CHAPTER 18
HARVEY BOWLING LEAGUE
He didn’t have a game on Wednesday night and decided that instead of doing something relatively cool and normal, he would accompany me to family bowling. The league was about to get started again in January, and according to Dad, we needed to get our asses to the lanes andpractice.
Thus, family bowling.
Wednesdays from four to seven were always half-off games, and thus reserved for bowling as a family, especially during league season. Bowling was basically sacred in our family, and even Jeremy—notoriously too cool and busy with his college friends to want to hang out with us—made time for a couple games.
Ron was down and out with a cold, so he said Barry could wear his HARVEY JANITORIAL sponsored bowling shirt so he could match the rest of us. I argued we shouldn’t have to wear our shirts yet, but everyone called me a buzzkill, even Jeremy, so really I couldn’t argue.
Only problem, Ron was much less broad than Barry—which made sense as Ron was an electrician, not a hockey player—so the button-up bowling shirt was tight around Barry’s shoulders and sat almost like a crop top. I told him he didn’t have to wear it, but my dad insisted.
For as good as he was at hockey—an Olympian, Jeremy now continued to remind me—Barry was shit at bowling, and I mean just really, really terrible.
“Have you ever bowled, sweetie?” Mom asked after his ball almost hit a pin but swung for the gutter at the last moment.
“Ma,” Kate scolded. We shared a plate of fries that Kate ate with a fork to avoid getting grease on her bowling ball.
“Maybe he just needs a warm-up game,” Jeremy said.
“Not everyone can be good at bowling,” Dad piped in, patting Barry’s back as he traded places down the lane.
I shot Barry an apologetic look, but at his exaggerated frown, I cracked a smile. He smirked like he always did when he got a positive reaction from me and grabbed a fry over my shoulder before he turned to my mom.
“I haven’t bowled in years. I heard a story once about a guy hurting his arm bowling and stayed away for a decade.”
“Seems a little extreme, but okay,” Kate muttered. I elbowed her and she snorted.
Dad threw a strike, his second in the game, and we all paused to clap while he waved us off but secretly ate up the attention.
“It’s not extreme, he’s superstitious. Lots of players are,” Jeremy defended. I batted my brother’s hand away from taking another grip of fries. “Have you still not replaced your shoulder pads?”
“I actually did last season when I was resorting to zip ties to keep pieces together. New set’s still not quite as good.”
“As I said,” Kate said, then replaced Dad to bowl her turn.
“I remember watching your video feature about the mental health charity you work with,” Jeremy said. “I thought it was really cool, and like, brave. I didn’t even know what OCD was other than deep cleaning and stuff.”
I’m sure my shock showed on my face because what the hell was he talking about? How many years had Jeremy been following Barry’s career close enough to watch features about him?
Barry took Jeremy’s compliment in stride, smiling and holding his fist out for my brother to bump.
“Thanks, man.”
I made a mental note to google this video later and research what they were talking about, since askingWhat are your mental illnesses?seemed a little too brash for family bowling, and it was my turn, anyway.
I managed six pins, and Dad cheered that I had great follow through in my throw. Barry looked charmed by the whole affair. He stood out in this old, run-down place we all loved—the swiveling plastic chairs were too small for his limbs, Ron’s shirt too small, and the biggest size bowling shoes they carried looked foreign when I was used to him in fresh, expensive shoes. It made him look both more and less human. Like he didn’t belong, but what was more human than trying?
I took pity on the man after another bad round and, at my dad’s urging, walked up to Barry’s side to give him some tips.
“Here.” I nudged his arm with my shoulder until he shuffled sideways, that quiet amusement still on his face. “Line your right foot up with this dot and imagine your arm and wrist locked at your side in a line. No funny business.”
“Your dad makes the ball spin, I would call that funny business,” Barry quipped.
“Advanced technique. You are one gutter away from me getting the kid’s slide out for you.”
Barry tipped his head back and laughed, and the column of his throat was so appealing I had to force my eyes away from him. “Fine, fine, no funny business.”
