A Memoir of Packed Lanes, Constant Fouls, and Winning Without Rolling the Ball
Setting: March 2026 — The month Holden proved form was overrated.
We went bowling with two of Holden’s friends last weekend.
His first real playdate. Not a birthday party. Not school. Just… meeting up somewhere and hoping it went well.
One of the boys’ dads had texted earlier in the week to set it up, and I said yes, even though I was already a little nervous about it.
When we got there, the place was packed, which I wasn’t expecting on a random Sunday afternoon. His two friends were waiting just inside the door with the dad, and the boys immediately took off toward the arcade like none of the rest of it mattered.
I stayed back for a second, doing that awkward introduction, trying to figure out what to say to someone I didn’t know while also pretending I wasn’t out of my element.
We had to wait for a lane, so they ran between games while I ordered a pizza and kept an eye on them. It all felt slightly chaotic already.
Once we finally got a lane, it got worse.
One of the boys had a score of four by the fifth frame. Not because he couldn’t hit pins, but because he kept getting fouls. I pointed out that he was stepping over the line. He did it again immediately. And then again. And then again.
The family next to us, including what looked like at least two senior citizens, spent most of the time dodging kids running back and forth, sliding across the floor, and coming way too close to crashing into them.
I stayed close to Holden, repeating some version of “walk,” “slow down,” and “please don’t run in bowling shoes” on a loop.
At one point, he nearly ran straight into them and I felt that full-body cringe of knowing I was about to have to apologize to strangers.
His technique didn’t help.
He didn’t roll the ball. He threw it. From his shoulder. Every time.
It would hit the lane with a loud clunk, bounce slightly, and then slowly make its way down like it had no real plan. At one point, even with bumpers on, he somehow managed to throw it straight into the gutter hard enough that it got stuck. An employee had to come get it.
The best part of it was that the kids would throw the ball and then not even watch. They’d turn around immediately and run back to grab another one, completely uninterested in what actually happened. No follow-through. No reaction. Just chaos.
And somehow...
Holden won all three games.
High 80s at one point. Two spares.
All of it with the shoulder throw.
No technique. No patience. Just results.
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
No comments