Ah… bowling. It lends itself way to double-entendre: holding a ball, rolling it out of the palm of your hand, hitting pins at the end of the lane. You grunt and groan when the ball hits either canal, and whoop when your ball hits the rack dead-on.
Olympian Lanes have been around ever since I was a kid: back in the day, it was still pretty much a wholesome family-friendly bowling alley that had a candy store in the entrance. Back then, we gorge ourselves on cotton candy and big swirly lollipops, and leave balls sticky with damp sugar when we loft the balls around in the lanes our parents play in.
The candy store has given way to a stall that sells warm beer, but it’s still pretty much the same alley that me and the family went to when I was a kid: same balls, same pins, and it still employs pinboys.
In all honesty, I can’t bowl good: today, I bowled two 75-point games in duckpin. During Christmas, I tag along with my uncle and my cousins to play ten-pin at the AMF Puyat lanes at Baguio Center Mall. While I would pose a legitimate challenge in ten-pin, I suck at duckpin. Maybe it’s a psychosomatic Freudian impulse of having two big boulders than three small grapefruits. Is hitting the heckling pinboys a strike, a spare, a break, or a bad sprain?