Chapter 2
Not five seconds after my Uber drops me off at my parents’ two-story, five-bedroom, modern hill country home in central Texas, my father texts me, demanding I take one of his many cars to investigate a nearby bowling alley.
I didn’t have the chance to settle in, let alone grab one of my mom’s organic fruit chews to fill my stomach, before I was given an address and a strict time to arrive.
It’s my first time home in two years after living on the road, traveling from one professional bowling competition to the next.
You’d think I’d be welcomed home with a bright, splashy banner or a plate of the house chef’s chocolate chip cookies I used to steal from the kitchen after evening practices growing up.
But no. My father, the famous Brett Thorne, already has an agenda for me, which usually includes making me feel like I can’t win something without him.
I can only imagine what he wants me to do when I get to the bowling alley in town.
I’m not sure what worries me more, the police pulling out of the parking lot I’m heading toward, or the fact I’m twenty-three years old and can’t figure out how to say no to my father, a thirteen-time USBC tournament champion who reminds me more often than not he has more titles than me.
Luckily, that doesn’t bother me too much.
I’ve already accomplished what I’ve set out to do.
I’m widely considered one of the best bowlers of my generation and have no reason, need, or desire to best Brett Thorne in his own game.
However, I am curious as to why he’s making me investigate a random alley today.
Although, little does he remember, this isn’t just any bowling alley.
It’s Spare Time.
Growing up, Spare Time was my home away from home. Honestly, it was the only place I ever felt comfortable calling home. Getting the chance to visit my old stomping grounds? My dad didn’t need to say another word.
I’m not surprised he’s forgotten I grew up in this town and hung out at Spare Time a lot, practicing for all the competitions he forced me into.
Some of my best memories are in that alley: throwing my first strike; getting to know the alley’s owner, Mr. Jiménez; nearly breaking a toe after I dropped a bowling ball on it; kissing a boy for the first time in the arcade room; and the pizza.
Oh, the pizza. My father disapproved of me eating it, but I can still taste that delicious, greasy, cheesy pizza, with its thin crust and thick pepperoni slices.
Just thinking about it has me licking the corners of my mouth, making sure no saliva drips down my chin.
I’ll give Brett Thorne the benefit of the doubt—he was never really around while I was growing up to know what I was doing. He was always traveling and competing—winning, I should say—in those USBC tournaments. So how could he remember? It’s not like he cared enough to ask how things were going.
Before I know it, I’m pulling into an empty parking spot right in front of Spare Time.
The fact that I can park this close to the entrance is wild.
I remember when this lot used to be packed almost every morning, especially on weekends.
It would get so full that my mom had to park near the old antique shop at the far end of the plaza just to find a spot.
I’d walk across the lot in my socks to avoid scuffing up my bowling shoes on the concrete.
But today, strangely enough, I’m the only car in sight.
My phone rings, and my father’s name flashes across the dashboard. I hesitate for a moment, but if I don’t answer, I’ll get an earful when I get home. I swallow, steady myself, and answer, “Mornin’, Dad!”
“Truett.” His greeting is short, stern even. With barely a second ticking by, he continues, “What’s the verdict? Does the alley seem like it’s going to be a good fit?”
“I’m not sure if you heard me, sir. But I did say good morning.” I look into the rearview mirror and run my hands through my brown hair. The length growing on the sides reminds me I need to get a haircut soon.
“No time for pleasantries, Truett. A buddy of mine works for the USBC, and he told me there is some interest in bringing the annual USBC Championship to Pflugerville.”
There it is. That’s why I’m here. He wants me to intervene in the most sacred process the United States Bowling Congress goes through in preparation for their biggest championship tournament of the year: host selection.
“Lord knows why they’d come to Pflugerville when Dallas is only a few hours away,” he continues, “but apparently Old Man Jiménez had quite the impressive application. Has that dump of an alley gone to complete shit, or do you think it’s a solid option the USBC reps will consider?”
I’m surprised he’s open to any feedback from me on this, but my father’s main concern isn’t really which location is chosen; it’s how my performance in a local tournament I have no choice but to enter will reflect on him.
