Page 17 of Right Up His Alley

“The money they’re offering, if we’re accepted, could help revitalize Spare Time. I can’t risk that.”

I’m not sure what comes over me next, but I blurt out, “It’s just a light bulb, Ezra. I want to help Spare Time. This place has given me more than you know. No one has to know I’m here lending a hand.” I pause before finishing my thought. “Let it be just a light bulb.”

“That’s the thing, it’s more than just a light bulb. After he got sick, my dad only had enough strength to put Band-Aids on everything. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but I don’t even know where to begin with the updates. I need to make reasonable and rational decisions moving forward. And, unfortunately, I don’t think appeasing your drive to find something meaningful here is a reasonable or rational decision.” He exhales, though I’m not sure he realizes how his next words will land. “You’re too… distracting. I can’t be distracted.”

The seriousness, accompanied by a sense of his own desperation, shows me a different side to the rude, unmotivated guy I met yesterday. It’s as if he actually cares about doing what’s right. Or maybe there are other ulterior motives? I’m not sure. It wasn’t until his head tilted down and his worried stare found something on the ground to focus on that I realized maybe he’s not doing this for the alley or even himself. Maybe he’s doing all of this for his mom, or even more inspiring, for the memory of his father.

Who knows?

But what I do know is that I need to be here whether the USBC rules says it’s okay or not. Ezra’s right. I do need to find meaning. I need to find a purpose other than being the person my father wanted me to be. I need to see this place shine and become a home to so many more people like it was for me.

My voice barely rises above the volume I imagine my father shouting in my head, yet I manage to say something Ezra isn’t expecting: “Well, that settles it.”

He lets out a heavy sigh. “Settles what?”

With my father’s inevitable disappointment looming, and my own uncertainty about what I’ll actually do gnawing at me, I finally push the words out: “I won’t compete in this year’s tournament if I’m asked.”

“Wh—?” Ezra’s brows arch, and his nose crinkles.

“We make a list of what needs to be done, and we start tomorrow. How’s 9:30 sound?”

Ezra shakes his head, genuinely shocked. “You can’t do that.”

He’s right. I don’t have the confidence to make this decision right now, and I probably shouldn’t be leading him on if I do decide to accept the invitation to the championship.

Assuming I qualify, of course.

When I qualify. I know I won’t be able to avoid all of my father’s demands to compete in the tournaments leading up to it. But I can’t let this opportunity for Spare Time slip away either. Like Ezra said, it has the chance to be something bigger. I’ve had chances like this my whole life. Why shouldn’t Spare Time get one now?

Why not Ezra?

“My mind’s made up—” Even though it isn’t. “I insist.”

“Iinsist.”

Truett’s words from yesterday have been living rent-free in my mind. There wasn’t much I could say after his surprising declaration, mostly because he wouldn’t hear my protest. He reiterated he’d meet me at 9:30 the next morning and took his leave. Accepting help from anyone has never been my strong suit, but accepting help from a well-known bowler like Truett? It feels like I’m playing with fate.

He said he’d not compete in the tournament, but what if he changes his mind? Could what he’s already done—changing a damn lightbulb—be the only thing he does for me? It might have just been a light bulb, but what if someone from the USBC, another coach, or even another player saw him and reported Spare Time? I know I’m overthinking it. It can’t be that serious. But all I can see is the money on the table and how much it could help my family. We wouldn’t have to stress about scraping by or dip into personal savings to go toward bills.

The scariest part of all is I don’t think I’m capable of doing any of this alone. I need Truett. He knows the bowling world better than I do, and I’d be foolish to pass up the opportunity.

Even if it means risking my father’s legacy.

The unsettling thought lingers like a gray cloud overhead when I arrive at Spare Time that morning, after making sure to check in with Mrs. Barnes to let her know I’m here. Better that than facing a squad of trigger-happy cops again.

Truett isn’t there when I reach the door. I’m thirty minutes early, so I didn’t expect him to be—though a small, irrational part of me pictured him leaning against the frame, waiting. He strikes me as the punctual type, but the truth is, I know very little about Truett Thorne beyond what I’ve read online. That version of him is curated and incomplete.

Despite my better judgment, I can’t ignore the curiosity tugging at me. The urge to understand the man willing to forfeit an entire tournament just to help me give Spare Time a fighting chance as a potential host.

I shrug my backpack off, heavy with all the information I’ve printed from the emails the USBC sent over. I’ve been over it several times, but my brain turns to mush about halfway through. I need new eyes on it before I let myself freak out or sink into despair because I don’t understand anything.

When 9:15 comes around, and Truett hasn’t shown up, I don’t freak out… much. But when he still doesn’t arrive by 9:30, I’m mentally kicking myself. I don’t have his number to text him to see where the hell he is. I just took him at his word, never imagining he wouldn’t actually show up. It was foolish of me to believe another person would have my back when it comes to this alley.

I check the clock on the wall again, the ticking of the second hand louder in the silence of the empty bowling alley. The faint scent of day-old pizza wafts in the air. My nerves are on edge, and each minute feels like an hour. The waiting reminds me of sitting by the phone, counting down the minutes until my dad’s final test results came in, only to tell us his relentless cancer was giving him six months tops. A cancer rotting away my father’s body. A cancer my mom and I only found out about because his doctor strongly encouraged him to tell us before it was too late. He kept the secret, breaking all the promises he’d ever made to his family about honesty and the future.

Since then, I’ve learned waiting on someone to keep their word will always be a gamble. It’s hard to trust, let alone count on the promises anyone makes. For some reason, I always lose.

I must enjoy losing.