My mom bowled, as did my mother-in-law. And I have vivid memories of sitting on the hard plastic chairs facing the lanes while my mom's friends clucked over me as they waited their turn to play.
This beautifully written story takes me back to those vanished experiences, and illustrates how something as seemingly trivial as throwing a ball down a waxed wooden laneway toward a bunch of pins at the other end can somehow become a subtly touching homage to lives lived not quite according to plan.
In a bowling alley one night, Bill Fong came so close to perfection that it nearly killed him.
By Michael J. Mooney
D Magazine
July 2012
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