kind of like being in a real family, except you don’t care about the football game, instead devoting all your attention to Uncle Bastion’s detailed account of his crucial thumb-tape adjustment leading to a 250 game in league the night before.

What, then, are bowlers thankful for? Is it the ability to end a sentence with a preposition when not doing so would sound incorrect despite being correct? Probably not. Let’s reflect.

Yes, bowlers are thankful for turkeys, even if we now prefer “three-bagger,” as the emerging elitist vernacular implies anyone who says “turkey” is a turkey. A similar movement is happening among Thanksgiving enthusiasts, discussing the best ways to roast, grill and carve three-baggers.

Competitive bowlers are thankful for prize funds, partly because of the money available but mostly because of the joy achieved in pointing out how the money is either too top-heavy or too spread out. If there is one guarantee* in life, it is that there will never be an acceptable prize fund in any bowling tournament at any level. Ever.

Professional bowlers are thankful for the respect and reverence heaped upon them by amateur bowlers. Whereas professional baseball players are berated by amateurs who average .530 in rec-league softball and are one glove sponsorship away from the big leagues, professional bowlers are roundly applauded for their far-superior skills and abilities.

Foreign players are thankful for Bowlers Journal International, where they can be named to the All-American team on an annual basis. Likewise, after winning two PBA Tour titles in Detroit at the Fall Swing and two gold medals for the United States at PABCON in Colombia, American Sean Rash is the frontrunner to be named next year’s captain of the BJI All-Norwegian team.

College bowlers are thankful for rotator cuffs. Obviously, these groups of muscles and tendons are crucial to bowlers of all levels, but they’re especially imperative to the collegiate game, where incessant high-fiving is almost as vital as the phrase, “Come on, pick me up.”

Parents of college-bound children are thankful for youth bowling. Those who took their kids bowling every weekend are celebrating a windfall of scholarship money while parents who absent-mindedly encouraged their kids to waste their time studying are learning the fine art of cleaning out attics and creating unique eBay usernames. Will someone please purchase shouldabowled14’s Micro Machines collection or imaturkey111’s VCR? Their kids need books.

We’re all thankful for superstitions, placebos and other inconsequential factors that give us the confidence necessary to be our best at whatever level we compete. Without that lucky parking spot or familiar sandwich, the pursuit of athletic success is futile.

Ink salesmen are thankful for preposterously cluttered tournament-entry forms, airlines are thankful for overweight baggage fees, mechanics are thankful for overloaded axles and HVAC professionals are thankful the lane man takes all the blame for any subtle change in the interior environment.

Who’s left? Youth bowlers? Youth bowlers are thankful for bowling. They like it. Let’s not get in the way of that. Now pass the potatoes into my non-bowling hand, please.

*Based on infinite entries.

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The Front 10

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, October, 2016

The first nine months of the year were good for The One Board. I was lined up, repeating my shots and crafting with confidence. Then, in an excited haste to get to another bowling tournament, I rushed off an airplane, inadvertently leaving behind my trusty first-draft notebook that housed three potential columns, and now I sit here finding myself unsure. I know I have to make a slight adjustment off September, but I can’t risk overadjusting and getting lost. The 10th month is crucial, because I can’t achieve perfection (or better: a 289) without the first 10 columns.



I’ve been doing everything just as bowling has taught me. I’ve taken it one column at a time. No, one sentence at a time. Geewillakers, one word at a time. I’ve proclaimed my preference to marathons over sprints while sprinting to the next sprint. I’ve had the right pen in my hand and was in the right part of the page, looking for hold and writing to it. I talk frequently with my pen rep, devising the best strategy to find the friction necessary to get the ink from the pen to the page, then calling in a graphologist to decipher my scribbles as I type them into a word processor under the watchful eye of my computer rep who helped me determine the optimal layout on my laptop screen.

To write a successful column, one has to catch a break here and there. It’s essential to capitalize on those breaks as well as the beginnings of sentences and proper nouns. When a poorly constructed sentence somehow plays well with the audience, a true veteran piles on with one of the best sentences in literary history, putting up two in a row and placing immense pressure on the other writers to try to keep up.

The key is committing to the sentence. The conditions vary constantly, and I may not be sure about a particular phrasing, but if I commit to it and trust it, it’ll either be perfect or I’ll learn from it for the next sentence. I have to learn from my mistakes and go forward. Stay down on the keys and post my punctuation marks.

