Bowling with Dad

This is an excerpt from my book Motorcycle Stories - Finding forgiveness on the open road. It takes place in June of 1974, soon after my parents split up. I was seventeen when these events occurred, and my brother Randy was thirteen. We were reeling from our mother’s attempted suicide and what would become a very messy divorce. It was Dad’s idea to go bowling in an attempt at some normalcy in our lives.

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Dad, Randy, and I went on weekly bowling trips to Earl Bowl on Route 309 in Quakertown. We were in my car as we pulled into the parking lot and parked next to Dad’s white Cadillac Seville.

As we walked in, there was a sweet smell from the disinfectant they used for the shoes and the oil on the alleys. Dad was standing at the counter, smiling. We gave him a hug, and he gave both of us a kiss.

“Never be ashamed to kiss your father, no matter how old you are,” he said.

The man behind the counter gave us our shoes and a large score sheet. He told us we were on lane 15. The shoes were red and black, with flat soles that allowed you to slide on the lanes when you rolled your ball to its target. I walked along a set of racks across the back of the alleys, looking for the perfect ball. This involved inserting my fingers into the three holes and holding the ball up in front of my face.

Back at lane 15, Dad had placed the score sheet on a slanted table. It was used to record the results of each frame of our game. He wrote our names down the left side of the sheet. His handwriting was immaculate, and it looked like our names were printed in a book.

Dad bowled first and knocked down eight pins, then got a spare. I was next and got seven. It was Randy’s first time and Dad stood behind him and showed him how to hold the ball. He explained how to line up using the marks on the floor. Randy gave it a try, and the ball landed with a loud thud and slowly, slowly went into the gutter.

After our second game, we ordered hot dogs and sodas. We sat together in the back row of seats since food wasn’t allowed in the bowling area. We finished eating, and Dad said, “Best of three wins.”

Dad won, of course. We removed our bowling shoes and walked to the front counter, where the man tallied up our games so Dad could pay. We handed the man our shoes, and he spritzed disinfectant into them from a green and red spray can.

We walked out to the cars and said our goodbyes. We never talked about Mom. It’s not like the topic was forbidden, it just never came up in conversation.

On the drive home, Randy asked me, “Do you think Dad will ever move back?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

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I hope you enjoyed reading Bowling With Dad. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think.

You can read more about my book here and see links to other scenes as well. Also, please consider subscribing to my Substack. I tell unusual stories about growing up in a small town, the great outdoors, hiking, camping, and motorcycles.