Dustin Erhardt

The Three Phases of Bowling

Phase One: The Pre-Game

So, you’re sitting around with a bunch of your friends and someone says, “Hey, you know what I haven’t done in forever? Bowling!” This is where the nightmare begins. 

Now, bowling is a very dangerous sport because it has a strange ability to make you forget how terrible you are at the game, almost immediately after it ends. You may be face down in the middle of the lane because you forgot to let go of the ball, but by the end of the night you’ll be talking like you’re Carmen Salvino.

The delusion begins as you arrive at the bowling alley and get your snacks and shoes. By this point, you and your friends have all made up nicknames like “The Baconator” and typed them into the computer screens. You’ve picked the perfect ball in the perfect color, and you’re not going to let anyone else touch it. If you’re unwise, this is also the part where you take bets with your friends.

Finally, it’s time to bowl your first frame. You step up to grab your ball and get into position. This moment will be the peak of your self-confidence for the rest of the evening. You swing your arm, give it a little spin, and pray like heck.

Phase Two: The Spotlight

Your first frame is the most important part of the night, because you will spend the next few hours trying to make up for it or trying to live up to it. 

There are about three seconds between the point when you let go of your first ball and when it reaches the end of the lane. During this time, I like to take a step back and look at my life. 

Welcome to humanity. You arrive on the scene thinking you’re the greatest thing since the Brunswick Bowling Thumb Saver, but it’s not long before you’re reminded that you’ve got no skill at all. 

I’ve been doing this for the past 24 years, doing everything I can to uphold the public perception that I’m completely okay. That I’m a skilled player in the game of life. And I think this is normal; don’t we all want the world to think highly of us? Don’t we all want to be the one giving advice instead of the one always asking for it? Don’t we all want to be someone’s saviour?

This is why the first frame is so important: it determines whether we will follow or be followed. It defines us for the rest of the night. If we get a strike on our first frame, we have earned the influence that comes with wisdom. For example, if we get a strike on our first frame and our buddy Jake gets a modest spare on his, we can say “Listen man, you should try pointing your thumb in whatever direction you want the ball to go. It worked for me.” We have the power to tell him what to do. And if he’s smart, he’ll listen, because we’ve obviously got this thing figured out better than he does.

Of course, this formula only works if we can successfully nail our first throw. So let’s get back to the game:

By now the ball is halfway down the lane. As far as you can tell, everything looks good. The spin is perfect, or at least it looks really cool with the neon laser lights playing off the ball’s glossy pink surface. It’s headed straight down the center towards the pocket, just barely to the right of the center pin, which is right where you want it to be. There’s no way anything could go wrong at this stage, so you feel it’s safe to turn and face your friends. You thrust your arms in the air and grin with satisfaction, because you’ve successfully asserted yourself as king of the pins. Looking around, you notice that your buddies aren’t quite as excited as you are, but you won’t let that ruin your fun. You march back to look at your score on the screen, even though you already know the outcome.

Phase Three: The Shame

There must have been an earthquake while you were walking back to your seat. Or maybe a computer error. There’s no way this is the correct score. One pin? One?! A gutterball would have been less embarrassing.

This is when the denial sets in. It’s not like you can pretend that you didn’t just make a fool of yourself, but you can find plenty of other excuses. Maybe that ball wasn’t right for you, it was too small or too heavy or too maroon. The lane wasn’t perfectly level to the earth’s center of gravity. You were trying to throw off your competition with a horrible first throw so they’ll let their guard down and you can school them later. Your shoes were too tight. You don’t like the Nickelback song they were just playing.

The shame isn’t over yet. You’ve still got another throw left to finish your turn, and that one won’t turn out much better. In fact, the more you bowl, the worse you will feel about yourself. You can’t avoid this looming feeling that you’re destined to lose and there is no way to escape that.

At some point, you’d think it would just be better to admit that you don’t know what you’re doing. At least then you’re being honest and you don’t have to try to be someone you’re not. But if you’re anything like me, this is not the case.

Game number one is over. I’m looking at the summary, and it’s depressing. There’s no hiding anymore, everyone knows the truth and I might as well embrace it, right?

I stand up in front of everyone and shout above the music. “That was a great practice game guys, but let’s play this next one for real.”

As if saying that is really going to help me. By now I know the truth, and so does everyone around me. I can call it whatever I want, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m a disgrace to the game, and the best thing I can do is to not play at all.

That’s where I am today. I’ve failed completely, and I know that I’m in no place to be anyone’s example. I started loud and proud, and ended up in a hole. And even better, everyone I love got to watch me do it. I’ve finally admitted to God, myself and everyone else that I’m totally messed up. And I’ve managed to find a bit of peace in that.

This is the greatest revelation of my short life: just like in bowling, everyone sucks at life. We are surrounded by a culture that wants us to believe that we’re the only ones with any issues at all, but it’s a lie.

And once I came clean with my faults and had nothing left to lose, I realized that I could never go back.