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Craig Nybo

4

bowling balls custom fitted for weight and grip.

It was a habit of Kurt’s teammates to make fun of Kurt for using a house ball. “Maybe you’d improve your game if you left off rolling cannon shot instead of a sensible bowling ball,” Larry would often say. The same old saw, but it always got laughs from Buck and Arthur. Kurt would shoot Larry a bitter smile and pick a 16-pounder with holes spanned adequately enough to not cut into his fingers.

Kurt wasn’t a bowler; he wasn’t a sportsman of any kind. But Chapel Bowl Lanes had a blue-collar quaintness that tended to soothe him. Everything about the place rescued Kurt’s mind from the junk he had left behind in Los Angeles.

Kurt chose a house ball from the rack and made his way over to the rest of his team. He placed his ball in play and took a seat next to Larry, who wore a suspicious smile, curled between his salt and pepper mutton-chops.

“What?” Kurt asked.

“House ball again?” Larry asked as if he didn’t know.

“I happen to like a good house ball.”

“Sure, they make good paper-weights.”

“Don’t bust my chops.”

“You’re up,” Arthur shouted over his shoulder from his usual spot at the score-board desk. “Try to keep it on the lane, copper.”

“Sure thing, smart-ass,” Kurt said and stepped up to the line. “Who we playing tonight anyways?” Kurt glanced over his shoulder and spotted the competition. “Bill, Ray, Phil, Gerald; how you boys doing?” Kurt said with a nod to each of the opposing team members.

The four men sat like a quartet of statues. “We’re going to kick your ass, that’s how we’re doing,” Bill said, nodding his boulder sized head.

“Kick away,” Kurt said with a smile and picked up his house ball. He stood on the line and eyed the pins—far away down the lane.

“Use the arrows, not the pins,” Arthur said. “And for the love of all things holy, follow through.”