Iannuccilli: A Surprise in the Bowling Alley

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, Columnist

Iannuccilli: A Surprise in the Bowling Alley

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, Columnist
I was introduced to bowling when growing up in the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood of Providence.  A friend, who was a pinsetter (“pin boy”), at an alley in the Olneyville section, within walking distance of my home, introduced me to the game.  He was paid ten cents a string to set the pins after they were knocked down.

The targets were duckpins, fired at with a small, softball sized, light ball with no finger holes. The ball fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. With three rolls per frame, we learned the words “strike” and “spare” and how to score.  We rented shoes.

My later memories were of going bowling on a date.  It was an easy date … not much you had to say, anxiety quashed by activity, an ice cream and then home. Yes, yes … home.

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In these, my more mature years, I bowl on occasion with my grandchildren, using a bigger, heavier ball with three holes in it for fingers and thumb. The object is the same —to knock down as many pins as possible.

I have realized a few things. First, the gutters on either side of the alley gobble balls quicker than they ever did when I was younger. Second, the alleys are heavily oiled. Third, I ache after bowling.

On this day, I wanted to show the kids that I could curve the ball and hit the pocket between the one and three pin, the way I saw the world champ do it on TV when I was a kid.   “Pay attention, kids! Watch me curve this one into the pocket for a strike!”

I bent over to swipe the alley with my fingers. “Hmmm, “I thought. “I don’t remember this much oil.”  I dried my hands on the nearby blower as the ball made its way to me along the aqueduct.

I picked it up, squeezed my fingers in, walked back as far as I could, took my run, swung my arm back and tried to let the missile go.  I stuttered to a dead stop at the foul line and, as the stubborn ball snapped out, I lurched and, yep, you guessed it.  With a minimal degree of difficulty, I flew, spread-eagled, into the alley, sliding effortlessly along the well-oiled surface on my belly.  I lay there saturated in my share of oil.

The bowling crew, patrons, Diane, and grandkids came running, bleating words I did not want to hear. “Are you alright, Sir?” It’s the Sir thing that got me; a word that defined me as a senior citizen subject to the dreaded fall.

“Yes, Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine,” as I snapped to my knees.  I looked down the alley to see that honey of a ball hit the one-three pocket for a strike!

I stood, turned with the swagger of a gunslinger, wiped my hands on my pants and shirt, blew on my fingers, looked to my grandchildren, now bent with laughter, and declared, “Now, that’s how you do it, kids.”

Ed Iannuccilli

Ed Iannuccilli is the author of "Growing up Italian" and "What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner?" and both books can be found here.


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