“This was a lot of fun,” I said to my boyfriend after our first time together. We had only been dating for a couple months, but after careful planning, we decided that we were ready. “We should do this again,” he boldly replied.
It’s been three years since that conversation, and we never did it again. In fact, I haven’t done it with anyone. Other than partaking in a simulated version alone in my room, I’ve haven’t done it at all—until now.
Yes, after three long years, I finally went bowling again.
As I walked into the alley, reacquainting myself with my former passion through the familiar smell of worn-out shoes and overpriced French fries, I wondered if, like me, others had taken an extended break from the game.
In his famous essay, Bowling Alone: America’s Declining Social Capitol, Robert Putnam posits that participation in bowling is “the most whimsical yet discomfiting bit of evidence of social disengagement in contemporary America.” According to Putnam, “more Americans are bowling today than ever, but bowling in organized leagues has plummeted in the last decade.”
Bowling represents a vanishing form of social capitol. With the loss of organized leagues comes the loss of a basic human need: social interaction. By bowling alone, we forego our right to bond as a team over pizza, beer, and those overpriced French fries. Alone in the alley, we lose our social allies.
Yet I propose that it’s this very social aspect of the game that encourages us to bowl alone—if we even choose to bowl at all.
While bowling is an individual sport, bowling in a league is a unique experience where individual efforts affect the outcome of the entire team. The level of interaction and connection to our team is directly influenced by our performance. If you fail to get a strike, not only will your team’s scores plummet, you may strike out with your social group. The risk of social exclusion faced in bowling leagues may prompt us to bowl alone—or in my case, avoid any contact with the sport for three years.
It’s no coincidence that I began a relationship with a trip to the bowling alley. In many ways, bowling is like the dating game.
In a recent episode of VH1’s reality dating program Rock of Love Bus, aged and “lust-struck” rocker Bret Michaels, lacking an emotional connection with the remaining contestants, invites three new women to join his tour. In order to ensure that the new girls are right for him, he takes them on a group date to a bowling alley. While Michaels often has his mind in the gutter, bowling is a bold choice for the quasi-star, standing in stark contrast to his typical strip club and dingy bar haunts. But on closer inspection, the date seems fitting as the other women have spent the first four episodes parading around their bowling ball-esque appendages for all to see.
“I know if I’m attracted or not attracted to someone right away,” he reveals as they enter the alley. Now, it’s up to the women to bowl a strike and spare us the pain of watching them flounder at love.
In a gratuitous yet prescient shot, one of the girls is shown bowling “granny style.” If Michaels’ reaction is any indication, it won’t be the last time she has a ball between her legs.
“I had a lot more fun on this date than on most of the other ones,” says Michaels, concluding that he made the right decision in bringing the new girls on his tour.
Next, Michaels and his three new ladies ditch the bowling alley and head to the limo to make out.
If only bowling (and dating) were this easy in real life.
Although my first game of bowling in three years is a platonic affair, I can’t help but feel an anxiety similar to the pains of initiating a romantic relationship. Among colleagues and relatively new friends, I have an irrational desire to impress on the lanes. While we’re not in a league and my scores won’t personally affect them, I fear that poor results will influence my social standing. I don’t want to be eternally known as the girl who can’t bowl. Before even stepping up to the lane, I have bestowed a new nickname on myself: “Gutter Girl.”
As I grab the perfect ball and casually stroll up to the lane, I am reminded of the first time I ever asked a boy out on a date. I determinedly stare down the lane as if I am eyeing my dream man. I have so much to prove, but so much to lose. My knees begin to tremble, my arms begin to shake, and my hands start sweating profusely. Just as I’m about to make my big move, I lose my grip as the ball slips through my wet, nervous fingers, and heads straight for the gutter.
The ball’s trip down futility lane is like a car wreck—I can’t watch, but I can’t look away. In front of my friends, my failure feels like physical pain. I coyly wonder if dropping the ball on my foot would hurt as badly as the social ostracism of a public gutter ball. I conclude that Wii bowling is probably my safest option.
Back at home, free from the scrutinizing public eye, I turn on my Nintendo Wii, pick up the controller, and proceed to “bowl” strike after strike. I don’t tremble, or sweat. The controller stays firmly planted in my hand, and I remain composed. Perhaps my simulated success will encourage me to try my luck once again in the lanes—but I doubt it. The advent of modern technology has provided us with another luxury: the ability to truly bowl alone.
All by myself, I bowl a 150. Next, I pick up the phone to tell someone about it.
