A Perfect Strike

My wife and I used to volunteer once a month at a local nursing home, equipped only with conversation and Kleenex. Not that we expected our room visits would bring any tears; it was just that the residents always appreciated the opportunity to add another box of tissues to their stash.

Another stash the residents treasured was prizes via bingo: sunglasses, necklaces, bracelets, and hats. There were other prizes I can’t recall, except that they were colorful and glitzy like the others.

A yearly carnival was held that offered more prizes, just in case there was an empty nook or cranny in a room. There were never any losers, so everyone carted away a bag full of goodies.

It seems like the event that brought the most pride and excitement, though, was the weekly bowling competition. Winning certificates declaring bowling bragging rights were taped to the room doors. One bowler had papered a whole wall with them.

A dedicated group of volunteers made bowling night possible. One week, though, I was asked to replace the pinsetter for a night. My back had been giving me a little trouble, but curiosity got the best of me.

Bowling Night rolled around. We slid tables and chairs off to the sides of the cafeteria and marked a lane off in the middle of the room with tape.

The pins were huge. The pinsetter appreciated that they were plastic and hollow. The bowling ball was plastic as well.

The volunteers escorted the residents who needed assistance from their rooms to the “alley.” I knew a lot of people on the second floor. A few I’d never seen come out of their abodes were waiting at their doors.

I saw nothing but excitement, regardless of the make-do setting in the cafeteria. The residents sat at the tables eagerly awaiting their root beer floats. Some of them would compete to add a certificate to their trophy door (or wall), and some were content just to watch.

The leader of this grand event gave up his time every Monday evening to serve up some fun for all.  Sam was an entertainer, and obviously a warm human being. That didn’t stop him, though, from doing some good-natured teasing of the residents. And they teased him right back. Everyone loved it. Some of those ladies had a lot of sass!

Sam seasoned his act with occasional salty language, which I wasn’t really big on. But as I started seeing the beauty of this evening, a built-in filter in my head modified the words into Baptist approved substitutes.

Sam asked for contestants, and arms went up. Frail arms as well as the stronger ones. It was time for some action! Some of the residents could walk unassisted. When it was their turn, they took their position behind the line. Pins went flying (on some throws) and I scrambled to set them upright again. Sometimes I had to chase the ball. I could feel the strain in my back.

I had reached the stage in my life, must’ve been right around 60, when my body was starting to set boundaries and place limits on me. I whined about it to whomever would listen. My back told me to curtail the load and repetitions involved in lifting weights. My rotator cuff was less than perfect, so I had bowed out of softball. 

I had even started using the lightest ball at the local bowling alley. Why are they always pink? At least the plastic one here at the nursing home was black.

Some bowlers who needed a little help from their walker or a volunteer often stood closer to the pins. But they were just as jubilant as the longballers when they got a strike.

Then there were the residents who had to bowl from their wheelchairs. The volunteers angled them so they could hang their arm over the side and roll in the direction of the pins. Did the excitement wane? No, the applause just got louder.

Sam poured his heart into keeping everybody not only alert but engaged. I was amazed at his abilities. But he surprised me towards the end of the evening when he approached a lady who had zero use of her arms. He asked Dora if she wanted to give it a try. She shook her head.

I was standing next to her, having switched duties with someone with a nimbler back. OK Sam, I thought, that’s a no. But He teased her a little and asked her why not. With some effort she looked up at me. Her eyes asked, Can I do this? I was thinking yeah right, but I found my head nodding yes.

Sam asked me to roll for her, so I wheeled her to the lane. I asked if she was ready, thinking all the while that this was silly.

Silly or not, she gave me the go ahead. I let the ball fly. It didn’t come close. But at least on the next attempt I hit two or three pins. She gave me an encouraging look, as if saying the second frame is always better.

It wasn’t. It was even worse this frame. That’s when she spoke her first words to me, “I know I can do better this time!”

This was the third and last frame. I studied the pins. Hearing her voice had given us a new connection and I felt energized.

“She” rolled a strike this time. I high-fived her shoulder. I know this may sound hokey, but in some real sense she had earned that certificate herself. And she deserved it.

Happy applause accompanied her all the way back to her spot between two other wheelchairs. Friends from both sides high-fived her shoulders. A volunteer brought her a fresh root beer float and assisted her as she greedily indulged. Bowling is hard work.

Something in me started to change that night. More and more I began to appreciate what I still can do. Funny the process had to start at Bowling Night in the nursing home.

Yeah, it’s a fact that life is difficult. We have to make changes and do things we don’t want to do. Maybe even live in a nursing home someday. But whatever happens, I now carry a winning memory of residents determined to find joy in the game, whatever it took.

Feature photo by Blend Archive on Unsplash