kiwords

Today was BOWLING DAY! Woo-hoo!
You know, I signed the boys up for bowling because it seemed like fun. Something for them to do with other kids, a dash of that “socialization” stuff people are always going on about.
It honestly never occurred to me that the other moms might care about the actual BOWLING. Like, they NOTICE the scores and everything. It’s too weird.
Here’s me, observing Max’s turn to bowl, “Ok Honey! Good luck! (pause) Way to go! You knocked some down! No, you can’t have a coke.”
Here’s another mom, observing her child’s turn, “Now REMEMBER to keep your wrist straight! Just how we did in practice! And your approach, remember the approach! Ok, good…good…aww. What was that? Why’d you swing your arm across your body like that? That’s not how you’re supposed to do it!”
I’m thinking, there’s a RIGHT way to bowl? Huh. I thought bowling sober was just about as high as you could aim. Who knew?
But the other moms know their kids averages, and their handicaps. I don’t even know what a handicap is. I mean, Tre tends to collect things, until his room is a morass of paper bits, rubber bands, and pop tabs. Is that what they mean?
No, it’s not.
I was watching Tre bowl is last game today. He’s in the 9-11 year old group, and the rest of his team is 11. Now, Tre’s not what you’d call a LARGE 9-year-old. He’s not even what you’d call an AVERAGE 9-year-old. He’s perfect. But perfect, in this particular case, falls just below the 10th percentile for height in his age group. So there he is, a tiny little 9-year-old, surrounded by hulking 11-year-olds. They take down the bumper guards for his age group, and he fearlessly bowls gutter ball after gutter ball. There’s a bowling pro working with the kids, and Tre is getting better and better. His average is up to something like 45 (ok, I do pay attention, a little).
I watched him stride up to take his place. The previous bowler had gotten an impressive spare, and Tre joggled the bowling ball around so he could give him a high five. Then he arranged himself, counted himself through his steps, and heaved the ball down the lane. He stood and watched it make its way toward the pins, and when it started to veer off to the left, Tre’s body involuntarily swayed to the right, a silent prayer for it to right its course. The ball traced the very edge of the gutter for an impossibly long time before it teetered and fell in.
Another gutter ball.
Tre turned around, laughing.
“Hey,” he called to his team mates, “I think that one got further down before it went in the gutter!” They shouted back encouraging things, and he bounded down to collect his ball for anther try.
I turned to the mom next to me, who was shaking her head.
“Too bad. Well, maybe he’ll do better next time.”
I looked from her to my shining-faced, indomitable boy. I don’t think we were watching the same game at all.