Once I told him I wanted to come back home to Pflugerville and take a break from traveling, I knew he’d be concerned I’d become complacent.
“Dad, I just pulled up.” I twist my neck to scan the parking lot. “It doesn’t even look like anyone else is here yet.”
“That means you have more time to look around. Check out the lane blueprints, see if the pins are mapped properly, and evaluate the accuracy of the arrow zones. C’mon, have I taught you nothing?”
I could say, “No, Dad, you haven’t taught me anything except how to be a demanding asshole.
” But he’d hang up before I finished, call me an ungrateful fool, and then ten minutes later, my mother would call, trying to mediate peace between us.
Even then, she’d take my side, laughing as she told me all the little ways she planned to irritate him that week just for fun because of how unfair he was being toward me.
When it comes to those two, my mother is the only person who can truly get under Brett Thorne’s skin, fight with him tooth and nail, and in the end have him groveling at her feet. She’s that kind of woman. Both a thorn in his side and the only one who can heal the wound.
Mom has always done what she does best: keep our family together. That’s become her role over the years. With a stubborn son and an even more stubborn husband, she’s learned how to navigate our intense dynamics and keep us going.
Being on the road and away from home for so long, I’ve come to appreciate her even more. Especially when this thought creeps in: with all the travel and hyperfocus on being the best, I may never find someone who completes me or challenges me the way she does Dad.
With this thought in mind, being a professional athlete—never able to truly claim a home of my own—makes what I’ve trained so hard to accomplish feel incredibly lonely.
“I’ll get my ass in gear, sir,” I speak up a moment later, making sure he hears me across the Bluetooth. “I’ll report back with what I find.”
Even though I will do no such thing, I’ll tell him what he wants to hear.
I have no interest in being a part of his plan for me to get the upper hand in the competition.
Plus, I already know Spare Time like the back of my hand.
I don’t need any extra time breaking the rules and intervening with the USBC to get inside information.
“That’s what I like to hear. You’ll thank me later when you win.” With that, the other line cuts off. No goodbye. No have a great day. Not even a friendly fuck you. I’m just left with myself and the Chappell Roan song that picks back up where it left off before the phone call interrupted it.
I turn off the ignition and step outside the car.
I can’t help but breathe in the strong but savory scent of sweet, smoky BBQ lathered over hot brisket from Judy’s Diner across the street.
I could recognize that smell anywhere, anytime.
A memory from my adolescence slaps me across the back of the head harder than hunger pains stabbing at my stomach just at the thought of Judy’s BBQ.
I’m immediately taken back to a summer day when I brought a fixing of Judy’s brisket over to the bowling alley before jumping in a lane to roll ten frames.
I was in a time crunch that day, practicing for a tournament my father signed me up for the following weekend.
Carlada, my family’s chef, didn’t start her shift until noon during the summer.
The thought of Mom’s health smoothies curled my stomach, and my dad, well, he was never home, nor would he ever be caught dead in the kitchen.
With the rush to get to the lanes, I didn’t have time to make myself a snack.
Judy’s BBQ just had to do.
Not to mention, I remembered what the alley’s pretzels and hot cheese dip did to my stomach one time, so I wanted to avoid Spare Time’s concession counter at all costs, especially the week before a tournament.
After a few solo rounds, the owner of the alley, Mr. Jiménez, came up and asked who I thought I was bringing in food to the alley from another business.
With the steam still coming off the BBQ brisket I placed to the side while I finished my frame, I tried to fib about being allergic to the type of oil Spare Time’s kitchen used.
Even though Mr. Jiménez entertained the idea, I knew he wasn’t buying my lie. Eventually, he put his hand up and said, “Son, I was just going to ask who you thought you were bringing in food and not bringing in any for me. You really think I’m that brave to eat the hot cheese I sell?”
The next four days, I came back to practice before the weekend of the tournament, each time bringing two servings of Judy’s BBQ brisket.
It was that week, over several shared meals and about fifty frames, Mr. Jiménez taught me how to position my feet in order to send the bowling ball down the lane with a slight curve to knock out two split pins.