The true appeal of bowling...or pretending to bowl

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Nobody bowls anymore.I say this as a recovering child bowler and the last of a dying breed. I'm the only 20-something I know with a monogrammed ball. I haven't picked up a spare in 15 years. I could only assume that bowling is on the outs.A recent trip to the local lanes, however, proved me only half-wrong. It still seems that no one really bowls anymore. But the place was nonetheless packed.Growing up, I spent a great deal of time in bowling alley day care. I'll just let that sink in for a moment. On the one hand, it commands a certain degree of pity. On the other, it certainly explains a lot.My parents loved to bowl -- enough, at least, to leave me with a chain-smoking babysitter every afternoon. As soon as I was big enough to hit a bumper I was playing too.I had birthday parties at the bowling alley, complete with the (very loud) backstage tour. I eventually had my own ball, my own towel, and even my own pro-style wrist brace. I developed my own style and signature leg-sweep. And I was really, really bad.No, I was awful. Completely awful. But I wasn't consistently awful. I had to get the occasional strike or spare, just to keep me thinking that a 200 game was right around the corner.Back then, as my average dwindled and bowling's cultural cache became more apparent (somewhere between model trains and math club), I began to question the sport's appeal. Eventually my gear found the far corner of the basement, never to grace another gutter.But as an adult, I now understand the true draw of bowling: Beer. Or, more specifically, the ability to drink cheap canned lager while throwing one heavy object at several smaller objects. Add to that the satisfying explosion of said smaller objects and you've got yourself a proud American pastime.In an age where professional baseball players earn millions of dollars to scratch themselves and professional football players are ensconced in plastic and foam, bowling remains refreshingly true to its roots. You throw the same ball at the same pins, wearing the same shoes your father wore. Literally.Bowling shoes, like pre-Casto Hudsons in Havana, never die. Somehow they keep them on the road. Must be that spray disinfectant.On this Saturday night, though, I was the relic of the past. As I looked down the lanes I realized that I was the only bowler actually bowling. And I was the only bowler old enough for a beer.At some point in the last 15 years, the bowling alley became the go-to destination for an entire generation of pre-teens. Or at least that's the way it appeared as a crush of temp-permit teenagers milled about the alley, throwing the occasional ball, pretending to notice the score, and essentially fooling around without any supervision.This, I thought, could explain the strange phenomenon of "Laser Bowling". Really, this could explain why bowling alleys continue to exist. Nobody bowls anymore, but apparently everyone assumes the children have gone bowling.And so, like the young couple by the vending machine, my once-in-a-lifetime 215 went quietly unnoticed. We packed it in and moved on for the bar, wondering if we'd ever be back. Either way, Walt's Lanes will surely remain.The bowler may be a dying breed, but the alley, like a pair of slick-soled size nines, will live forever.(Ben Grabow writes for the young, the urban, and the easily amused. Contact him at thinlyread(at)gmail.com.)(Distributed by Scripps Howard News Service, http://www.scrippsnews.com)