It's Friday, practice day. Since my work schedule precluded bowling in any leagues this past Spring and Summer, Friday mornings have been my main bowling outlet. However, I still wanted to keep up my learning and training in the sport in order to keep improving my consistency. So I have developed a routine that has been helping me with my one day a week practice, just in case my schedule changes enough that I can get into a league again. If nothing else, I can potentially keep from embarrassing myself in the few tournaments I enter.
Friday mornings begin the same way, 6am wakeup and do all the necessary activities that go along with waking up and getting dressed. I read for a while, write for a while, then 30 minutes of stretching and yoga to work on core strength and balance. Since I started my breakfast just before stretching and yoga, by the time I finish my warmups, my breakfast of oatmeal and meat is ready, which isn't quite a slow carb breakfast, but it gives me long term energy instead of a short term flare and burnout.
Next it's a trip to the ball rack to decide which balls I'm taking today for practice. This is where I first really start getting into the bowling mindset, walking to the rack and looking at my collection, remembering the good games and not so good games I've bowled with each of them. For practice I pick three and my spare - a early breakpoint , a midlane breakpoint, and a late breakpoint ball. All three have been cleaned immediately after use, and usually once every 30-50 games they also get a deep cleaning and a trip on the spinner to refresh the cover to where I like it. After I make my decision and move those balls to my rolling bag, next I focus on my bag kit to make sure I'm not low on the essentials - thumb tape, cleaner, super glue, a clean towel, spare inserts. Normally when I come back I replace things right then, but it's better to double check before leaving than to need and not have.
By now it's between 8am and 8:15, and the lanes open for business at 9. Since it's August, and today's humidity is going to be around 70-75%, I know the lanes will play slicker, even on the remains of last night's open bowling. Today's session will begin with two point targeting, then a couple of games of lowball, then the new element -- parallel gutter drills which will help me actually see the results of my swing plane, whether I'm grabbing, pulling, or off center in any way. Thanks to my old pleather beanbag, I do my release drills at home, 20 minutes a night to really isolate each and every action from the wrist to the fingertips during release. But slow motion practice with isolation is one thing, today's the day when that all get's sped up into real time.
If John's there today, he'll do the day's stripping and reoiling at about 9:30-9:45, which gives me enough time to get through two of my practice elements before the 10 minute break while he reoils my lane. Afterwards, with fresh oil and limited hold, I can practice that final element without the free friction that comes from having beat up lanes. But if it's Vince doing the oiling today, he won't do it until 10 - which still might work because that will give me time to not feel like I'm rushing my practice.
8:45, and I'm loading up the car with my bag. The lanes are only three miles away, so there's no rush. I've already prepped my thumb with both thumb tape and liquid bandage, and I'm feeling excited, but not anxious or stressed. 9:00 am and I'm unloading my bag from the trunk, and walk in to say hi to everyone. Since Cindy's not actually on the phone, I get a quick hug and my lane assignments. After I get everything unpacked, the balls on the return, shoes on, and my towel and rosin bag on the console, I go ahead and go to the snackbar to get a large water so I can stay hydrated during practice -- the Air Conditioner will have it's work cut out for it today, and since I sweat standing still above 70 degrees, I want to make sure my judgement isn't clouded by any lack of hydration. After dropping the water off at my table, and a brief last bit of stretching, it's time. The first ball I throw will be at quarter speed just to get myself in the swing of things (no pun intended), and there's no attempt to get 'lined up' at all. Strikes for the first hour happen by chance, not by intent. I'll throw the first game as a true warmup, two frames over each arrow, then starting game 2 will be the true practice. I've already made my decisions about the three elements I'm working today, and after those have gotten their 15 minutes of focus, with a sitdown break in between to notate how the practice went so I can review and process away from the lanes, finally my last two games will be "for score", and for just enjoying the game.
After bowling's done, I go ahead and clean each ball right there at the lanes with my spray bottle and towel before packing up. Usually I go back to the snack bar and have them refill my cup with tea, because by that point I need the water and the sugar to boost my energy levels. Then I visit with my people who are there, because the Friday morning bowlers are a pretty consistent crew, and we get to know each other in between shots. If Cindy's off the phone, which can be a feat in and of itself, I'll pay for my games while getting to hear how Andy's doing, and just maybe Ron will come in and I'll get a few minutes to discuss with him things I may have uncovered in practice and get his input. Then back home to put the equipment away, making sure if any of the balls need a touch up with the spinner or a deep cleaning to go ahead and do that. Finally I review my notes from the practice to see if there is anything else I need to elaborate on or dissect further, perhaps push out further into the next practice session. Then it's lunch, two Alleve, and on with the day.
