The Dad Who Invariably Teaches Someone To Bowl

Whenever I was a kid (and fortunate enough to be invited to birthday parties at the bowling alley), there was always a dad there who took it upon himself to teach the beginners how to bowl.
This was not what we had in mind. We were there to select colorful, flecked balls or cerulean balls that looked like giant marbles. The Dad would always insist that we haul our selections back to the stands and exchange our colorful balls for opaque black ones, where the triangle of holes were poised at a perfect distance for our small fingerspans.

This is not the point, we would try to tell him, but he didn't care. This was about him being The Hero. He didn't realize that we would be willing to roll a 2 ton bowling ball down the alley if it was made of gold or had a smiley face on it (Early signs of our value on appearance versus functionality--as adults, our take on this philosophy translated to shoes).

Once ball selection was finished, we would congregate around the score sheet at our assigned alley. The Dad insisted on filling this paper out, like it was an important Income Tax document. Using a stubby pencil (no eraser), he would scribble down our names, always misspelling them, then smooth out the sheet with it pleasing pattern of boxes within boxes, readying it to record essential scores.

And then, we would bowl. We would pick up our assigned muddy-colored ball (so hard to differentiate from anyone else's) from the ball return belt, advance toward the alley, squat, and wave the ball back and forth between our legs, dropping it on one final swing forward. The ball would begin its slow descent down the alley and we would step back, gesturing for it to turn left, giddy with the drama and excitement. The ball usually teetered on the edge of the gutter for about 3/4 of its journey, then suddenly rolled into that depressing canal. This is where the The Dad would hold himself back no more. He would throw down his stubby pencil and rush over to us.

"You've got to cup the ball like this," he would demonstrate, "then pull back your arm while you walk forward like this," more demonstrations, then, "Release!" Of course, he would actual bowl the ball, and his roll would be thunderous, culminating with an explosion of pins. He would pull back his fist and hiss, "Yessss!" oblivious to the fact that he had just taken our turn.

It would go on like this for the entire game. Apathy, instruction, acquiescence, rebellion, tension. Our final scores always seemed to him a personal affront. Margo-24; Amy-36, Melanie-29, Cathie-14. We left, feeling that we could have done better, if only we had used the prettier balls.

The reason I tell you this is because I took my four year old to a skating party yesterday. It was his first time on skates and he maneuvered much the way I remember boys from elementary school did on wheels--wild grasping, all skinny limbs, flailing like a bird poised for flight. When I finally got him out of the carpeted lobby and into the rink, we immediately collapsed as a Conga line of seven year old girls raced past us.

And then, of course because it's inevitable, we were approached by an older man, seemingly a dad, who was wearing a white button down shirt open to reveal a generous amount of black and gray chest hair.

"Let me give you a little advice," he began, and I thought a-ha, so we meet again, only this time, it's the Dad Who Invariably Teaches Someone To Skate.

Twice in lifetime. Two different skills. So very lucky.