The TFM Writers Joined A Bowling League And We’re Murdering Scrubs On Our Way To A Championship

Dan Regester9 years ago

Since leaving college and the countless intramural sports that I immersed myself in on a daily basis, there’s been a competitive void that has driven me borderline insane. I can only hustle so many people at Morris Williams golf course before regulars catch on that my swing is not so much the miscarriage it appears to be, and is, in fact, electricity personified. Call it ugly all you want, I’m still forty yards beyond your ball every hole, chief.

Now, as great as that is on weekends, I needed another fix on work days. I was dying to get a company flag football team together, or run fives at the local YMCA, but no one in the office seems to be open to the idea of spending more time with our fellow co-workers than need be. They use excuses like their wives or children like that somehow legitimizes not being available on a Wednesday night for beer league softball.

That’s when my roommate, Jared Borislow, took the initiative and signed us up for a four man, thirty-four week bowling league. At first, I was a little taken aback. Did I really want to spend the better part of a year obligated to three hours a week with a crowd both double my age and weight? That’s a serious commitment.

The bowling community, as a whole, really is some of the worst individuals society has to offer. Nothing screams “Life didn’t pan out the way I envisioned” quite like some balding, sweaty fupa rolling ten frames on a Tuesday night serving as his “escape” from his non-union, blue collar job as he drinks away the misery of his divorce and shovels lukewarm, cheese-soaked fries down his gullet for comfort. I reluctantly agreed to go. At the very least, I could lay witness to this somber sight with my own two eyes, and motivate myself to never become these heartbreaking tales of a life squandered.

A week in, and I was sold on the league.

I guess it should really come as no surprise. No matter how much I try to distance myself from it, I’ll always be Delco trash. That and my parents actually met in a bowling alley, and I more than likely was conceived in said alley’s bathroom. I was just born to bowl.

Our team, which we decided on naming the Jabronestars, consists of three constants – Jared, Boosh, and myself – with a rotating fourth spot depending on who is available on that particular Tuesday. Thankfully, this is a handicapped league, so even though Boosh is the second worst bowler out of the thirty-eight teams, it’s actually beneficial to our cause when he gets a few Bud Light Platinums in his system and does anything remotely better than his average of like 65. Just look at his form.

Get our boy some more BLPs.

Unlike everyone else in the building, our entire team throws the ball flat with no curve. Huge missed opportunity not naming our squad the “Straight Shooters.” I’ll go to my grave with that being one of the biggest mistakes to my name.

Jared is as mediocre as it gets, and I’m wildly inconsistent, throwing a 198 one game and following it with a 110 two games later. But somehow we just keeping chugging along and winning.

Being the young guns on the block, we’ve run into our fair share of controversy. These middle-aged sticklers apparently have never heard of the “Philly bump” and have constantly discounted spares I pick up bouncing the ball off the corner of the end of the gutter and back on to the lane.

I don’t care how I do it, pin’s down, old man. How is that against the rules?

I’ve also realized that there’s a threshold on the best score you can consistently throw before being an absolute weirdo, and that’s a 220. If you’re averaging more than a 220, you’re probably the same guy that owns multiple reptiles at his place of residence and is an avid coin collector.

All in all, though, I’m glad Jared signed us up for the league, and I’d actually recommend joining one yourself. You’re essentially just drinking with your buddies and laughing at an absurd world you wouldn’t otherwise see. Life in the freshly waxed lane ain’t too shabby..