Once I let it go and it’s off to the editor, there’s nothing more I can do. I can only control what happens before I get to the send button. As Pete Weber said his dad said, everything that happens before the sending of the column is 100% me and everything that happens after is 100% luck.

I don’t read anyone else’s writing. I can’t let what they’re doing affect where I may be. It’s a grind. I need to stay in my own world and focus on myself, then whatever happens, happens. All writers are great guys or gals, so I’m happy for anyone who succeeds.

The grind is what makes it all worth it, which is why I only buy whole coffee beans. Sure, pre-ground beans cost and taste the same, but unless I have to put myself through even a slight inconvenience, is the cup of coffee really worth it?

I’m not here just to get a check. I’m here to win. But, even if I don’t win, I’ll at least be able to say I got a check. Maybe. Well, definitely, because I’ve worked out an intricate system of income sharing with my fellow writers, guaranteeing no one gets rich but we all get at least one sandwich per week. That’s all the assurance I need.

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The Beneficent End of Summer

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, September, 2016

Finally, the hideous nuisance that is summer is on its way out. No more suffering through extended vacations, no more being subjected to outdoor warm-weather leisure activities and no more relatively low energy bills. Mercifully, those irritants are coming to an end and we can all get back to what matters: bowling three games a week with a group of people we haven’t seen since the last time we bowled three games.



In honor of the return of league bowling, I present a true story of self-aggrandizement only league bowlers can understand. Especially if you can relate, and I know you can.

When someone bowls a perfect game, as Paul did one fine Tuesday night, he deserves accolades. Whether it was his first (it wasn’t) or his 90th (it wasn’t), everyone within the vicinity will make a point to congratulate him in some way. Almost.

After knocking down the 12th and final strike, Paul was greeted with applause, high fives, handshakes and even a hug from one particularly exuberant reveler. Everyone in the entire league congratulated Paul in some way. Everyone, that is, except Brad, who also happens to be Paul’s teammate.

Among the hoopla surrounding Paul’s well-deserved moment, Brad shouted, “Okay, I got ‘em,” meaning he overcame the odds and successfully marked all the scores on the score sheet. His proclamation was the signal to the first bowler on the opposing team to press the button and start the next game.

Paul’s perfection came in the second game of the night, and with one to play, we’d already been graced with two incredible moments. First, Paul’s 300, and then, even more impressive, Brad’s documenting of the scores.

In the third game, Paul didn’t let up. On his final ball in the 10th, he needed four pins to shoot 800. While a 300 game is the most widely known astonishing accomplishment in bowling, we all know an 800 series is typically regarded as more difficult and impressive within the bowling community.

Paul, as he’d been doing most of the night, struck on his final ball, leaving him with an 806 for the night. Again, accolades were showered upon him by anyone in the purlieu who saw and interpreted the scores.

Brad, however, had done something even more impressive and relayed his feat to anyone who couldn’t avoid hearing: among his three games, he registered two 163s. The same score twice in one night. Incredible.

Because of Paul’s ability to trump his 300 game with an 800 series, and Brad’s unbelievable efforts in bowling two identical scores, then amazingly writing down not only those scores but also the scores of everyone on his pair of lanes, somehow, on this league night, a 300 game was the fourth-best accomplishment on the lanes.

To recap, here’s the list of achievements that night, ranked from most impressive to least impressive:

  1. Writing scores on a sheet of paper.
  2. Rolling the same score twice in one night.
  3. Bowling an 800 series.
  4. Bowling a 300 game.

A 300 game is a noteworthy accomplishment. An 800 series is even better. But without people like Brad, we might have to settle for those types of achievements meaning something. Thankfully, we know both pale in comparison to the ability to write scores on a sheet of paper and the incredible consistency required to bowl two games of the same score.

Brad’s love of attention is just one of the many reasons league bowling is a worthwhile pursuit and why we should be rejoicing at the closing of beaches, shuttering of patios and the conclusion of general comfort. Put away your white clothes, clear your calendar and load your 78-ball roller into the car. League season is finally back.

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Everything You Learned in School Matters

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, August, 2016

There is one phrase most humans will utter at least once during their formative years, either as naïve grade schoolers, know-it-all middle schoolers or figured-out-life-in-its-entirety high schoolers: “I’ll never need this in real life.”

