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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo found himself down to the lanes late this afternoon as part of a little summah intern festivity thrown by our office.  (Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea who any of our interns are, but a friend of mine was in charge of organization and she sweet-talked me into coming along in order to boost the participation numbers.)

Friends of the decanter may be slightly surprised, given my snooty patrician airs here, but the fact of the matter is that Ol’ Robbo was a tolerably competent casual bowler back in the day, consistently scoring in the upper 100’s and now and again breaking 200.  This is largely due to the fact that I ducked a whole six-week Hobbesian high school gym period by signing up for a bowling class when I was a junior, and also because my friends and I back then used to hit the lanes on the weekends fairly consistently.

Alas, that was nearly 40 years ago, and I have only been to the lanes a handful of times since, most recently (so far as I can recall), with the Gels a few years ago.  The result? I only managed a score in the high 80’s today.  As I flubbed first ball after first ball and only managed to save something from the wreckage each frame on the second, I spent most of the time getting angrier and angrier with myself for my feeble performance.  At least I managed to avoid descending into foul-mouthed tirades, which is what usually happens when I reach the frustration stage with my more private dilettante efforts at the keyboard or now and again on the links.  (Just as well, as a burst of temper, especially given that Ol’ Robbo has the reputation around his office as the quiet one who keeps to himself, probably would have landed me in a world of HR hurt.)

Yes, I know the primary purpose of the outing was supposed to be social, not competitive, but I can’t help myself with these things.  If you’re going to do it at all, dammit, then do it well.

 

 

 

 

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