by Thomas L. Traband III
The pins exploded. White shapes flew everywhere, then disappeared with the black ball. An empty pit remained. Ricky scored his first strike of the game in the first frame. The shot broke his tension and swaggered a little off the lane.
“Good shot, Ricky,” said the man sitting at the scorer's table.
“Thanks, Joe. I needed that. It's all downhill from here, right?”
“Just relax and bowl.”
Ricky bowled with Joe in a league every Tuesday night. Their team held second place. They bowled more for fun than high scores. Still, they had a shot at first place. They needed to win two games more than the current league leaders during the remaining two weeks of the season.
Ricky appreciated Joe's calming presence. He shuddered when he imagined facing this trial alone. He wondered briefly why he had been selected, but quickly chastised himself for being so selfish. Someone had to do this job, and he was it. At least this way, he had some control over his fate.
“Are we going to bowl here or are we going to stand there wiping our face all day?” interjected a balding, fortyish man in an ill-fitting suit.
Ricky took his time drying his hand over the hand dryer. He waited until it was just dry enough, then retrieved his ball from the ball return rack. After taking a deep breath, he found his arrow and stepped up onto the lane. His fingers slid into their holes on the ball. This gave him that comfortable feeling of control. Ricky took another deep breath and relaxed into his stance. Keeping his eyes locked on his arrow, he took his five steps forward, brought his arm back, then forward and released the ball. It rolled off his fingers, landed about two feet beyond the foul line and rolled on over the second arrow from the right.
Ricky knew it to be a perfect shot. The ball rolled true and crashed into the 1-3 pocket. Again the pit was cleared. Joe tossed Ricky his towel. Ricky wiped his face and considered how much he was sweating. He chalked it up to the pressure of this game.
“That's two down. Keep it going,” Joe called, providing much needed support.
Ricky relaxed a bit more; his confidence boosted by his success. He began to get into that familiar groove. His concentration sharpened as he focused all his attention on bowling. He only saw the lane with its pins and the ball return rack. The only sound he heard was his breathing.
He got up on the lane, went through his ritual and delivered another strike. And another. He kept on bowling, turning in strike after strike. After he had totalled ten, he stepped down.
“How you feeling? You okay? You're looking great out there. Only two shots left. We made it, Ricky, we made it.”
Ricky sighed. Sure ‘we’ made it, he thought. Only problem was Ricky did all the work. Still, it had been Ricky who had gotten the two of them into the situation they were in. It only seemed fitting that Ricky be the one to get them out. Fortunately, the old man in the tacky suit felt the same way. Ricky looked up to see him wipe his forehead with a dirty handkerchief. The man shoved it into his trousers' pocket, but his head still gleamed with sweat.
“Two more strikes and we got the ten thousand dollars. We'll be free and clear. No way Brenner'll get us, no way. Right, Ricky? We'll be free of him, free. You just get up there and bowl. Two more.”
Ricky tried to take care of Joe. They went to ball games and movies. Ricky acted like the older brother despite the fact that Joe was the one who was old enough to buy drinks.
A career 150 bowler, Ricky could not believe what he had accomplished so far. He enjoyed the occasional 200+ game. The mild pressure from one of those got his blood flowing. Trying to bowl a 300, a perfect game, really put on some pressure. He needed twelve strikes in a row, and he had bowled ten already.
He looked at Brenner as the latter wiped his brow, yet again. The predatory gleam he had sported faded with each strike. Now he looked like a boy who has been called into the principal's office and knows he has broken all sorts of rules but wonders for which one he will be punished. Yes, Brenner looked like a very scared, very small boy.
Ricky returned to the lane and picked up his ball. He went through all the steps and threw his ball. The moment he released it, he knew he had let it go astray. It veered to the left an inch, a precious inch. It hit just left of the head pin. The pins flew around with the headpin sliding over to the right in a spin. The tenpin had remained standing, but the headpin spun around it. The headpin made contact. The tenpin rocked back and forth, back and forth. Ricky watched the pin resetter drop down as the tenpin fell. Number eleven.
“You've been real lucky tonight, kid, but you're going to miss this one. I can see the nervousness in you. You're going to choke. You always choke. Then I'm going to choke you. Both of you.” Brenner looked at Joe.
“We'll see.” Ricky actually felt calmer then he would have expected. The hard part was over. All he had to do was throw one strike. Nothing to it, he thought. Just one more...
“Yeah, you tell him, Ricky. We got him and he knows it. Go to it, man. Knock 'em down.”
As Ricky stepped up onto the lane, he felt the adrenaline drain into his knees. Standing became difficult. He had to concentrate on his legs. He also felt his stomach tighten up and his hands begin to shake. He took a deep breath and tried to calm back down. Apparently, he was more nervous than he believed.
He took another deep breath. Just one strike, he told himself. Justone. He went through his ritual for the last time. He lofted the ball out onto the lane and knew it was over. He felt relieved. No more pressure. It was over. He turned and walked back to the scorer's table and stood next to Joe.
“That's it, man, let's go.”
Joe smiled up at Ricky. He got up and Ricky saw a tear run down Joe's cheek. They looked over to where Brenner had stood. A grotesque monster stood in his place. It smiled at them and began to laugh maniacally.