An excerpt from Bowlbrawl
by Nathaniel G. Moore

It was Saturday morning. Frowning in his unlit bedroom, young Robert Towell sat on his bed with his bowling shoes still on his feet. Barely audible were the hums from lawnmower parts, doing their cyclical job. His nylon shorts and his crappy yellow and brown bowling logo T-shirt were snug around his scrawny frame. He did not feel heroic, despite the countless ribbons and trophies that sought dust in his room. The tea-coloured thick curtains were drawn tight, but it didn't matter, it was as if young Robert Towell had never seen the sun to begin with.

At least three times a week (if not more) he participated a shameful bad lung Olympic. Underground, young Robert Towell was paid to play, paid to stay out of the sunlight inhaling the various brands of second and third-hand smoke passed down to him by his elders.

It was game time again.

He held his breath in unsubtle protest, trying to not allow any further respiratory activity. He had not yet learned to snicker, but knew that he was a few months shy of fully developing a vindictive gene. He was a patient kid, with hair as dark as fine silk, and as flat, and, if washed properly, as shiny.

"Robbie, come on!" His dad boomed.

It wasn't so much the sport that Robert Towell despised so much as the building. Second-hand smoke and the stink of coffee muttered throughout any bowling alleyÑthe structure that acted as host to the disease; the lousy music, the off-season food, the piercing PA system, the thick sound of scuffed carpets as if tongues not feet were traversing their foul hides, the minutiae in the ashtray and the trashy bingo-soaked clientele were all unavoidable side-effects. At night he stayed awake until 2 am trying to isolate the sport from the underground prison, like a scientist tries to wed theory to serum, but it never worked. In his desperate fantasies the sun would melt the pins, the fresh air would blow the balls off the ball return, and without fail, something would always go terribly wrong.

Young Robert prayed for a coma.

"Come on son," his father repeated, pounding softly. He grudgingly entered the car, and felt his skin mix with the sun all too briefly, kissed goodbye for another day, unable to linger in the sweet exchange.

Soon he would be underground. There was no comfort. There was nothing.

The family car pulled into the bowling alley, where a television camera operator and reporter interviewed Robert's coach, Billy Guthrie, a middle-aged bowling enthusiast with balding red hair and beady brown eyes. He had started to wrinkle around the mouth, and when he spoke an occasional rattle could be heard, either from his lungs or teeth. As the family car came to a stop, Robert inhaled deeply and unbuckled his safety belt. "Hey Robbie, there's your coach," his mother said with a beam of enthusiasm.

Robert hoped the coach wasn't referring to him on air as Bobby, a shortened version of his name that made him want to carve faces with broken ice skate blades endlessly until the tongue of error was reached.

The interviewer smiled and waited for her cue. The cue came.

"What can the folks at home expect from your bowler this afternoon?"

"Well Bobby is doing real amazing, he's had to memorize bowling lines for the show's weekly promos and has had to spend countless hours getting three strikes in a row for these spots. What else can I tell ya. There's talk of him doing some commercial work too. He's really comfortable with it. And the tournament offers come in every week, so he's going to be a busy boy."

Deep in the poorly ventilated chamber of the bowling alley the camera operators began the show with a long swooping establishment shot that included several lanes and the crowd.

Coach Billy Guthrie patted young Robert Towell on the shoulder. "Bobby, you ready?"

There was nothing endearing about the moment. Robert Towell looked at his coach and nodded, wanted to vomit hot lava onto his feet, watching the coach crumple before him, and leave. But a part of the boy knew he could win, and that somehow, being better than everyone else at something, at least for a moment, was as good a way as any to spend an afternoon captive with a bunch of crummy adults.

The match began with his opponent getting a spare. Robert Towell countered with a strike. The camera immediately switched to his parents in the stands, focusing in on the soft edges of the baby blue nylon winter coat his mother wore, with the hot chocolate stain from the previous week. "Go on Robbie, you can take him!"

At the ball return, Robert Towell paced, taking time to glance at the crowd, his opponent, his coach, and the floor director. His opponent snarled when he answered with a strike of his own. "Beat that Robbie," he whined.

Robert's mother began to cheer louder. The crowd's energy did nothing for Robert Towell. He could win. He could not be beat. Then, he would go out for dinner, eat a big chocolate sundae, and forget about the game for another day or so. That was the routine, and he felt calmed by its consistent polarity in his life. The match continued with both boys matching one another pin for pin. Sensing a threat to his championship reign young Robert Towell added an extra bit of spin in the 9th frame, a dangerous technique that did not always pan out in practice. But this was no practice. He nailed it and answered his opponents spare with a strike to finish the match 179-167.

Robert Towell grinned, said nothing to his opponent, not even stopping to look at him or shake his hand, held the under 14 provincial 5-pin trophy over his head as the camera crew and host swarmed the small boy. He looked into the camera with dead grey eyes that began to welt in chameleon tears.