Disclaimer: Devoted Grandma is reader-supported. If you purchase anything through my site, I may receive a small commission (at no cost to you). Thank you.
Every Thursday night in Springfield, Ohio, the guys from my block meet at the old Riverside Bowling Alley. It’s nothing fancy, half the overhead lights flicker, and the lanes have a squeak to them, but it’s our spot. We bring our own sodas and share a basket of fries, and the owner, Carl, always lets us stay a little past closing if a game is close.
I had been the neighborhood champion three years in a row. Folks joked about “Jim and his lucky arm,” and I suppose I liked the title a little too much. So, when this year’s final rolled around, I was confident, maybe even a bit cocky.
My opponent was a new neighbor, Marcus. He was in his early thirties, a quiet fellow who had just moved into the old Miller place. He mostly kept to himself, but everyone liked him. I’d noticed he had a smooth roll, steady, controlled. That night, from the first frame, I realized this wouldn’t be an easy win.
Frame after frame, we went back and forth. I hit a strike, he answered with one of his own. By the tenth frame, I was ahead by just a single pin. I only needed a spare to lock in the win. But my ball curved too far left and left an open frame.
Marcus stepped up for his last shot. He took a deep breath, rolled the ball straight down the lane, and hit a perfect strike. The pins clattered, the scoreboard flashed his victory, and the alley went quiet. Everyone turned to me, probably expecting me to mutter something about the lane or my ball.
I’ll admit, for half a second, I wanted to. But instead, I walked right over, shook Marcus’s hand, and said, “That was a beautiful strike. You earned it.”
His smile lit up the alley. A few of the guys even clapped, and Carl gave a little nod from behind the counter. I could feel the tension leave the room. It was just a game, after all, and the night was still young.
Later, Marcus and I split a plate of nachos, laughing about the way I’d nearly slipped on my last roll. And you know what? I went home feeling lighter than I had after any of my victories. Winning feels good, but leaving as a gentleman feels even better.
