It started out as just your average Friday night at Dan Patch Lanes. The guys were a little punchy being that it was fun night and everything. Fun night means it doesn’t count. You bet money, there are red pins, it’s the nine-pin no tap night. Nine-pin no tap means that if you knock down nine pins, it counts as a strike. If you have a split and you knock at least one pin down, it counts as a spare. Apparently in bowling land, this is great gobs of fun.
So yeah, the men were drinking their heads off. This made me quite disgruntled as Mamala had left her Gameboy with my very favorite game, Tetris, on the counter. I was working out my flying fingers of fury, trying to get my name in the high score slot of every single game. I wasn’t doing too well, the guys kept bugging me.
Randy came buy and put his giant Art Garfunkely head next in front of the Gameboy.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Trying to wonder what you are listening to.’
‘I am not listening to anything but the sound of the pins and you drunks.’
‘Then what are you singing?’
‘I am singing to myself.’
‘I know, I am wondering what you are singing.’
‘Sincerely Me, by Better than Ezra, it’s stuck in my head.’
‘It’s cute seeing you playing a video game up here ignoring everyone and singing.’
‘Thanks, now I must get back to the game. I am really quite busy.’
‘I can tell.’
Of course, I promptly turn my full attention back to Tetris, I do have priorities, and customer service isn’t one of them.
‘So what do I get for 7 strikes in a row,’ Ol’ Mic comes up and asks.
‘Well usually you’d get a beer, but it’s nine-pin night so nothing.’
‘But they’re natural.’
‘Shut up, are they really?’
‘Yeah, ask the guys,’ he said, pointing to alleys one and two.
The eight guys on the lanes look up to me and nod their agreement.
‘Right on Mic!’ I say, because I love ol’ Mic.
He passes on the beverage so I offer him a bag of strikes. A bag of strikes is really a bag of Planter’s Salted Peanuts. Mic always calls them strikes and usually has at least one bag a night. He turns me down, so I again turn my fingers of fury back on the Gameboy. I’m doing absolutely craptastically, when I detect an odd hush filling ye olde DPL.
I look up and there’s ol Mic getting into position. I look to the overheads and see his score is just a perfect row of black boxes, all strikes. I catch Lane’s (my most favorite of all the bowlers) eye and mouth, ‘All Natural?’ And he just nods his head. I turn to Kent and Charlie who are sitting at the bar, ‘Mic’s got a perfect game going.’
They hustle off the barstools to spread the news.
All the bowling stops.
Eighty-two eyes are pinned on this 60something man as he finds his mark on the approach. The only sound is the pins spinning around in back. We collectively hold our breath as Mic starts towards the pins. We all watch the ball travel down the 62 feet and it takes roughly 293,181 hours to get down to the pins.
They all fall down.
Then all hell breaks loose. A perfect 300! Mic bowled a perfect 300!
The men are jumping up and down. I’m crying, because I am big goober. Everyone is rushing over to Mic to give him a hug or shake his hand. The men are high-fiving each other, as if they had something to do with this phenomenal event.
A perfect 300!
After 10 minutes of congratulatory hoo-ha the boys get back to bowling. Mic strides over to the bar and says to me, ‘I did that without a single bag of strikes.’ I just smile at him.
It was first for both me and Mic. I don’t think either of us will ever forget it.