Whether it’s the location of the frog’s kidney, the proper use of a semicolon or the Pythagorean Theorem, some kid somewhere thinks it’s useless knowledge that will never appear in his life ever again beyond the test he’s going to fail next week.

Of course, this oblivious, self-important, insufferable degenerate is wrong. The proof, as with most things, is in bowling.



Math

From the simplest things—the pins are numbered, the lanes are numbered and the building’s address is in numbers—to the glorious insanity of a changes-with-every-shot cut line, bowling cannot exist as a sport without math.

In order to know who is leading the tournament, you need to know how to add scores through all 898 qualifying games as well as how to determine which cumulative total is larger than all others. To figure the score in relation to par, it’s imperative you can multiply 200 by the number of games and subtract that product from the sum of qualifying scores. What’s your average? The quotient of two sums will tell you. Finding the volume of your freshly drilled bowling ball is a simple matter of rudimentary calculus. It’s time to integrate, ladies and gentlemen.

The reason you can so quickly add by 19 and 29 these days is due in large part to all the math problems you solved as a youngster. And because you’re stubborn and won’t adjust after a trip 4.

Science

This ball, with this cover stock and this core design drilled with this layout held with this grip and rolled at this target at this speed, will get to the right spot on the lane to turn back toward the pins, making contact with the pocket at the precise angle that propels each of the pins into each of the other pins, resulting in an X on the board.

Even if most high-level bowlers can’t explain the actual amount of acceleration required to generate enough force with the ball to turn the potential energy of the inert pins into kinetic energy, especially considering the ever-changing coefficient of friction (30 bonus pins to anyone who can pronounce μ). But, if they miss by even a little, they know a two-and-one move will make all those complicated physics equations work out properly on the next shot. Inherent mastery is still mastery. Every time you ace a physics test, your bowling average goes up one pin.

Geography

If there is only one type of map you can recall from elementary cartography, it is undoubtedly a topographical map. Bowlers can’t get enough topography. Or they get too much. The only certainty is the topography on every lane is advantageous to every bowler except the one telling the story.

Beyond topography, a sense of direction is massively important as a competitive bowler. Without a modest comprehension of land and sea, your 94-hour drives stuffed into an SUV with 10 other bowlers and 368 bowling balls might seem unbearable.

Reading and Writing

It’s long been said without attribution that writing is an essential skill to every job on the planet. Haha ya rite lol but rly tho. In bowling, you need to be able to read to decipher what the asterisk next to the word “Guaranteed” on the entry form means (hint: it means “not guaranteed”).

If you lack even basic writing skills, you’ll never be able to label your equipment, keep notes on pair-to-pair tendencies or write eloquent complaint letters to the tournament director.

Capstone

Pay attention, kids. Everything you learn in school will some day and in some way help you improve your bowling game, which, as we all know, is the reason schools were originally invented.

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Shouts and Murmurs and Nonsequiturs

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, July, 2016

To cover the stepladder finals for an Xtra Frame event, I needed to put a camera two lanes to the right of the championship pair. The lane man stripped the lane in question and I strolled 45 feet of the synthetic with oil-free confidence. After setting up the camera, I sauntered back, only to be greeted by an irate fan on the approach. “You’re tracking oil all over these approaches! Someone could get hurt!” That fan shouldn’t have been on the approach in his street shoes.

If the if-people-only-understood-how-complicated-and-difficult-bowling-is argument had any validity, wouldn’t there be droves of fans lined up to watch accountants do taxes?

“It’s not a sport if you can drink while playing it.” – I.G. Norant

If you’re feeling like a winner winner, you might want to make a chicken dinner. Can’t find the meat tenderizer? Don’t fret. You have three dozen bowling pins in your basement for some reason. Put the chicken in a bag and whack it with a bowling pin. The best meat tenderizer you’ll ever use.


This is the first sentence in the history of writing. In an officially sanctioned magazine. With 43 letters in it. Following the sentence, “The best meat tenderizer you’ll ever use.”

“That’s a bad rack” is insulting and crude in certain company.