Do I see myself as wanting to be a Professional Bowler someday? Not at all, I have only a handful of 600 series to my name, and none of those were threatening to be 700's. But what I do expect from myself is the ability to be consistent across any/all lane conditions, from the fresh to the beat up, and as I practice well, and cover all aspects of the game that I can personally affect, then those 600's will start showing up, and potentially the 700's. But more importantly I'll be able to match up on any condition - and therefore the enjoyment of my game will continue to grow, because no matter if the lane condition is a cakewalk or a minefield, I'll be able to handle it, because I'm prepared for anything.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
A Beautiful Woman Died Last Week.
A beautiful woman died last week.
This doesn't come as news to most. Indeed, a beautiful woman dies every day somewhere - and to be honest, countless dozens leave us daily. Some are old and have lived a long, plentiful life, others leave far too soon. In the last two years, many beautiful women have left far sooner than they should have. We remember their names: Mischa, Myra, Mandy, Freda, Patricia. Photographs, stories left behind of happier days bring their faces back, recalling fragments of shared conversations, walks and visits, dinners - times that seemed commonplace, but were truly magical in that moment.
My wife to this day will want to grab the phone and call Freda, just to tell her of some milestone in our kids lives, some funny event, or a wrong or hurt that happened. She might even get to the phone before catching herself, realizing that it's been two years since cancer stole her best friend away from this world. Every best friend that falls, every confidant that is eroded away by disease, every prayerful rock that is pulled up by domestic violence, they leave behind shadows, voids, wounds.
You can't blame them, it really wasn't their choice most of the time. For those who get a diagnosis that says "you have days/weeks/months to live", that news usually helps them to really live for the first time, to find out what they're truly made of. Once treatment begins, that diagnosis often changes from weeks or months to actually being months or years. Some say it's because of advances in medicine, and there's truth to that, but I suspect it's more that the disease is slowed down by an infusion of life, of people finally living for what they want to do, instead of going thru the motions, mired down in the routine of life. The fog of life is lifted and people finally see what is the most important to them. Not the car, not the cleanliness of the house, or the job that we sell our lives to like prostitutes. They discover the important things like time, relationships, sharing, and their legacy. In fact, those with terminal illnesses in a twisted way are the lucky ones - they have the time to adjust, to change, to resolve differences, to say the things that were always left unsaid, to find that new path and pack as much into it as they can, for they know that their end is nigh. Even if they beat the odds and recover from that which threatened their mortality, that mark and legacy changes them, for they know that time is a fleeting thing, and there's so much living to do in such a short time.
A beautiful woman died last week.
Her family had just moved to a new city because of her husband's job. They had been in the city for two weeks, not all the moving boxes had been unpacked, the boys were getting ready to go back to school in a new environment, the house in the old city hadn't sold yet, there were tens of dozens of chores to do, errands to run. Her husband was home that day, ironically his job was that or ER Doc, and he is trained to handle most any physical trauma.
But a blood clot dislodging itself in her system changed everything. She had time to call her boys in to her, and comfort them - telling them of her love for them and her joy of being their mother, all while her husband was dialing 911. Not days, not weeks, but barely hours later she was gone. She still got time to honor her family with last words of love and hope, although too too briefly. She didn't spend that time giving out to-do lists, not in any traditional sense anyway, and her concerns wasn't that the house wasn't as presentable as she would like it.
What of those beautiful ladies who do not get that time to share, to give last words of comfort, of absolution before leaving? Accidents happen were a life is changed, gone, in mere seconds. Drunk, sleepy, medicated drivers, angry people who can't take out their frustrations on those who caused it, but instead turn their rage against bystanders. Natural disasters of wind, fire, water that change entire landscapes in moments -- and there's no time to react before those stories are ended. Their shadows are of a different intensity, the edges of the void left by their passing are much sharper, more jagged. The questions that surround those are not so rhetorical, but their focus is more concrete, so much that people left behind can only speak to the spirit, the memory of she that was. Their closure is harsher - the slamming of a door instead of the dimming of a light. But the blame left behind is more tangible - wither at the person who caused the accident, produced the violence, or even drove her to take her own life to get away from her existence.
Many, many beautiful women died last week.
Life is a terminal condition - we can only reasonably predict the beginning. The middle is a mystery, a melange or experiences that shape us daily. Who we are is we are right now -- and that's different that who we were a year ago, or who we'll be a year from now. The end of our life, which we want to be a mystery so many years in the making, isn't guaranteed a fixed time or place - only that it will happen. We feel some sense of sadness for those that are given a glimpse as to when that time and place will be. In our humanity, we hopefully grieve, whether greatly or quietly, when we hear of lives being ended, whether they were central to our lives, or a news story, whether it happened domestically or abroad. Religious purges, ethnic cleansing, territorial exterminations - whether we call it justified or unjustified, build support or show outrage because of it, fire, flood, earthquake, war, famine, pestilence, disease, terrorism, accidents, oppression -- all of these words and actions are given so that we can wrap our heads around a universal truth:
A beautiful human being died, their story has ended, and our lives can never be the same because of it.
