Bang!

You drop off my powdered thumb,

Take a sharp right, 

Give me false hope that you’ll Brooklyn, 

Then stab my heart, 

As you tumble to the gutter. 

Dear friend: why do you betray me?

The first day we met, 

I was so young,

Barely a novice. 

Little skill in my two shaky hands, 

I pushed you across the floor for the first time. 

The tall man at the pro-shop,

Who is now a friend of ours, 

Made you perfect

The way you are now. 

“Strikette”,

I jokingly called you at first; 

The given name that never parted ways from you. 

You were my first real bowling ball; 

Your deep black exterior 

As dark as the unlit night, 

Highlighted by navy blues and vibrant oranges, 

Whisked together as if they were the northern lights. 

My small name engraved in a way that I felt special, 

As if I was someone in the crazy world that I had stepped into. 

But I wasn’t. 

We weren’t anything to anyone. 

Just a newbie. 

Just a mismatched pair. 

You, meant for the big leagues;

Meant to be held by professional hands;

Meant for anyone but me. 

But we pushed through.

We had our struggles;

A distance, a struggle, separated us.

Your loud, roaring thunder that you create,

Now

Pushed to the sidelines, benched for a season. 

Not even a mouse could hear your whisper. 

I betrayed you, but you had trust. 

When I came crawling back to you, 

You accepted me like an old friend, 

And we’ve been a perfect team since. 

With more skill, 

Better skill, 

We advanced from JV to Varsity, 

Connected by faith and trust; 

Just a girl and her bowling ball. 

When I hold you, 

And smell your musky, sweaty scent,

Some may back away. 

But that scent is temporary, 

A reminder of our past struggles.

But a brighter future awaits as I clean you off

And start the next frame. 

Under my now supported wrist, 

My hands curl around you,

Guiding you like an angel

Down the oil-slicked lanes. 

You are a full speed ahead boat, 

Sailing through the oil ocean 

That you know best. 

Wherever you go, 

It doesn’t matter.

If it’s a strike, 

A spare,

Nine,

Or even a gutter, 

We’ll come back swinging. 

You are my best friend, 

The only thing that’s been with me throughout this journey. 

Even when our backs are to the wall, 

When all hope is lost, 

We push through together

As one. 

You might be a bowling ball,

But when you slip off my thumb

And glide down the lane,

Hooking too far right that my score suffers,

You remind me you are more. 

You are more of a person;

You have your own attitude

(Believe me, I know). 

Suddenly you’re a teen, 

With an attitude and resilience to do as I hope. 

But even then, 

We make it through. 

Thank you for being the reason I am where I am. 

Thank you for sticking with me through the long eight hour tournaments 

When it’s hot out and we’d rather do anything else. 

Thank you for accepting me at my worst, through the pain and suffering. 

Thank you for allowing me to throw you down the lanes we know as home,

Even after I betrayed you. 

So, 

Do I mind when you drop off my powdered thumb?

No.

Do I mind when you give me false hope?

No.

Do I mind when we occasionally bowl a gutter? 

No. 

Because we are so much greater. 

You are so much greater

Than just a bowling ball.