High-school students: when taking college entrance exams, use a freshly sharpened 2H pencil for essays. When you need to make check marks, make a pencil change to a 3H, sharpened a little farther up, to give you a more crisp look into the box. For bubbles, go back to the 2H, but put a tad more surface on it to help read the paper a little earlier. If you’re ever unsure of an answer, pencil down to a 6H and mark your second guess just enough to make a case for your intent if necessary.

I wonder what kind of racket Roger Federer is using.

The TSA will let you carry a bowling ball onto a plane, but they will not allow a bowling pin. Unsure whether they will allow a bowling anecdote.

I travel to Las Vegas often. The worst day to fly there is Friday, because the flight is full of irresponsible vacationers drinking heavily in preparation for a weekend of drinking heavily. Their rowdiness really detracts from my heavy drinking.

If you meet a pro bowler and tell him you loved his performance in a specific event, I guarantee he will know what he scored (and what ball he threw and how many pieces of thumb tape he used and whether or not it rained the night before) in the fourth frame of the third game of the second round of qualifying.

What if Dan MacLelland’s parents had named him Bruce? Would we call him Bruce “The Man” MacLelland?

Because you’re a hoarder, you still have every bowling-ball box that ever housed a glorious new rock. You also still have every VHS recording of MacGyver you diligently catalogued over the years. Good news: a standard bowling-ball box is the perfect size to fit 16 VHS tapes, which, if you recorded in EP, contain a total of 96 MacGyver episodes. Your movers will be so impressed with your incredible packing efficiency, they might even forgive you for the trip hazard you created by leaving a hundred bowling balls loose on the floor when you had those perfectly good boxes you could’ve used.

I don’t watch in-flight safety videos because they’re not live.

In summary, Kenny Waters’ dog, Maddie, is debatably the most popular living thing among fans on the PBA50 Tour. Sorry, myriad of Hall of Famers.

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The Oil Spill

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, June, 2016

You’re practicing one afternoon at your local bowling center in the middle of June. A 34-year-old father of two (a six-year-old boy and four-year-old girl, each of whom has a similarly aged and gendered friend along), who made the novel profession choice of schoolteacher and thus gets the prize of toting the kids around all summer, directs his group to a nearby lane and does his best to keep the youngsters from running off into other lanes, bowlers and pinsetters.

In the very first frame, Gord’s daughter’s friend defies all probabilities of physics and wedges her ball in the gutter, despite the bumpers being raised.


Naïve Gord, who is only doing his best to treat his kids and their friends to an afternoon of fun, does not know there is any difference between the surface of the approach and the surface of the lane.

His confident stride begins.

Of the four kids, maybe one (his daughter) is actually paying attention. The daughter’s friend is still crying and thus vaguely glancing through salty, distorted lenses. The two boys are beating each other with the licorice Gord had to buy in order to keep their screeching to a minimum.

And here he is—the adult, the infallible father who can and does solve every problem in these kids’ lives—about to give the children a rude awakening.

The blissful ignorance you sense around you is enviable. You almost wish you didn’t know what was going to happen. You might even feel a twinge of guilt for pulling your phone out and setting it to video.

Here he goes. One step over the line.

He’s still upright, but here comes his first oil-filled push-off step. His footing is no longer secure. He didn’t expect this, so a little panic shakes his entire body. His weight shifts wildly and, combined with his complete lack of trust in the floor beneath his rental shoes, his limbs flail.

In his head, he sees his life flashing before him. He doesn’t know how much it’s going to hurt or even where. His eyes convey a mixture of terror and sheer disdain, which amazingly has time to amply grow during his desperate floundering.

It’s scrambling time for this poor man, but you know it’s already over. He’s going to bite it, and our only hope now, as decent humans, is the most pain to come will be from embarrassment.

Gord’s heel tries to support his thrashing body by itself.

His daughter sobs. The friend’s sobbing escalates to howls. His son, face of shock and horror, bawls just as his friend thwaps him in the eye with his licorice, so now the kid is crying for two reasons. Their father is no longer the image of perfection. This is life-altering and confusing for the kids. They can’t get home to Mommy fast enough.

His footing is gone. Both feet are in the air with no hope of regaining traction or balance.

His only crime was being naïve, and now his highly embarrassing learning moment is going to live, probably with vertical orientation, on the Internet forever. As a teacher, he will have to deal with at least one of his students finding this video every single year for the rest of his career.

Which body part will hit first? A sure-to-be-lacerated elbow? A let’s-hope-not head? As much surface area as possible?