This doesn't come as news to most. Indeed, a beautiful woman dies every day somewhere - and to be honest, countless dozens leave us daily. Some are old and have lived a long, plentiful life, others leave far too soon. In the last two years, many beautiful women have left far sooner than they should have. We remember their names: Mischa, Myra, Mandy, Freda, Patricia. Photographs, stories left behind of happier days bring their faces back, recalling fragments of shared conversations, walks and visits, dinners - times that seemed commonplace, but were truly magical in that moment.
My wife to this day will want to grab the phone and call Freda, just to tell her of some milestone in our kids lives, some funny event, or a wrong or hurt that happened. She might even get to the phone before catching herself, realizing that it's been two years since cancer stole her best friend away from this world. Every best friend that falls, every confidant that is eroded away by disease, every prayerful rock that is pulled up by domestic violence, they leave behind shadows, voids, wounds.
You can't blame them, it really wasn't their choice most of the time. For those who get a diagnosis that says "you have days/weeks/months to live", that news usually helps them to really live for the first time, to find out what they're truly made of. Once treatment begins, that diagnosis often changes from weeks or months to actually being months or years. Some say it's because of advances in medicine, and there's truth to that, but I suspect it's more that the disease is slowed down by an infusion of life, of people finally living for what they want to do, instead of going thru the motions, mired down in the routine of life. The fog of life is lifted and people finally see what is the most important to them. Not the car, not the cleanliness of the house, or the job that we sell our lives to like prostitutes. They discover the important things like time, relationships, sharing, and their legacy. In fact, those with terminal illnesses in a twisted way are the lucky ones - they have the time to adjust, to change, to resolve differences, to say the things that were always left unsaid, to find that new path and pack as much into it as they can, for they know that their end is nigh. Even if they beat the odds and recover from that which threatened their mortality, that mark and legacy changes them, for they know that time is a fleeting thing, and there's so much living to do in such a short time.
A beautiful woman died last week.
Her family had just moved to a new city because of her husband's job. They had been in the city for two weeks, not all the moving boxes had been unpacked, the boys were getting ready to go back to school in a new environment, the house in the old city hadn't sold yet, there were tens of dozens of chores to do, errands to run. Her husband was home that day, ironically his job was that or ER Doc, and he is trained to handle most any physical trauma.
But a blood clot dislodging itself in her system changed everything. She had time to call her boys in to her, and comfort them - telling them of her love for them and her joy of being their mother, all while her husband was dialing 911. Not days, not weeks, but barely hours later she was gone. She still got time to honor her family with last words of love and hope, although too too briefly. She didn't spend that time giving out to-do lists, not in any traditional sense anyway, and her concerns wasn't that the house wasn't as presentable as she would like it.
What of those beautiful ladies who do not get that time to share, to give last words of comfort, of absolution before leaving? Accidents happen were a life is changed, gone, in mere seconds. Drunk, sleepy, medicated drivers, angry people who can't take out their frustrations on those who caused it, but instead turn their rage against bystanders. Natural disasters of wind, fire, water that change entire landscapes in moments -- and there's no time to react before those stories are ended. Their shadows are of a different intensity, the edges of the void left by their passing are much sharper, more jagged. The questions that surround those are not so rhetorical, but their focus is more concrete, so much that people left behind can only speak to the spirit, the memory of she that was. Their closure is harsher - the slamming of a door instead of the dimming of a light. But the blame left behind is more tangible - wither at the person who caused the accident, produced the violence, or even drove her to take her own life to get away from her existence.
Many, many beautiful women died last week.
Life is a terminal condition - we can only reasonably predict the beginning. The middle is a mystery, a melange or experiences that shape us daily. Who we are is we are right now -- and that's different that who we were a year ago, or who we'll be a year from now. The end of our life, which we want to be a mystery so many years in the making, isn't guaranteed a fixed time or place - only that it will happen. We feel some sense of sadness for those that are given a glimpse as to when that time and place will be. In our humanity, we hopefully grieve, whether greatly or quietly, when we hear of lives being ended, whether they were central to our lives, or a news story, whether it happened domestically or abroad. Religious purges, ethnic cleansing, territorial exterminations - whether we call it justified or unjustified, build support or show outrage because of it, fire, flood, earthquake, war, famine, pestilence, disease, terrorism, accidents, oppression -- all of these words and actions are given so that we can wrap our heads around a universal truth:
A beautiful human being died, their story has ended, and our lives can never be the same because of it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)