Nine months and a world of change since my last frame, I eagerly returned to the neon-fired spectacle of Capri Lanes, among the last kitschy, old style bowling alleys in Columbus.
With old traveling buddy Alicia and Kent, her boyfriend, in town, I felt happily obligated. Before she uprooted from East Campus to the grid of West Hollywood (and later, Newport Beach), we rolled at Capri regularly. A smallish alley with propagandistic bowling murals on the wall, Capri represents a much gentler atmosphere than the big box bowling meccas further in the suburbs.
In built-out Orange County, I learned, bowling alleys are endangered species, buildings with giant footprints not capable of churning out tax revenue like an office tower on the same site. For those that remain, it's a task just finding a parking spot, much less a open lane.
Aside from a small Sunday night league and a couple too caught up in PDA to leave the scoring table, we rolled two games undisturbed but for our own bawdy commentary.
Returning to the alley always includes one problem: two fingers no longer accustomed to the ball's weight, strained more with every hurl of an alley ball. With Capri's full arsenal to choose from, I failed to pulled the magic, spare-snaring ball from their racks, and alternated between a pair that let the hitch in my delivery guide them to 7 or 8 pins a turn for 20 frames.
When we left, my left hand looked gnarled and arthritic. It wore off sometime during dinner.
Even though I narrowly broke 100 on the second game, it seemed a small cost to bear.
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