This innocent man, trying to give his kids a fun activity, is on his way to fleeting physical and everlasting emotional pain. His kids are going to laugh at him. They’re going to tell their mother all about it, and she’s going to laugh at him. The physical scars may heal eventually, but they’ll be the really noticeable, bumpy kind. And he’ll be covered in oil.

Splat. He is down.

The worst part: you’re bowling on that pair in league tonight, and now the fronts are completely gone.

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League Bowling’s Brand of Small Talk

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, May, 2016

In lauded sociologist Erving Goffman’s Interaction Ritual: Essays in Face to Face Behavior, he discusses the concept of safe supplies. Essentially, in order to avoid offending other humans during social interaction, we need to be able to maintain conversations with each other, often resorting to safe supplies, which are topics anyone can discuss to some extent. In real-world terms: small talk.


When we communicate using safe supplies, we talk about the weather, the local sports team, what we do for work or any other tired topic so generic and boring that the mere thought of being sucked into those doldrums of conversation keeps us from attending networking events or venturing into society in general.

Thankfully, bowling, which the late Goffman certainly should’ve spent time dissecting, has its own brand of safe supplies that deviates from those mind-numbing topics, and there is only one item with which we need to be familiar: one’s own bowling game.

We don’t care about the weather, we don’t realize there are other sports and we certainly don’t care what, if anything, anybody else does for a living. All we care about is our own bowling game and the perception that others also care.

Bowling’s safe supplies make socializing easy for all, particularly during league, as everyone has a personal bowling anecdote and there’s no actual listening required.

When you tell me about your game, whether good or bad, my only socially acceptable response is to tell you about my game. We do not have to listen to each other. We simply have to feign interest until it’s our turn to talk.

You start by describing every detail of your first game, in which a seventh-frame ringing 10 led to a 279, rather than simply telling me you shot 279. I act intrigued, awaiting my opening to say something self-deprecating about a 7 pin I flagged. My brief interjection gives us the social beat and fabricated laughter required before you get back into the detailed account of the eighth frame in which you caught a lucky break, making up for the good shot in the prior frame that didn’t strike. I might conjure a cliché, “It all evens out,” to which you will make some not-funny-at-all joke that causes both of us to explode in laughter. Thankfully, one of us will then be up to bowl, forcing a natural end to the conversation with neither of us being offended.

Whether due to obliviousness or selfishness (the latter likely a catalyst for the former), we bowlers are stuck in our own games to the extent we don’t even realize how our teammates or opponents are doing, despite sharing the lanes with them for hours.

Have you ever had a bad night on the lanes and remarked to a teammate how poorly you were doing, only to eventually realize your teammate was performing much worse than you were? You were so unaware of your surroundings that by insulting your own game, you further insulted your teammate’s even-more-abysmal performance. Thankfully, your teammate was likely not listening and therefore is not mad at you.

Because of this infallible social contract, every bowler can talk to every other bowler. No matter what inane tidbit I share with you about my all-important game, your response is going to be an equally inane tidbit about your all-important game. You don’t care what I say. I don’t care what you say. We’re simply fabricating a conversation to add a semi-social aspect to our weekly bowling session.

We might even become friends. Don’t worry, though. We’ll only have to see each other once a week.

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The Auditory Pleasures of Bowling

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, April, 2016

“I didn’t see it. I heard it.” – Roy Munson, Kingpin

To the uninitiated, Munson’s ability to analyze Ishmael’s entire game based on the sound of one ball hitting the pins one time establishes what a great mind for the sport Munson has. This is important character development in a fictional bowling world.

In real bowling, almost everything relies on visual information. Bowlers want to see ball motion and pin action. Information is gathered by reading the lanes front to back and left to right. Marks are easier hit when seen, starting positions are nearly impossible to repeat without vision and scores can’t be read without painfully squinted eyes. The only times we ever notice sounds are when they’re distracting. Some guy shrieks six pairs away. A phone rings. An angry fellow chucks his ball onto the floor with the determination he probably should’ve been using toward the pins.


Distractions are not the only sounds of bowling, however. Perhaps it’s time we borrow a skill from Mr. Munson and start listening. Let’s examine three of the most underappreciated sounds that make bowling the magnificent multi-sensory experience it is.

The activation of the pinsetters.

