Bowled

When I was in high school I hated gym class.

I was uncoordinated, non-athletic, and slightly overweight.  I couldn't get the ball in the hoop, couldn't run the 50 meter dash, and don't even get me started on climbing the rope hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the gymnasium.  

But there was one week out of the year that I was sure I was going to fit in among my sports savvy peers.  

Bowling Week.

We would all load up on the bus and head down to St. Francis Lanes to demonstrate all we had learned from our middle aged gym teacher who always wore Zubaz.  Confident Nicole would walk up to the line, ball in hand, and give it my best roll.  

A few frames in, I realized my inability to perform in sports extended into my bowling ability.

Fifteen years later, I still can't roll a strike.

But my kids can.  And I have no problem living through them.

Josie opted to have my cousin as her coach, which was a wise move on her behalf.  She had gutter guards, but didn't need them and ditched the ramp after a few tries.  Girlfriend's got skills.  

I conveniently decided to let Gabe roll a few frames after my score was seriously lower then my 3 year old niece's.  I had to have someone to blame it on.  Turns out he is also part Flintstone and was able to knock pins down with no gutter guards.

I see some family bowling night in our future.