I’m only going to say this once. Possibly twice, but no more than that.

I don’t bowl. Please don’t ask me to bowl. And don’t ask me why I don’t bowl. I simply don’t, and haven’t since the incident.

I won’t talk about the incident. You can’t make me, so don’t even try.

When I was a teenager, I had my own bowling ball. It was a big, gray thing with exotic swirls and all the latest in friction technology. It came in a big leather bag with sturdy handles and pockets for all my bowling accessories.

I have no idea where I got the ball.

I have only the dimmest memories of hanging out at the lanes, drinking beer, wearing clown shoes and uttering lines like, “Dammit, man! If you don’t pay attention to your axis tilt, you will never pick up that baby split, and just forget about the turkey! Throw a boomer, Rudy. Be mindful of the double wood!”

It’s all a blur of balls and babble and beer.

Then the incident happened and that was that. I sold the ball, I went into therapy and I left the life forever.

My friend Randy was distraught.

“Won’t you give it one more try?” he’d implore as I sprawled on the couch, face buried in the pillow. “For God’s sake, man. Think about the four-bagger! Think about the sour apple! Christ, man, think about your radius of gyration!”

Randy was a guy who was all in. He owned his own bowling shoes, shirt, gloves, protective cup, etc. He had a couple of his score cards framed and hanging on the living room wall of his apartment. Randy picked his women based on how well they rebounded from a 5-7-10 split, known as a “Lily.”

“I can’t!” I would sob into the pillow. “Not after the incident!”

“Damn that incident,” Randy would seethe. We were court-ordered not to discuss it further in the groundbreaking case Eh v. Cuckoo.

After that, it got better. I didn’t bowl and my friends mostly accepted that. I went on to other pastimes, like drinking more and weeping quietly in the night. I threw darts. I played tennis and softball. Life went on. Sure, I missed the swagger and trash talk of the lanes. Sure, I missed the smell of shoe disinfectant and cheap beer. I got over it and things were fine. The incident was behind me at last.

Until it wasn’t.

Problems arise when you find yourself in a steady relationship. Once you’re part of a couple, other couples want to do things with you. And by things, I mean bowling.

“I know!” your girlfriend’s dingy best friend will suggest after about a thousand rounds of Pictionary. “Why don’t we all go BOWLING!”

And while the others start yapping happily about spares and splits and picket fences, you have to explain one more time that you don’t bowl. Ever. Not since the incident. And they look at you, apprehensively at first, but then with understanding. They’ve heard about the incident, after all. Who hasn’t? It was in all the papers.

I grew up eventually and got married. Before I proposed, I sat my beloved down and explained things to her very carefully. “I love you,” I said. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but you can never ask me to bowl. Promise me you’ll never ask me to bowl.”

She promised. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. The incident. The damned incident …

Sometimes my brother will call late at night. We’ll chat and he’ll finally get around to asking what he called to ask. “Do you ever get urges? To … you know.”

“No,” I tell him. “I don’t bowl.”

One day at a time, man. It’s the best you can do.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. If you remember the incident (when he knocked down a barmaid with a dodo), please don’t email him at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.

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