What is morning to you? Merely posing the question conjures the sights and sounds of a glorious new day. A spectacular sunrise over the horizon. Freshly condensed dew on lush, green grass. Birds chirping, children laughing and leaves gently blowing in the breeze, all set to Edvard Grieg’s “Morgenstemning,” the royalty-free soundtrack our brains assign to this almost-perfect moment.

All that peaceful beauty and wonder are great, but it’s not truly morning until you hear the sound of 72 pinsetters turning on at once. The initial click leads to a gentle hum of electronics taking over the building. Anticipation builds for a few seconds and then, finally, here come the pinsweeps. All 72 racks, the equivalent of six simultaneous perfect games, are swept concurrently into the pit in one massive crescendo. The cycling of pins begins its day-long process of replenishing racks for the bowlers. The tournament is about to begin.

The between-games lull.

Qualifying rounds create constant noise, constant action and constant everything. Until the end of the game, that is. While bowlers move from one pair to another, a scant shot is heard here and there, but it’s nothing like the barrage we just endured and will soon bear again. Our ears get a brief respite, much like the song structure not invented by but made famous by Nirvana. The lull makes the onslaught more enjoyable and the auditory overload of qualifying makes the lull oh so sweet.

The murmur of the crowd.

It’s a tense moment. The championship match reaches the 10th frame. A strike for the hometown favorite means he wins no matter what his opponent does. Or, rather, it means the opponent needs the first two strikes and seven. Or, no, the opponent just needs a spare and good count. But it has to be a nine spare, as eight spare leaves open a tie possibility and anything less is a loss. Wait—does the opponent even need a mark?

During professional and high-level amateur events, the crowd is absolutely silent for most of the match. They cheer for strikes and spares, but remain perfectly still and hushed while the bowlers make their approaches. When it gets late in the match, though, it’s math time. Everyone in the crowd wants to be the one who explains the situation and all contingencies of said situation. Because those in the audience are still being respectful, they whisper. The decibel level is lower than a mumbled full-congregation prayer, but the excitement level is decidedly higher. And because everyone is whispering and giving out conflicting information, it’s a beautiful concoction of polite, fast-paced audible silence resembling a room full of malfunctioning bicycle-tire pumps.

The world needs better listeners and bowling deserves to be heard. Next time you walk into a bowling center, pay attention to all your senses. Listen. Bask. Enjoy. Here we are now. Entertain us.

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Bowler Profiling: A Very Real Fake Problem

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, March, 2016

Bowling bags are sacred ground for bowlers. The list of people who can acceptably invade such hallowed personal space is shorter than the list of people who can listen to a bowling anecdote without interrupting with a very loosely related tale of their own.

“I picked the 7-10 off the 6-7-10. Greatest worst moment of my life.”

“Oh yeah? That reminds me of the fourth time I shot 300.”

But we digress, as often happens when rudely interrupted, even if by oneself.


Back to bowling bags. The actual bowler, obviously, is permitted access to his or her own bag. He or she may allow a trusted friend, coach or ball rep in there, but only for a specific purpose. Bowlers are right to be protective of their personal space. That’s why they’re smart to only let their closest, personal friends anywhere near it. Well, them and the complete strangers from the Transportation Security Administration, of course.

Anyone who has flown with a bowling ball within the United States has received a notice of baggage inspection. The 3.625” x 8.5” bilingual notifications of warrantless search litter the squad rooms at PBA Tour events. Some bowlers no longer bother removing them. Stacks of 20 or more avisos de inspección de equipaje rest in the bottom of bags, soaking up oil and fraying with wear. Soon, players won’t need towels anymore, leading to intense interactions on television: “Do not put your TSA notice of baggage inspection on my bowling ball.”

Ignoring anyone’s stance on whether or not the TSA should exist, the fact is it does, so one has to concede if they’re going to search a piece of luggage, it makes sense to look at one that holds three spherical, heavy objects with scary core shapes. Add the bevel tools, inexplicable rolls of tape scraps, weird-colored potions, what looks to be a fruit zester if not a cheese grater, stacks of circular sandpaper and brushes with hard metal wires, and the untrained eye would be horrified.

However, TSA agents have trained eyes. They’re supposed to, anyway. Thus, it shouldn’t take long to determine a bowling bag, which already has 27 TSA notices in it and is draped in priority tags (indicating a frequent traveler), probably doesn’t need to be inspected again.

