Adam Karon You can go bowling with
Karon, but he sure as $#!t won’t roll on Shabbos! E-mail him at
[email protected].
Randy Johnson had a long one, Detlef Schrempf had a short one
and John Kruk had only one.
We’re not talking below the belt; we’re talking
hairstyles. One in particular is making a resurgence in my
family.
For the past six months my younger brother has been growing a
mullet.
Each day he looks more and more like a front-row spectator at
the WWF’s Summer Slam. But this mullet is special. It was
created in the name of teamwork, in the name of sportsmanship, and
most importantly, in the name of bowling.
Mullets and bowling go together like NBA basketball and
illegitimate children, baseball and chewing tobacco, football and
steroids. Of all American creations, from Port-a-potties to Miller
High Life, nothing relieves stress and allows an uncoordinated
person to have a good time quite like bowling.
That’s right, bowling. The sport reserved for small towns
on a Saturday night. The athletic endeavor that ESPN often cancels
in favor of dog shows and pool tournaments. Bowling is the Sega
Genesis of sports. You don’t really appreciate it until
you pick it up again, and even if you aren’t as good as you
used to be, you still have a terrific time.
My brother and I recently created a bowling team called the Four
Skins. To give you a little perspective on our team, three of us
write for the Daily Bruin, and the fourth likes ballet. To be on
the squad you must give yourself a bowling name, have nothing to do
on Sunday evenings and never roll any higher than your weight.
Right now we’re working on getting peach-colored shirts with
black trim, but so far the sponsors are slow to act.
The Four Skins make an interesting group to say the least.
Each time we go bowling my brother pencils the name
“Lloyd” (that’s me) into the leadoff position,
which is totally illogical because I find the gutter more than
carwash runoff. Basically I get stuck first because that’s
the worst time to roll, and hey, what are brothers for?
Next up is “Wayne.” His claim to fame is that the
glare from his abnormally large teeth is enough to blind our
opponents, sending their shots straight to the gutter. Wayne is
still perfecting his style. When his turn is called, he rises,
picks his ball out of the well, walks straight to the lane without
pausing and heaves his ball halfway to the pins. His foot is over
the line every time. When the echo from this gigantic shot put
stops reverberating, he spins on his heel and heads back to his
seat, not bothering to see how the pins fall. Wayne is one of our
best rollers.
Our third man is “Ivan,” the ballet dancer, and boy
is he tough. He throws a spinball, kind of like the ones you see
rolled on television but without the whole “pins falling
down” thing. “The lanes are usually too greasy,”
Ivan said. “It takes me a few games to find my groove, and by
then it’s time to go home.”
When Ivan rolls a gutterball, he usually dropkicks his hat past
the ball racks. I guess it’s better than ripping off his
tutu.
“Pat” is the cleanup hitter, my younger brother, and
the best on the team. His hair is now longer than our
mother’s. Perhaps that is why he is so good, or at least why
he fits in best at the alleys. Somehow I can’t help but think
his mullet improves his bowling. Pat is the glue that holds our
sloppy model airplane together. He’s been known to throw two
balls at once, chase a slow-roller down the lane to stop its
progress, and has now broken three ball-returns.
The Four Skins are undefeated, though we have yet to get our
first win. If sports teams are about having a good time, then we
are Disneyland and Las Vegas rolled into one. Those around us
recognize the fun of bowling, one of America’s most beloved
sports. My roommate tried out for our team, but was so bad that he
was kicked off despite his five-month mullet and fantastic bowling
name of “Ralph.”
“I could have been a contender,” Ralph said.
“They kept me off the team because they felt threatened. I
guess that means I can cut my hair now.”
One problem the Four Skins face is that there is no bowling
alley in the immediate area. Ackerman Student Union had a great one
about 10 years ago. In fact, that’s a big part of why I
turned down a bowling scholarship to Eastern Carolina
University’s school of dentistry. But since the bookstore
remodeling, students have been without an alley.
People talk about Westwood needing a dance club or an
Arby’s, but what it really lacks is a bowling alley. Bowling
is the perfect event for dorm floors. Fraternities could hold rush
events without paying for a bus. Is there a better way to impress a
young lady or man than by throwing three strikes before pitching a
moonwalk during Monday Night Disco Bowling? I submit that there is
not.
A bowling alley nearby would help keep us off the mean streets
of Westwood. It would mean fewer jaywalking tickets. Commercial
values in the area would skyrocket and applications to UCLA would
probably triple. Perhaps that is why no one has tried to turn this
vision into reality. The admissions office would be swamped.
It is high time we students became proactive on this bowling
issue. Rather than follow the standard procedures of petitioning
administrators and occupying buildings, I suggest the following.
Grow your hair long in the back, cut it short in the front and when
people ask, tell them you bowl.