Upon seeing this human bowling ball sliding down a narrow strip of shiny wood firmly attached to a heavy spherical object heading toward a triangular-shaped set of pins, those were the words which simultaneously spilled from the lips of Miss Independence Day – a maternal cousin with a Fourth of July birthday – and my big brother John as they watched the would-be comedy routine unfold before their very eyes.
It was like a real-life Looney Tunes episode of “The Bugs Bunny Show” when Elmer Fudd was attempting to outsmart the ever-vigilant gray-and-white hare only to land in an unfortunate predicament of his own making.
That wascally wabbit!
The freckle-faced athlete and I were enjoying a highly contentious game of ten-pin bowling with the combustible firecracker at the Nemacolin Amusement Hall within the little coal mining village nestled along the banks of the Monongahela River in Greene County, Pennsylvania.
Ever since my siblings and I spent time with our favorite set of cousins at Uncle Kenny and Aunt Sharen’s double-ring ceremony back in the spring of the year, we were continuously asking – dare I say bugging – Mom and Dad to take a trip down to their neck of the woods in an effort to make new memories.
When both our families lived in Bentleyville – the place of my father’s last pastoral assignment – for a period of three years, we saw each other at school during the week and twice on Sunday; but alas, we were now separated by time and distance.
Fortunately for us and our parents’ sanity, that long-awaited family get-together finally came to fruition on the last Saturday in July after many months of constant cajoling.
Named for a tribal chief of the Delaware Nation who helped settlers cross the Allegheny Mountains through the Cumberland Gap, Nemacolin was founded the same year the United States entered into World War I when Youngstown Sheet and Tube Company – an American steel manufacturer – started building housing for its workers and their families.
Are we there yet?
“I’d say we’re a stone’s throw away from your cousin’s house,” confirmed the tall slender woman as she directed her offspring’s attention to the opposite side of the horseless carriage. “If you look out the windows on the driver’s side, you can see the Buckeye Coal Company steel mill rising into the heavens; so, that’s how you know we’re getting close to our destination.”
We just passed the welcome sign!
Shortly after winding through the narrow streets in the old section of the close-knit community, the blond-haired minister parked the family station wagon directly in front of a vaguely familiar duplex on the right-hand side of March Avenue as Uncle Butch and Aunt Margie’s rambunctious brood scampered out the main entrance to greet us with a flurry of hugs and kisses.
Let’s get out of here before the little munchkins see us.
Where are we going?
“I’m taking you boys bowling at the community center,” revealed Lori Farrell upon pulling out a crisp five-dollar bill from the pocket of her blue jean shorts. “Since Daddy Butch gave me more than enough moola, we’re also going to have chocolate malts at ‘The Grille’ in the basement; and if there’s any leftover, we can spend it on penny candy at Pop’s.”
When my stepdad forked over the cold hard cash, he told me not to spend it all in one place; so, we’re going to spread the wealth around.
He must be Daddy Warbucks!
Not long after slipping into a pair of gently used bowling shoes smelling like a pungent deodorizer, I scoured each and every rack prior to finding the perfect youth bowling ball – blue with white swirls which resembled a cloud covered globe.
How bout we start this game off with a bang.
Without any fanfare, this avid bowler – remembering days gone by at Tan-O-Bell Lanes in Bentleyville – was determined to knock everyone’s socks off by making a strike on his very first attempt after stepping up to the line.
However, it was more like an animated short film produced by the Warner Brothers studios in Burbank, California when I coasted halfway down the bowling alley while gripping a bright blue orb.
That was more like a misfire.
Ignoring the posted rules for proper bowling etiquette, the concerned teenagers bolted down the oil-treated lane to make sure this accident-prone simpleton was still breathing.
My fingers are stuck inside this bowling ball; and they won’t come out.
“That’s because this is a youth bowling ball, dingleberry,” my lifelong roommate shot back while quickly pulling the globe-like object from these swollen fingers. “Considering you’re not a little kid anymore, your fingers are way too big for these tiny holes; so, while you look for an adult-size bowling ball, Lori and I are going to take our turns.”
An adult-size bowling ball is going to be too heavy.
Did I stutter?
While the pair of rising eighth graders continued the game without me, I stormed off in the opposite direction in search of a new bowling ball muttering to myself.
Without delay, I returned just in the nick of time to take my next turn with the proper-size bowling ball; after which I knocked all ten pins down at the conclusion of my second turn.
Although it wasn’t a strike, a spare was the next best thing, especially since I accrued one more point than my older sibling.
How do you like them apples?
It ain’t over until the fat lady sings.
By the last frame of the hotly contested game, these Farrell cousins were within a few points of one another which only heightened their competitive spirit as they bowled the final ball; whereupon the party hostess walked away with the crown.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner!
Even though top honors didn’t go to me, I was sitting on cloud nine knowing that I bested the gridiron baller by two whole points, because that was worth more to me than all the tea in China.
Elmer Fudd finally caught that wascally wabbit!
Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton.