Читать книгу Midnight Bowling - Quinn Dalton - Страница 9

TWO MILLION PEOPLE watched that day in January 1963 when my father choked at the pro bowling championship at the Showboat in Las Vegas. Everybody he knew had seen it, and he had plenty of time to think about that on the drive home to Sandusky. He was in the car his coach Leo Florida had left him before he skipped town. Leo had also left him some cash, but he was gone, and my father was alone, and only seventeen years old, and before that he hadn’t been as far as Cincinnati on his own. Since then, not a word from Leo for a decade. No one, including Leo’s own family, knew where he’d gone, though there were plenty of theories—he was back on the hustling circuit, he’d become a Communist spy, he’d gone to jail, he was dead—the last two lines gaining ground when he didn’t show up for his own mother’s funeral.

I didn’t know about any of this when my father took me to the Galaxy Lanes for the first time. It was my ninth birthday, November 8, 1973, and he’d just gotten a promotion at Engineered Fittings, so he said we had a lot to look forward to. And not only that, he said, Leo Florida was back in Sandusky. There was of course no way for me to know what this meant to him even if he’d tried to explain it: who he’d been before I was born, what he’d hoped and dreamed for, and how I figured into any of it.

For me, the big event that year had been that my best friend, Chelsea, who’d lived across the street for as long as we both could remember, had moved at the beginning of the school year to a large split-level built on a former cornfield at the edge of town. Though the development was only a mile or so away, not far on bike, neither of us was allowed to cross any streets with traffic lights. She might as well have moved to China, was how we felt. We’d long believed we were actually sisters, and it was just an oddity that we lived in separate houses. So we cried and hugged as the movers loaded the truck, even promised we’d write a letter a week, though we knew we’d see each other at school, and our mothers had promised to take turns having us over every weekend.

My mother and Mrs. Vickham had spent hours in each other’s kitchens, and I’d thought they were best friends, just as Chelsea and I were. I can see them now—my small-framed mother in a T-shirt and shorts, sipping on a Tab, brown hair in twiggy ponytail, wide-set brown eyes lit with laughter at something Mrs. Vickham had just said. And Mrs. Vickham—willowy, blond, perfectly pressed and coordinated—nodding appreciatively at her own wry humor. She was at least ten years older than my mother, college educated, and a businesswoman—a top Mary Kay sales lady in the area. At the time I couldn’t have known how their different backgrounds might have affected their friendship, such as it was. I imagined our mothers telling secrets under a lace-edged comforter in Chelsea’s room, though of course that was Chelsea and myself, not my mother and Mrs. Vickham.

But our mothers weren’t actually friends, as it turned out. They had just been neighbors. The distinction had escaped me before, and apparently it had escaped my mother as well. In the two months since the move, Mrs. Vickham hadn’t been over once, and my mother and I hadn’t been invited to their new house, though my mother had even called to ask when she could bring their house-warming gift (a casserole dish—in case Mrs. Vickham didn’t already have one? To bring casserole baking to the outer reaches of Sandusky? It wasn’t clear to me). Chelsea and I had our own routine—at home, we were inseparable, but at school she tended to hang out with girls she took tennis lessons with at the Plum Brook Country Club, which her family had joined after her father had gotten the job at Kemper Golf. And I was in Mrs. Turner’s advanced class, so we often didn’t even have the same recess. If we noticed the lack of communication between our mothers, I don’t remember us discussing it—we were still young enough to view the mysteries of adult behavior as unsolvable and beyond our concern.

But my mother was furious. “I guess they’re better than us now,” she said at dinner one night, after she’d managed to catch Mrs. Vickham on the phone only to be promised a call back shortly, which hadn’t happened. My father laughed. “His last job was selling toilet parts!” he said of Mr. Vickham, while my mother stared at him as if he’d suddenly lifted off the ground.

My father, for his part, had maintained a hello-and-nod relationship with Mr. Vickham for all the years they’d been neighbors, which had seemed completely satisfying for him, and not worth pining for in its absence. Topics of discussion, if our fathers happened to be retrieving their papers or doing yard work at the same time, were limited to matters of upcoming or in-progress home repairs, the Cleveland Browns, and fishing conditions. Our street dead-ended into Lake Erie, and the houses had been built as summer cottages, so they were small and poorly insulated, and owners had over the years added back rooms or second floors, as was the case with our house, and had shored them up as well as they could. Pink insulation puffed from door frames like cotton candy, plastic billowed over windows, including over the roof of Mr. Ontero’s house two doors down. Every November he would tether huge tarps to his gutters, which flapped like sails in the wind off the lake. They probably did little good, but Chelsea and I loved seeing them appear each year, just as we loved his pair of meticulously trimmed round bushes, which looked like ass cheeks.

The lake, and what weather it might bring, was another source of brief but serious exchanges between my father and Mr. Vickham, providing a note of continuity when the Browns weren’t playing or neither man had been fishing recently. Mr. Vickham was given to grunting if it could convey his point as well as actual words, and my father had mused in front of me once about whether Mr. Vickham could string together a full sentence if money was on the table. But after the Vickhams moved, and it began to dawn on my mother that her friendship with Mrs. Vickham had been one of convenience rather than true attachment, my father professed to miss the Vickhams greatly, which only provoked my mother more. I knew not to so much as mention Chelsea’s name at home unless I wanted to hear about the Vickhams’ general lack of propriety, along with the specifics of how they were ruining Chelsea.

“I know her mother lets her wear makeup,” my mother said out of the blue one time while pouring my cereal before school. But Chelsea and I often played with the Mary Kay samples Chelsea’s mother gave us, which my mother knew, and I saw no gain in pointing this out.

Chelsea and I had worked out my birthday plan at school, not trusting logistics to our mothers. Chelsea would come with us to dinner at Frisch’s Big Boy and then to a movie, and then spend the night. Since I knew my mother would refuse to drive to Chelsea’s house herself without a formal invite from Mrs. Vickham—probably at that point it would’ve had to have been engraved—I’d enlisted my father to handle transportation.

So on that morning of my birthday, I sat in the living room watching cartoons, waiting for the day to pass, wondering what news Chelsea would have for me when afternoon finally came. Our games at that time involved pretending we lived in a New York apartment, or in a spaceship, or in college—nowhere specifically, more like College, a destination in and of itself. Anyway, there was a travel theme. She had already made it clear that she would be leaving Sandusky the day after we graduated from high school, and that she would take me with her if I wanted. Where we were going was not a detail I remember us discussing—it was the fact of leaving that mattered. I pretended to be excited about the idea, but I couldn’t seem to make myself care either way, maybe because we still had a good eight years—another lifetime, almost—before any of these decisions would be available to us. And perhaps also because I had begun to suspect, even at just-turned-nine, that the world held nothing of great interest for me. The world had presented itself, and seemed not too hard to get along in, but nothing had claimed my heart yet, and maybe nothing would. Chelsea allowed me to drift along in her schemes and obsessions, and that was as close as I figured I would get to real excitement.

So when my father came into the living room from the garage that morning, walking briskly and wearing a jacket, I thought he was going to suggest picking up Chelsea early, and I sat up from the couch and began looking around for my shoes.

“How do you know we’re going somewhere?”

“You’re jingling your keys,” I said.

My father laughed, pulled his hand from his pocket. In his other hand he held an odd-shaped leather bag. I’d seen it in the garage hunched like an animal on the metal shelves behind jugs of antifreeze, the zippered, curved spine furred with a greasy dust. It had never occurred to me to ask about that bag or to look inside it; I imagined it held something dormant, better left alone. But that day, even in the gray light, I could see the leather had been cleaned. It smelled of shoe polish and car exhaust.

“You want to come with me?” my father asked.

I was happy to go anywhere, just to get out for a while. I turned off the TV and found my sneakers in the kitchen and sat down to put them on as he told me about the Galaxy Lanes and Leo Florida—names and places that meant nothing to me—and all that we had ahead of us. He was so tall to me then, his wrist bones poking past the edges of his sleeves, his shoulders curling inward as if he might be about to crouch down and cover his head, as we’d been taught to do in school tornado drills. He had red hair, gray eyes, high cheekbones and a largish nose, and a smile that took over his face. He was only twenty-eight years old—my parents were nineteen when I was born—and pictures of them from my early years show them as the full-grown children they were, skinny, big-eyed, grinning. But he was my father, and thus ageless to me then.

He reminded me to get my jacket as I got to my feet. He seemed in a bit of a hurry as we headed out, closing the front door quietly so as not to wake my mother, and I wondered if he might be worried that she would stop us. Later I thought it more likely he was worried he would change his mind.

“Leo,” my father said when we were in the car and on our way. He might have been starting to tell me something about him, or practicing how he would greet him. I kept my eyes on the view over the dashboard; I already knew you could pick up a lot if you seemed not to be listening. My father turned on First Street, then Ogontz, then Cleveland Road, and then into the gravel lot of the Galaxy Lanes, a place I had been driven past for all the years of my life without incident or comment, a place that had no mark on the map of my world until that day. It was only a few minutes by car from our house.

We coasted toward the aluminum arches of the Galaxy Lanes, which I guess had been designed to look space-aged but by then seemed as sweetly corny to me as the Star Trek reruns I watched after school. The lot wasn’t crowded but my father parked way off to one side, half on the grass. He cut the engine and looked up at himself in the rearview mirror. “Stay close to me,” he said as we got out, which thrilled me, though I had no intention of doing anything but.

I should point out that my father had never so much as mentioned bowling before. He’d never turned the television dial to ABC during PBA nationals, and we’d never watched “Make that Spare” or “Bowling for Dollars” while those shows still aired. My experience of sports of any kind had come through Chelsea, who, like her mother and older brothers, played tennis, while her father played golf—pastimes which seemed to involve a lot of green and hot sun and seemed to be as much about what you wore as what you did. My parents did not play any sports, and never had, to my knowledge. My father didn’t even own a pair of sneakers—he did chores in his paint-splattered jeans and fishing boots. His idea of fun—and mine, too—was a day fishing in Put-in-Bay with a stop off at the Bait Barn for a bottled cold Vernors for me and beer for him, or bird-watching at Crane State Park, or ghost hunting on Johnson Island, where the last Civil War POWs were said to drift like smoke to the beaches in the evening, trapped by Lake Erie’s dark water. My mother rarely came on these expeditions, not being a fan of fishing, birds, or the outdoors in general. She shooed us out the door with bagged lunches. This was fine by me because I was my father’s daughter, eager to know what he loved—a promise that something hidden would be revealed, that I might be the only witness.

And that was how I felt that day, on the way to the Galaxy Lanes, until we stepped inside and stopped on a stretch of worn red carpet. The red looked to have been cut in to replace the spaceship-patterned stuff—which, I noticed as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, covered the rest of the place from the floors to midway up the walls. There were body-sized bleached streaks at our feet from the salt people had tracked in.

“Place has seen better years,” my father said, and I had to agree. It didn’t look to me like anything space-aged had happened in that place for a long time, if ever.

Ahead of us were the lanes. A father with some kids at one end. To our right, a few old men hanging by their elbows at the bar, cigarette smoke thick above their heads. There seemed to be no women around. I pointed to the row of red, shiny, rounded objects that looked like the fenders of old cars—one at the top of each lane. “The ball returns,” my father said. He pulled me along with him toward the counter, and I bounced at the end of his hand like a netted fish, already itching to leave. I was thinking of what I would say to Chelsea about this odd little errand, how run-down and dark and, well, suspicious the place looked, when we stopped beside a small wooden swinging door. Beyond that, there was a doorway through which I could see shelves lined with wilted-looking red and white shoes.

We stood there a moment, and I felt my father’s impatience coursing from his fingers into mine. He tapped the fingers of his free hand on the counter, turned his head left and right.

“You got anything to put your hair back with?” he asked me. I dug in my jeans pockets, turned up nothing. Behind us, the pins clattered every few seconds, and I cringed at the noise. Just as he stepped back from the counter, ready to leave—I hoped—a dark-haired, big-chested man came through the doorway. He had a pair of shoes in one hand and a can of aerosol spray in the other. He gave my father a nod like he’d just seen him yesterday, put the can down, and reached out his hand.

They shook. “Leo,” my father said, just as he’d said in the car on the way over. Maybe he had been practicing.

Leo put the shoes on the counter, at just about eye-level in front of me. “Saw you coming,” he said. “These should fit you.” He winked at me and I stared back. I wondered why he hadn’t gotten out a pair of the red-and-white shoes for my father, too. But later, I understood that this would’ve been an insult between pros—or former ones, at least—and of course my father still had his own shoes, custom-made Linds, shined as freshly as the bag he’d pulled them from.

The pair Leo got out for me fit just right, and it was hard to figure how he’d managed that at a glance, when at Zleigman’s, where my mother took me to buy school shoes, you had to step on those cold metal measuring trays every time. But that was Leo, I learned soon enough. He’d seen us coming. There were, as it turned out, only a few things in his life he hadn’t seen coming.

My father reached for his wallet, but Leo shook him off. He pushed through the small swinging door, saying something about the royal treatment, and led us to Lane 3, which I learned that day was my father’s lucky lane, and which also became our lane. There was nobody to our left, and several lanes to the right were empty, too.

Leo wanted to know if there was anything else he could do for us. My father set his bag on a bench and straightened up. “We’re fine, thanks,” he said.

Leo shoved his big hands in his pockets. He cleared his throat, nodded. He seemed to want to talk more, but my father leaned back to his bag, unzipping it and rummaging until Leo turned and headed back to the counter.

“Let’s get you a ball,” my father said then. He led me over to the racks of balls, all of them black, looking like bombs straight out of Looney Tunes cartoons. He made me lift ball after ball, the kid sizes, until he thought the finger holes were spaced right and the weight was something I could work with. They were all too heavy as far as I was concerned. “This one,” he said finally, and then he led me over to the Lustre King polishing machine and let me put a dime in the slot and told me to push the button, which I was happy to do because I loved lighted buttons as much as any other kid. The machine swallowed the ball and kicked on, and the ball rolled out of the slot again a minute or so later looking like it had never before been touched. He held it up, inspected it. It seemed as light as a balloon in his hand. He pursed his lips, looked down at me, narrowed his eyes. After a moment he said okay, and then told me to follow him.

“Watch what I’m doing,” he said when we got back to Lane 3. He squatted at the top of the lane, kept his balance with his fingertips as he leaned even farther forward, chin jutted, squinting. No one else was doing this, I noted as I looked to my right at all the other bowlers. They were just rolling the ball, their arms swinging forward as smooth as pendulums.

Finally he got to his feet. “Not one change in the lay of the land there,” he said. I had no idea what he meant, and he didn’t explain. He retrieved his ball from his bag and held it up like an exhibit. It was a deep red with a low sparkle in the finish that reminded me of the tall red plastic cups I drank sodas from at Harry’s when we went for sandwiches on Saturday afternoons. “Now. I roll a Amflite Magic Circle because it’s springier on these lanes,” my father said. “Leo, he probably still rolls a bleeder.” He must’ve read my confused expression because then he shrugged. “They soak up the oil, you have to wipe them off all the time.” He gestured toward the front counter. “His dad rolled with the Sandusky Icebreakers, you know, which—well, they were a name for a while.” My father stopped, looked at me. He seemed to have so many things to say and show me that it was a physical struggle to figure out where to begin. The effort to decide played out on his face—the fast blinking, the pressed lips. Even then, I understood. Sometimes my head hummed with things I wanted to say, and I couldn’t choose and so I said nothing. My mother seemed to think we were both keeping our respective secrets, and that may have been true of my father, but for me, much of what was going on in my mind was a mystery to me. I could look at him and see myself.

My father set his ball in the return next to mine. “Let’s walk to the line.” He showed me how to back up four-and-a-half steps. “That’s your point of origin. Not just where you start, but where your roll starts.”

Then he said we should practice our approach. “We’re going to teach you everything just the way it should be done,” he said. “Watch me.” He backed up and then slide-stepped to the line, his feet barely lifting, stopping with the tip of his left shoe even with the line, his right hand reaching, as if he might be trying to catch something falling through the air. “It’s like dancing,” he said. “Try it.”

It wasn’t like any kind of dancing I’d seen. I looked around. I felt foolish, pantomiming, but no one seemed to notice what we were doing, busy as they were actually bowling. Every few seconds the pins crashed in the boxes at the ends of the lanes and were swept away. I backed up and glided forward, or tried to. As I backed up, I felt my father’s fingers on my wrists. “You don’t keep your hands at your sides. You use your free arm to propel you, and your body to propel your rolling arm,” he said. I had the feeling he’d be willing to practice this particular move with me all day, until I had it right. The prospect wasn’t exactly appealing.

“Back up, let’s try again,” my father said, and I said okay, and we stood at our points of origin again, mine slightly forward because my stride was smaller, preparing for my next phantom roll.

“Why don’t you just let her give it a try?”

We both turned to find Leo leaning on the return a few feet behind us, one hand resting on it, a cigarette burning in his other hand.

“Well, now, that’s a thought, coach,” my father said, his eyebrows raised but no smile on his face. I didn’t think he liked Leo, so why come here? There were other bowling places around.

“That’s all it is,” Leo said. He took a drag off his cigarette and looked across the lanes as if he had other things to keep an eye on. But he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave us, either.

“Any other words of wisdom?” There was a pained tone in my father’s voice, which I’d heard before, sometimes late at night if I happened to wake up and hear my parents talking. I couldn’t catch the words, even through our thin walls, but it always seemed my mother wanted something, and my father wanted to understand what it was.

“If you’re wondering where I went, it was nowhere good,” Leo said. He tapped his cigarette on the tray attached to the console, took another drag. “Hey kid,” he said. “You see your father over there? You know he went pro, right?” Leo pointed to the wall next to the counter, where there were rows and rows of black-and-white photos, some head shots, some team shots. I took a few steps closer. And there was my father with his slicked-back hair and pointy-collared shirt, a big goofy smile. He didn’t look much older than the sixth-grade safety patrol kids in my school.

“You know he had the record for the most perfect games in one season in his age group,” Leo said. He really was trying. I looked back at my father, who was studying his glossed shoes as if he wondered how they’d gotten on his feet. Leo looked like he had about given up on any kind conversation. Behind me, pins crashed two lanes over, and I shivered at the noise. Leo saw this and grinned—I’d given him something else to talk about.

“That’s nothing, kid. I used to be a pin boy down at the State. There was an alley down there, in the basement. Did you know that?”

I shook my head. What a question—why would I know? The State Theatre was a downtown landmark, but it was closed by then, its windows dark. Of course I didn’t know there’d been a bowling alley there. My father rolled his eyes, but Leo ignored him. “Okay, well, there used to be a little bench between the pin boxes every two lanes, and that’s where you’d perch.” He pointed at the space between the end of our lane and Lane 4, and then looked at me to see whether I’d grasped the risks of doing such a thing. My father was standing beside me now, hands in his pockets, making a show of listening. I had a sense that anything Leo said was going to upset him. This kept my attention.

“So there was a board on each side called a side kick that was supposed to keep the pins contained. You’d sit up there—” he stood in a crouch, feet spread, knees bent, looking almost like a jockey on a horse, “and when a box was done, you’d jump into the pit, put the ball on the return and roll it to the bowler, and scoop the pins. There was a pedal back there, too. You’d step on it to raise these rods so you could place the pins. Then you’d drop the pedal and hop back up on the bench and pray the pins wouldn’t fly up and hit you when some guy cranked it back down the lane. And you’re doing this on two sides, mind you.”

Leo acted all this out, and my father watched. I couldn’t read his expression. “Anyway,” Leo said, straightening up, “if you were good, you could set without the rods. But most people wanted you to use them, so you couldn’t crowd the pins and do someone a favor for a cut.”

He winked as he said this last part. He was what my mother called a flirt, the way he made it seem all of this was just between us. I liked him, I decided, even though I understood that whatever was between him and my father had nothing to do with joking around.

