We had a story, Tuesday morning, about a pair of women in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, who go bowling every week. The thing that makes this a story is their ages. Audrey is 90 and Bea is 93. They are a part of a team and say they will keep rolling along until they get kicked off, something the other team members say will never happen because, as long as Bea and Audrey are on the team, the others will not be the oldest! The story had me pining for pins...longing for lanes...aching for alleys...strikes and spares dancing in my head. Yes, bowling--a sport where a Turkey is a good thing-- is the perfect endeavor for me.

I actually bowled in a league for awhile when I lived in Las Vegas. The competition was on Sunday nights at the famous Showboat Lanes. I'd seen the place a lot on TV, growing up, because we always watched the Pro Bowler's Tour on ABC with Chris Schenkel. As with most families in our town, bowling was important. For a long time, I thought Dick Weber was one of the Apostles. I was not a very good bowler, but for a kid from Wisconsin to enter a place like the Showboat, with what seemed like a 1000 lanes, it was well worth the humiliation.

Today, places for bowling are called "family fun centers" or "Indoor Entertainment Complexes" or, at the very least, "bowling lanes." When I was a kid it was a bowling alley. Norb's Bowling Alley. I think the owner's first name was Norbert, which, coincidentally, is the technical name for the sound made when your slightly-too-chubby thumb pops out of the bowling ball at release: "norberrrrrt." Norb's was in the basement of the movie theater. There were four lanes. It was an inexpensive place to have some fun. When I was in school, people didn't seem to travel as much during Spring and Winter breaks. So, after a couple days sledding or skating--both of which you could usually do at Spring break as well as Winter break-- or just hanging around outdoors, most of us kids would end up at the bowling alley. We didn't have those bumpers that you can use now. If you threw all gutter balls, that was that. I guess, in this day and age, we fear our children may be crushed for all time if they don't knock down a few pins. There was a story in the news last week about a study that seems to indicate that all this concern about "self-esteem" may really just make people self-centered and unwilling to help others, so, maybe, a gutter ball now and then would be better for the world at large.

My grandma lived at a retirement village called Bluffview Courts that had a bowling team. She was in her 70s and 80s when she bowled for the "Pepper Pots." I'm not sure who came up with that name but I know my brother called the vehicle that took the team into town, the "Varicose Van." My grandma was an integral part of the team despite the fact that her ball didn't exactly zoom down the lane. It kind of kerplunk--kerplunk--kerplunked down the lane. You could almost see the pins laughing at the other end. Once the ball left my grandma's hand, you could go to the refreshment stand, get a soda and a bratwurst, catch up on whatever game was on the one TV in the corner, play a game of pool, visit the restroom, finish your taxes, wash and wax your car, get into an argument about whether or not Richard Nixon should resign, order and eat a chocolate sundae for dessert, watch President Nixon's resignation speech, walk the dog, see Gerald Ford sworn in as president, get your teeth cleaned and change your socks before the ball hit the pins. No matter, she loved to bowl and, more often than not, notched a pretty decent score.

At a certain point, a couple of guys decided to put a new bowling alley in town. They called it Mar-A-Kay Lanes. Not just an "alley" anymore. I think it was named after their wives, perhaps, in hopes that if it was named for them, the wives wouldn't mind all the time the husbands were spending at the bowling alley...I mean lanes. It had 12 lanes and was bright and well-lit. Part of the charm of Norb's had been how dark and claustrophobic it was. In Wisconsin, especially in the dead of winter, the less clearly you can see your neighbors, the better. After awhile, the name changed from Mar-A-Kay to Riviera Bowl. It's on the Wisconsin River but, from what I hear, that's a lot like the Riviera.

Anyway, after seeing that story Tuesday morning, I think it might be time to shine up the old ball, stretch out the shoes and hit the lanes. If you see me, stop and say hello. I'll be the gray-headed, paunchy, middle-aged man on lane 9...using the bumpers.