After 6 days of perpetual whining about our last volleyball excursion, my wife chose to leave me home from this weekend’s trip. My assignment was to man the fort and entertain my two youngest (Sean 11, Sophie 9) with a dayful of activities and mental stimulation. What to do, what to do…Perhaps a trip to COSI for some scientific exploration? Maybe a creative jaunt to the Art Museum? Strap in for a roadie up to the Henry Ford Museum Detroit
It’s tough not to be overwhelmed during your first steps inside. The tumbling crash of the pins, the electronic beeps, whirs, and flashes of monster video games, the colorful graphics across legions of automatic scoring monitors, and my daughter asking “Why does it smell like a frat house basement?”
I pat her head and reply, “That, my darling, is the scent of crushed hopes and dreams. A pungent cocktail of sweat, stale beer, and cat urine that emanates from each of these large-bellied, mutton-chopped, rayon shirt-wearing non-athletes like Axe cologne from an ugly eighth grader. Remember it honey, so you can avoid it later in life.” She nods knowingly and carefully hops over a dozing toddler wearing a “Rode Hard and Put Away Wet” onesie.
We head to the counter, where a Peg Bundy look-alike is complaining to the disinterested counterman that the toy crane’s “grabby thing ain’t closed right yet”, and get our lane assignment and bowling shoes. After selecting the lane balls with the least amount of lick marks on them, we haul over to our assigned lane and drop our gear.
“Howdy, I’m Ricky. Ya doin some bowlin?” asked the oldest of the clan that was sharing our lanes.
“Nope. We’re here for the foot fungus”, my son replies as he shakes a few syrupy drops from his rental shoes.
“Hi. I’m Greg”, I smile as I shake his hand. “Whewww…” I whistle as I look down towards his feet. “Where do you even find high-top bowling shoes?”
“Oh these”, he says tilting his right foot back and forth. “These here are special. Made from gator. One-of-a-kind”
“Of course they are. You can see the quality”, I pretend to gush as I roll my eyes at my son who is snapping his hand like an alligator mouth.
“Dad, can we start?” My daughter asks. “I’m afraid if I stay still for too long that something may grow on me.”
“Don’t be such a diva, Soph. Now go up there and roll a strike.” I watch as she walks up and stops short of stepping onto the lane, waiting for Ricky’s son to finish and step off.
She turns and whispers back to me “Can Herpes jump the bowling ball return?” My son bursts out in laughter causing his sister to start, so I shush them both while Ricky’s family looks on skeptically.
On went the afternoon as we rolled a couple of games each and enjoyed a few laughs with our new acquaintances. We even had a few earnest discussions like (1) “Are sheep God’s perfect creature?” (Ricky-“you can eatem, drinkem, wearem, and you-know-what-em”. Me – “and if they could cook, your kids would be woollier…not much tho”) and (2) “Why isn’t Mountain Dew served with kid’s lunches.” (Ricky – “it wakes dem brains right up!” Me – “your kid just got his head stuck in the ball cleaner. Educational concerns seem optimistic.”)
Upon saying our goodbyes, Ricky asked if my blonde 9 year old “was spoken for” and there was an uncomfortable moment as I grabbed and twisted his tongue and whispered “No more words from you.” After wiping my hand on the still dozing carpet toddler, I felt instantly smarter as we stepped out the door into the sunshine. We then piled into the Suburban to head back to civilization with a plan to tell Mom that the Henry Ford Museum
Writers note: Author is currently sporting a 126 average and thinks rayon is really, really comfy.
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