Chapter 12 #3
“Stop being a smart-ass and get ready. The competition is tomorrow, and you’re wasting time mentoring some kid who really should be using bumper rails. The alley is filling up with guys competing tomorrow. Look around, son.”
Trying not to be too obvious, I glance around the alley, checking out my so-called competitors.
Lanes 1 through 10 are packed with professional bowlers, each one locked into their own rhythm, their own focus.
Some are young, their families gathered behind them, clapping and calling out encouragement with every throw.
Others are older, no one at their backs except a coach or a sponsor with obvious anticipation for the tournament to be over.
I wonder where I’d fall in the future? Would I have someone special in the stands, cheering me on, proud of every frame I throw? Or will I continue having empty seats behind me like I’ve had almost this entire time I’ve played pro?
All I know is, no matter what the future brings, the idea of someone like Ezra being in my corner makes the choice, if there even is one, easier.
It's midday, and the alley is filling up. Media teams make their way in, setting up cameras to go live. The players competing in the City Open finish their stretches, lace and re-lace their shoes, and polish their bowling balls.
The only good thing about traveling with Dad for competitions is that he prefers I get extra hours of sleep.
Last night, we settled down around eight, and I was in bed by nine—the perfect way to avoid him.
This morning, it’s all been about focus.
Or at least that's what I’ve told him to get him off my case.
The announcer welcomes everyone back to the alley, shouting out the rules of the competition. He explains that the bowler with the highest score at the end of ten frames wins the Albuquerque City Open Championship.
Simple enough.
One by one, the bowlers line up and throw their balls down their lanes.
I follow suit after patting my jersey’s bowling pin patch twice.
The numbers add up on each digital screen above.
Lots of spares, one or two seven-ten splits, a couple Greek Churches, and one ferocious-looking picket fence formation.
All being calculated to determine the best player for second place.
I know I’m going to win. It’s what I’ve been trained to do since I could walk.
“You’re getting too cocky, son,” Brett Thorne calls out from behind me. “You’re moving too fast. Slow down.”
“I guess those loaded fries yesterday didn’t make me too sluggish, did they?” I wave him off, knowing that doing it in public only irritates him. I can’t believe he has the nerve to tell me to slow down when I’m doing exactly what he wants.
Winning.
An hour later, all the balls circulate back to the return table, the pins set back to their original spaces, and the lights go out over the pins near the back end.
Everyone takes note of their scores on the digital screens and, realizing I have the highest score, begins to issue me quiet congratulations from across the lanes.
The announcer broadcasts over the speaker, “Truett Thorne, Lane 9, wins the Albuquerque City Open Championship with a crisp score of 300 after rolling twelve perfectly consecutive strikes!”
The crowd goes wild for what seems to be five seconds and then proceeds to pack up and leave.
And it’s over. Just like that.
“Damn, not your typical championship, am I right? Sore losers.” Dad says the last part under his breath.
“No, but given it’s a weekday night, and everyone is probably exhausted, I’m not surprised there are no banging pots and pans or loose streamers popping out of small plastic cannons to congratulate me.”
“Well, in that case, I’m going to go grab our trophy.
” He pauses. “That’s if they even have one to give out?
I’ll meet you out in the limo. Don’t take too long.
I need to get back so I can watch some tapes of last year's USBC Tournament. A real bowling championship. Not whatever this was tonight.” Without another thought, he shuffles toward the counter where the announcer was set up.
Typical Brett Thorne behavior. Not even satisfied when I win.
I slip on my regular shoes, readying myself to head out, when I hear quick footsteps behind me.
Gavin runs up, his face beaming. I didn’t even realize he was still here.
“Mr. Truett,” he says, a little out of breath.
“Thank you so much for teaching me how to bowl. I can’t wait to tell my friends at school tomorrow I met a celebrity! ”
Before I can respond, he throws his arms around my leg in a quick hug, then takes off just as fast as he ran up to me.
I stand there for a moment, watching him rejoin his mom and little brother.
The feeling of helping someone, just as Mr. Jiménez once helped me, is better than the thrill of winning tonight’s top prize.
As I step out of the alley, I can’t help but grin, already eager to tell Ezra all about it.