“Because there was always betting. Wasn’t there, Leo?” my father said. He rested a hand on my shoulder. “You should tell her about that. Tell her all you know about that.”

Leo looked down at the ball return, patted it like a dog’s head. “Sure thing,” he said. He stubbed out his cigarette, gazed out over the lanes again. “I’ll leave you to it.”

My father watched Leo walk away until he was almost to the bar. He turned back to Lane 3, surveyed it again as if considering a great distance. He got his ball from the return and carried it to the top of the lane, cradled it against his chest as if he were praying. Then he said he might roll a few just to get warmed up.

Of course, I didn’t know how it must’ve felt for him, stepping back from the foul line after so long. I didn’t know then that the last time he’d done that, more people than lived in the entire state of Ohio had watched him bomb on national television. He probably felt he was being watched again by everyone there, and he was probably right.

He glided forward. And he did look like a man dancing, or skating on glass as he approached the line, his arm swinging in front of him smooth as a trapeze artist, reaching through the air, his chin uptilted in a way that looked both confident and fearful. He expected nothing, that’s what I think now. He had given up, and come back humble. But he’d chosen to take me with him. That’s what I felt—as if I’d been let in on a secret, one I wasn’t even sure I could express to Chelsea, to whom I told everything—and that this place, the Galaxy Lanes, was a room in our house which had been kept locked until that day. My father, who always seemed rushed and nervous, now looked to be swimming, his movement graceful and measured, though the ball appeared to shoot from his fingers, slowing only to curve into the pins. I thought of school films about the astronauts landing on the moon and the lower gravity there—imagine moving through water, our teacher had told us—and I could imagine it, watching him.

My father rolled nine strikes before he missed a pin. When he made the ninth, he turned around and said to me, “And here’s your wish for next year, sweetheart.”

Then he rolled again and dropped them all but the ten pin, but that was okay. My pulse felt big in my throat. I had seen something of him that I hadn’t known before, and it seemed to me for the first time that there was a world of things I didn’t know.

“I want to try,” I said—actually, I didn’t realize that I’d said anything, but my father had heard me. He put down his ball, retrieved mine, and ushered me to the top of the line. He tapped my thigh to remind me of the four-and-a-half steps back. He showed me how to position the ball at my chest, and he pulled my shoulders back so that the weight of the ball wouldn’t throw me off balance. At some point, I knew it was time to move, and so I tried to glide forward as he had. But while he’d seemed to be floating, I felt only weight—in my arm, in my legs, and the soles of my feet. The ball dragged me forward, left my fingers too late. It slammed into the floor rather than sailed; it meandered to the pins. A few tipped lazily as if agreeing to lie down just to humor me for trying. I was dumbfounded—my father had made it look so natural.

The pins rolled and stilled, and I turned back to my father, expecting him to be disappointed. Instead, he had the same look as game show contestants when they’d won the grand prize. There was a sudden gleam at the edges of him, as if he’d found something that no one else in the world knew existed.

I walked back to him and he turned me around, gave me some more direction about the optimal bend in the legs, about letting the ball go a heartbeat earlier. I tried again with more power though not more accuracy. I rolled a few in the gutter, but my father was only happier with each roll, his words clipped when he leaned in to explain this or that adjustment.

Eventually, I got a strike. I whirled back to face him, threw my hands over my head, jumped up and down, expecting him to do the same. Instead he looked no different than before—just smiling at me and nodding to himself at some calculation he’d tried and confirmed. “Fine, good,” he said, same as he’d said when I’d rolled a gutter ball a moment before.

I turned back to look at the lane. The evidence of my first triumph was already being swept away, the next frame set. I had the sense that those pins in particular, not to mention the place itself, had been waiting for me. There was a pressure in my chest, almost the same feeling as when I was about to cry, which I hated to do. But this was more powerful. I felt as if I’d expanded somehow, filled myself more fully. I couldn’t have explained this to anyone, not even Chelsea, maybe especially not Chelsea. But I did know I wanted to roll again.

I walked back to where my father stood waiting for me. He looked at me with concern, as if he could see what was happening to me. “How’s your arm?”