It all leads to an under-reported social problem: bowler profiling. Why are bowlers constantly scrutinized and searched while non-bowlers can do whatever they want? Some IT consultant can fly around the country with a simple carry-on bag while bowlers, who make their livings with their hands, have to risk devastating paper cuts every time they find yet another TSA notice in their luggage.

Profiling starts before the TSA even gets involved. Airlines, hotels and car-rental agencies all mandate bowler profiling by their employees. Random businessman? Have a nice flight. Bowler? You owe another $300 for these bags, which may or may not arrive on time because they’re heavy and thus will be the last bags anyone on our crew touches. And by the way, when you land, all the SUVs will be rented by seafood moguls with no luggage, so you and your four friends and 48 bowling balls will somehow have to devise and execute a clown act in a compact car. Then, when you get to the hotel, the bellman is going to pretend he doesn’t see you, rushing to help the one guy with a single jacket on a hanger rather than load up your as-light-as-you-could-make-them three-ball rollers.

When will it stop? When will bowlers start being treated fairly?

That is a question even Confucius couldn’t fathom pondering.

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Of Routines and Superstitions

This installment of The One Board originally appeared in Bowlers Journal International, February, 2016

Superstitions, by definition and if believed as having any real effect on anything, are asinine. Most people understand this, which is why bowlers refer to ridiculous superstitions as routines. This lets us continue our admittedly absurd quirks while not having to stigmatize ourselves as superstitious.

And, in many cases, these things really are routines.


“I always get to the bowling center exactly 90 minutes before my block because it’s my routine. Then I have precisely one cup of coffee because it’s my routine. Then I relieve myself in the third urinal from the left, unless there are only two urinals, in which case I walk past both of them, then backward to the one on the right, because it’s my routine.”

Perfectly normal stuff.

There are two main types of superstitions. The indisputably ineffective brand is indirect, in which a fan of a sports team might refuse to wash his socks for the duration of his favorite team’s playoff run. What happens when people (even those of us who are so adamant against superstitions we deliberately do everything different every time as irrefutable proof and simultaneous ironic disproof of our belief in superstitions) start to believe these things? Let’s investigate the spectacle of the black cloud.

Black Cloud: Supernatural phenomenon of one person’s innocuous act having a legitimate impact on another person’s athletic performance.

Some people believe if they even approach or notice a bowler on the front eight, for example, there is no chance that bowler will get the ninth strike. “I black clouded him,” those people will say.

Others don’t believe a black cloud is present until the potential feat is specifically mentioned. But to what degree? Can a fan or announcer say, “He’s on the front eight” without black clouding the competitor? Or does that fan or announcer have to explicitly say “He has a chance at a 300 game” or “He’s perfect through eight” to qualify as black clouding the poor schlub?

Further, if you mention a bowler has the first eight strikes, and that bowler strikes in the ninth but not in the 10th, does that still count as you black clouding him? Or did his strike in the ninth absolve you of all responsibility, thereby slamming the blame onto some other jerk who walked up after hearing about the front nine?

Or, and I realize this is reaching, can it be possible that throwing nine strikes in a row is difficult, and therefore the likelihood of not striking increases the longer the string of strikes goes?

Indirect superstitions pose more questions than they answer. So let’s move on.

Direct superstitions involve an actual player performing some absurd act such as refusing to wash his socks. Clean socks, dirty socks or no socks, that player has a direct impact on the game, and therefore, we can’t discount his or her superstition quite so quickly.

A fan thinking his unwashed, smelly, yellowed, disgusting lucky t-shirt helps his favorite bowler is undeniably irrational. But when the player feels better about his chances while wearing his own microbe farm of a t-shirt under his jersey, our perception of absurdity subsides, even if only a little.

This is the beauty of bowling superstitions. Very rarely does someone actually believe the restaurant in which he dined the day before had anything to do with him bowling well. And yet, because nothing went wrong, what’s the harm in going back to that same restaurant and ordering the same meal at the same table in the same chair with the same waiter? Superstitions breed comfort. Whatever he did felt right, and although he knows he could bowl just as well without having done it, he has confidence that doing it again will not diminish his chances on the lanes.

What’s a simpler way of putting that? Oh yeah: routine.