However, George knew that very likely there were some women, perhaps especially smart and attractive ones like Julia, who would be bored silly with a man whose major talent appeared to be that he could aim a ball down a wooden lane and knock down the requisite number of pins. When George discussed this with Lizzie, long after they were married, she told him that she could only confirm that, yes, she was bored beyond bored with him whenever he brought up bowling, but not during the rest of the time they were together. So that was sort of okay.
And now Lizzie was at the Bowlarama, stoned on dope from James, and George was there stoned on happiness, etc. etc. etc. Marla instructed Lizzie on the intricacies of scoring, although she immediately assured Lizzie that she wasn’t expecting her to actually keep score. That would be Marla’s job. While Marla talked on, Lizzie was mumbling “score,” “spare,” and “strike” over and over because she liked the sound of the words in her mouth.
Marla showed her where to stand and demonstrated how to send the ball spinning down the alley. Lizzie thought “alley” was a funny word in this context, and added it to her mantra, so it now read “alley, score, spare, strike.” Then she decided that it sounded better as “sass”: score, alley, spare, strike. She didn’t seem able both to remember those four words in that order and at the same time listen to Marla’s explanations. This is likely the reason that she hadn’t really gotten the sense of what “send the ball spinning down the alley” actually meant. In any case, it appeared that she interpreted “send” somewhat differently from how Marla intended she should.
Meanwhile, George, bowling with Julia in the very next lane, was on a roll. This was the one word in the how-we-met story that George truly loved. “Roll,” with its double meanings, was the kind of pun that he was prone to make, always accompanied by a certain expression on his face that meant: Isn’t that clever, do you get it? Lizzie always appreciated George’s puns, but that expression drove her crazy. Anyway, George and Julia had just finished the eighth frame, and George’s score was an amazing 152, which meant that he could break 200 if he was both careful and tremendously lucky.
So Lizzie went up to the foul line, which Marla had carefully pointed out to her, for her first try at bowling. They’d agreed that it was best if Lizzie didn’t attempt the much more complicated option of starting farther back and taking three strides to the foul line. Neither she nor Marla was confident that Lizzie could coordinate walking, carrying the ball, counting the steps, stopping at the right spot, and then throwing the ball, especially because she was still occasionally mumbling “score, alley, spare, strike.” She stood there with the ball held out in front of her, thumb in its correct hole, two middle fingers in theirs. All the pot she’d already smoked that night had made her hyperalert to every move she was making. Her palms were sweaty. She didn’t notice that George was lining up to bowl, and in any case was unaware of the protocol that if someone in the lane next to you is getting ready to bowl, you should wait until the ball has left his hands to begin your turn.
“But, George, why didn’t you wait until I was done?” Lizzie once asked, years after the fiasco, their courtship and marriage.
“Didn’t even see you standing there,” George admitted.
There they both were, Lizzie and George, in their separate worlds, surely a clue to what their future relationship would be. George steps toward the line, brings his arm forward and smoothly lets go of his ball, and at the same moment Lizzie tries to throw her ball spinning down the alley, but something immediately goes wrong. (Or right, depending on what’s important to you.) Lizzie’s ball hits the floor with an awesome crash and somehow leaps over the ball-return mechanism that separates the lanes and crashes right into George’s ball, which until that moment had been rolling straight and true toward what certainly looked like an imminent strike, and now both balls make their separate but causally related ways to the gutter.
Pandemonium ensued within the confines of lanes 38 and 39. Lizzie, laughing uncontrollably in response to the shock of watching and hearing the collision, sat down on the floor. If anyone had been close enough to her, what they would have heard was a sequence of whimper, gasp, snort, gasp, snort, whimper, gasp. She felt a strong desire to pee, but was unable to make herself stand up. Also, the particular pattern of the floor seemed to be worth studying in depth, which served to take her mind off the prospect of wetting her pants but did nothing to stop the gasp, whimper, snort sequence.
George was devastated and, quite frankly, more than a little annoyed with Julia, who was also laughing and didn’t appear to be on the verge of consoling him. Marla, seeing that Lizzie didn’t seem inclined to get up, or for that matter to be able to stop the routine of snorting, whimpering, and gasping, rushed over to apologize to George.
“I’m so sorry,” Marla said. “I’m Marla, and she’s Lizzie. I don’t know how this happened, but we’re really sorry.”
“I know how it happened,” George said coldly. “She shouldn’t even be here. She obviously can’t bowl. She totally ruined my game.” His voice rose. “My game, maybe my two-hundred game. Everything was going so well.”
“George, get a grip,” Julia ordered. “It’s just a game; don’t make it into a big deal.” She turned to Marla. “I’m Julia, by the way, and this ridiculous man is George.”
Marla nodded at Julia but addressed George. “Look, give me your phone number and we’ll call and set up a time to get together for a drink. We owe you one for ruining things. Or Lizzie does.”
“My game,” George moaned again, but Julia hushed him.
“Here,” she said as she tore off a piece of the scoring sheet, “write down your name and phone number and give it to them.” George obeyed her, but it was clear the evening was spoiled. He never went out with Julia again.
*?The Great Game?*
Although it was Lizzie who carried it out, Lizzie who, for many months afterward, lived with the slights and the snubs and the nasty comments from her female classmates and the knowing looks, leers, and wolfish grins from every boy at school, even the freshmen; although it was Lizzie who got an unsigned note passed to her in chemistry class that was addressed “Dear Slut” and went on to threaten her with bodily harm if she ever again so much as looked at the writer’s boyfriend (who was Leonardo deSica, currently the football team’s strong safety); although it was Lizzie who didn’t go to her own senior prom because nobody asked her; although it was Lizzie who suffered all the consequences, it was actually Andrea who came up with the idea that became the Great Game.
It was the first week of their senior year. Lizzie and Andrea were both on the yearbook staff, which met during the last period of classes and inevitably ran late. They were slowly walking home along the fence line that enclosed the football field. They could hear shouts, whistles, and occasionally the thwack of a ball being kicked or the crashing sound of bodies colliding. The sounds reminded Lizzie of Maverick Brevard, the team’s starting wide receiver and her excellent boyfriend during their junior year. She couldn’t decide if she wished they’d get back together. If they did, it would make the next few months more interesting. Maybe.