Saturday, November 11, 2006

Descriptive Essay, ca. 1996

My junior year of high school, I took a creative writing class. One of our assignments was to write a descriptive essay. Being the bowler that I was, I wrote about daily practice. Since I'm at a loss of anything else to write tonight, I bring you that essay.

First of all, as I walk into the bowling alley, sounds come from all over, sights blaze around me, and I have a feeling of a good time to come. When I go to practice, my team and I always have a blast. Although our coach wants us to behave and concentrate, we never do. I believe that practice is a time for fun, a time to socialize, and a time to make lifelong friends.

Practice begins when I sit down and take off my beat up, old, comfortable Nikes. They are quickly thrown under the seats, while I take my clean, well-laced bowling shoes out of my bowling bag. I put them on, then am aware of everything I step into or near for the next hour or so. If I had taken that muc care of the Nikes, they would still be presentable. My faithful, old Brunswick shoes have outlived four or five pairs of street shoes. Afer my shoes are securely laced, I take my heavy purple ball, with "Brooksie" engraved into its outer core, and place it on the ball return racks. Then again, I throw my bright purple bowling bag, with its gleaming pink seams, under the chairs to join my street shoes, hidden from the world.

Then I quickly say hello to everyone, and hear everyone answer in their usual manners. To the left a couple of lanes, I hear my friends arguing about rides home, who said what, or plainly what they did wrong on the last ball. The coach comes over and screams at them about no horseplay. Everyone quiets down for about a minute, then it is back to the fun. Our team's best player, our anchor, is stepping up to the line and throwing his all-powerful curve, which smashes into the pocket sending all ten pins packing. He turns and it is obvious he is ecstatic. After we hi-five him, it is my turn.

As I position myself, aiming directly for the pocket, I hold my fourteen pound ball at my side. I walk slowly and steadily, bringing it back high above my head. I speed up a little towards the foul line, bending low so I can release the ball on the line and not drop it on my foot. It flies down the lane, speeding faster than I do driving down the highway, to be abruptly stopped by the towering pins. But the ball drives through, only slowing slightly as it knocks the pins over. I grin, standing gracefully after my release, and walk off the approach to get congratulated by my team and receive pats on the back. Calls of "Good shot" and "Man, that was pretty" come from all sides. Hoots and hollers come from the next lane, as yet another friend bowls well. Only this time it is a split that is picked up. He comes over and congratulates me and I tell him the same.

Soon it is time to leave for the evening. Everyone packs up their things, and I take off my shoes and put them away next to my ball in the bag. My old Nikes return to my feet, ready for travel. I say good-bye to my friends, telling many of them to call so we can continue our conversations, the one s that the coach shouldn't overhear, and talk of when the next practice is and who is going to be there. Some may call it bowling, but I call it a piece of my life.