Split, Maybe Spared

With one frame left, all that stood between me and one truly amazing score were six pins and a crying 7-year-old.

Not a memory I was aiming for when I decided to take advantage of our local bowling alley offering kids two free games every day this summer. (Note: This deal is irrefutable proof that the industry's profits come from the use of industrial-grade "cheese" sauce to cover all "food" from the snack bar and the rental of semi-disinfected clown shoes.)

I have a soft spot, some say in my head, for bowling. During my youth, I saw my father don an ugly shirt (one year it was coffee-and-bran brown; another, third-helping-of-asparagus yellow) one night a week and hit the lanes. Many of these nights he would return about 9 o'clock -- a few pitchers of Bud and three completely average 165s under his belt -- bearing an oversized shoebox filled with frankfurters from Al's Dog House: plain, chili, cheese, onions, wrapped in paper translucent from the grease and limp from the steam. When I got a little older, I would sometimes tag along on bowling night. I distinctly remember writing out my threes' multiplication tables for homework one night at the alley, but mostly I recall shaking down my dad every few minutes for quarters to play pinball.

A few weeks ago, with my wife and my daughter taking a mani/pedi/margarita/milk night out, the boy and I ventured to the lanes. Excitement filled my son. He had bowled a couple of strikes one of his last times out. He was going to have some bonding time with his father. He knew the alley had video games. Lots of video games.

Nut. Proximity to tree. Etc., etc.

The first game -- nothing special. I spotted him 50 pins then proceeded to make President Obama look like Big Ern McCracken sans flip-top 'do. The boy wins a trinket from the claw machine. All is well.

Suddenly, I'm possessed. I'm channeling the ghosts of Earl Anthony, the not-quite-dead Don Carter and every schlep who had ever hit the jackpot on Ch. 9's "Bowling for Dollars" in my youth.

I strike. I spare. Pick up a minor split from the Jersey side. Boo-yah!

The automatic scorer is ringing up my growing tally with animated pins break dancing and pumping iron on the video board overhead. A rare warm glow, not of embarrassment or shame but of … uh, jeez, I honestly don't know what … fills my body.

"You're CHEATING!"

The heavenly mist that enveloped me clears.

"CHEATER!"

Pouty upper lip. Flushed cheeks. Tears. Snot. Mother Fletcher.

"No, I'm not. Daddy's just having a kick-ass game. I'm in the zone! You know, like when you open a new pack of Pokémon cards and every card is one you don't have and they just keep getting better and stronger and cooler than the one before as you continue to flip through them. … OK, I did take advantage of the bumpers being up for that one 10-pin spare in the fifth, but I am just on fi-ya!"

"NO! You're beating me! You're CHEATING!" He punches me in the arm. Pretty hard, I might add.

(Not my bowling arm, so it's cool.)

"Hey, I'll spot you 100 pins. No, 150! That work for you?"

"No. CHEAT-TER!! Nyeah."

One frame. Six pins. One crying, pissed-off little boy.

"Hey, dude. Why don't you bowl the 10th frame for me?"

He stares blankly. Am I was speaking Klingon? Did I ask him to change his underwear or brush his teeth?

"Go. Get your ball. You bowl the last frame for me. I'm tired. Pick me up, would you?"

He toddled over and picked up his orange 6-pound alley special.

Three pins fall.

He rolls again.

Two hit the hardwood. A third doesn't even bother to tease me with a faint wobble before the big arm comes down and sweeps everything away for good.

He looks at my score, then his. He adds 150.

"I beat Daddy!" he screams for around us to hear. "I beat Daddy!"

"Yes, you did," I say as I start taking off my hideous shoes of red, beige and white. "Wanna get a hot dog?"