Of all the lesser sports, Bowling is perhaps the most hated. It is considered lower than hockey, field hockey and air hockey. Better society looks upon bowlers with naked contempt. Twice in this nation’s history, talk at the congressional level has turned to banishment and forced exiling of bowlers.
The great Olympic committee, who considers shooting the leaders of eastern European states a competition worthy sport, will never award a bowler a copper metal. Never. It has in fact stripped champions of the better sports of their medals for being seen in public bowling alleys.
But I stand with the bowlers. I share their outlaw/layabout status. I take great pride in putting on shoes that do not belong to me and consuming gas station-level hot dogs during competition. I, too, have the urge to knock down things that stand at the end of a narrow lane. I enjoy spending summer days inside a dimly lit hall better suited for lodge men or, during hard times, indoor parking.
I have no concern for the opinion of rich men. I am not looking to be written up in the society pages. I am looking to express my patriotism in the only way I know how: spending precious money on a polished, black, heavy ball that can never ever be used for any practical purpose whatsoever and throwing it, repeatedly, on the floor in front of others.