“Fine,” I said. I wanted to get on with it, and he could see this, too.

“How’s your wrist?”

I said fine again, and shook both hands to demonstrate. “You should watch your wrists,” he said. “Your mother has weak wrists.”

This was not a detail I remembered either of my parents mentioning. My mother, overall, was not known for weak points. She had moments when nothing could satisfy her, when she found doom in every misplaced spoon, and during those times, if my father was not at work, we went on one of our various expeditions, or just for ice cream downtown, or to the marina to watch the boats—which was only steps away from where we stood now, eyeing each other. My father, I knew, was sizing me up, and I was trying to decipher what he thought he was seeing.

“Did you see that—what I did?” I said, since I didn’t yet know the word for strike.

“Yes, I did,” he said. “And it was great. But let’s not overdo it.”

“I want to go again.”

My father tilted his head to one side, and the smile in the wrinkles around his eyes told me he loved me—that part of his expression I recognized. But there was something else, a watchfulness, as if he was seeing me in some new way. And he was; he told me later. He understood what I wanted, even though, as was typical for me then, I couldn’t put a word to it. Mastery—that was the desire pushing against my ribs.

By the time we left—hours later, it turned out—my father tipping an imaginary hat to Leo at the counter as if he’d beaten him fair and square at something, I had fallen in love with bowling the way you love a food and can’t remember what life was like before you tasted it. I loved it for the way the ball curved—hooked, my father explained—magically into the pins. But, no, he said; it wasn’t magic. A hook took years to get right; it was a fingerprint, the full expression of a bowler’s movement, traced across the boards. I closed my eyes and listened—I loved the way he sounded, explaining everything to me, and I believed he had come back to bowling not just to see Leo Florida again, but because of me, because of us.

After that, at the Galaxy Lanes, we were the Wycheskis. My father might have only been pro for one day back in 1963, and he might have choked on national television in front of millions of people, but he was still a pro. No one else there except Leo Florida could say that.

We were the Wycheskis, and we had a plan. By the time I’d rolled my first 200 game, I’d known what to do, because my father had explained it. Get going with Youth American Bowling Association, learn the competition through that and scratch matches. Start after school at the Galaxy when I got old enough, working the counter and scoring matches. Letter in high school, keep up with league play and tourneys until I was ready for the PBA qualifiers. It was a path. It had been my father’s path, in fact, and while it hadn’t gone exactly right for him, he was prepared to show me the way. He would teach me how to be weightless on the glide forward; he would teach me the timing of the release. The game was, after all, about position and timing, and he would help me absorb this truth into my very cells.

My father warned me that some people wouldn’t understand this level of focus—he didn’t name Chelsea and her set specifically, but I got his point. Bowling wasn’t exactly glamorous—not anymore at least, though the framed black-and-white photos on Leo’s Hall of Fame wall made me wish that men still wore suits and women tight-waisted, full-skirted dresses, sitting in neat rows to watch the hometown matches. My father said it didn’t matter that those days were gone; it didn’t matter that the Galaxy wasn’t a showplace anymore, or that the unions were on their backs in our town and across the Midwest while the good jobs blew away, or that thousands of men, some of them scarcely a decade older than me, had streamed from the jungles of Vietnam to the Veterans Home on Columbus Avenue, many of them missing this or that part, some of them still seeming to be on the lookout for them. What mattered was that perfection could still be had in the form of a ball curving with just the right spin toward its target. Correct action could prevail. “Don’t let Leo make you think the how doesn’t matter,” my father said to me over and over again. Maybe he worried from the beginning that Leo would ruin me like he’d nearly ruined him. Anyway, I didn’t care—I believed my father when he said the past didn’t matter. The important thing was that he was my coach, and we were the perfect combination: natural-born talent and experience. All we needed was each other—we knew this the way we knew the order of pinfall in a perfect strike, left-handed or right-handed, or the number of boards a ball had to hook across to make that strike.

What we didn’t know was the number of years and months and days we had left together, which were seven, five, and two, respectively. That math, simple and final as it turned out to be, was beyond us.