Page 36 of Right Up His Alley

I crouch down to Gavin’s level, offering a reassuring grin. “Hey, buddy, my name is Truett. Your mom said I could come chat with you and give you some bowling pointers. How does that sound?”

Gavin looks back at his mom and gets her approval in the form of a supportive thumbs-up. He turns back to face me. “Yes, please. I can’t stop throwing gutter balls. Can you help?”

As soon as he asks, a comfort spreads through my chest. I don’t answer right away. The hum of the lanes fills the space between us, pins crashing somewhere behind my left shoulder. I nod before I even realize I’m smiling.

Being trusted like this pulls me backward in time. I see myself younger, standing where Gavin stands now. Hands tucked into my sleeves, wanting so much to enjoy something that should be fun. I remember asking questions quietly, half expecting to be dismissed. But that never happened with Mr. Jiménez.

He showed me how to line up my feet, how to breathe before the release. More than that, he made learning feel safe. Not like an order, but more like an invitation.

The memory settles into me, warm and familiar. Happiness follows but quickly fades as I remember I’m here with my dad, competing in a competition I’m not interested in, instead of being here with Mr. Jiménez.

Underneath that happiness is something brighter. It feels more like… possibility. Maybe this is a direction I’m meant to take. Not chasing scores or perfection, but navigating my way to a place that’s always felt like home. Could I pass those same feelings on to others?

Spare Time isn’t a big arena, but it is where passion lives. It’s where impact is made. It’s where people learn how to be patient, how to stay present, and how to trust themselves.

“Should I ask them to put the bumpers up on the lane, Mr. Truett?” His second question gives me the chance to see where he’s at when it comes to trusting himself.

“How about I show you some things first, and if we still need them, we can ask. How does that sound?”

He nods.

I spend about ten minutes with Gavin, showing him technique, form, and a few special tips and tricks I have up my sleeve about sending the bowling ball in the right direction. It’s when Gavin’s ball makes contact with his first five pins that I hear my name screamed across the alley, yanking me out of any chance to celebrate with him.

Brett Thorne, of course.

I don’t respond but instead say my goodbye to Gavin and make my way back over to Lane 9. “You rang, Your Highness?”

“Stop being a smart-ass and get ready. The competition is tomorrow, and you’re wasting time mentoring some kid who really should be using bumper rails. The alley is filling up with guys competing tomorrow. Look around, son.”

Trying not to be too obvious, I glance around the alley, checking out my so-called competitors. Lanes 1 through 10 are packed with professional bowlers, each one locked into their own rhythm, their own focus. Some are young, their families gathered behind them, clapping and calling out encouragement with every throw. Others are older, no one at their backs except a coach or a sponsor with obvious anticipation for the tournament to be over.

I wonder where I’d fall in the future? Would I have someone special in the stands, cheering me on, proud of every frame I throw? Or will I continue having empty seats behind me like I’ve had almost this entire time I’ve played pro?

All I know is, no matter what the future brings, the idea of someone like Ezra being in my corner makes the choice, if there even is one, easier.

It's midday, and the alley is filling up. Media teams make their way in, setting up cameras to go live. The players competing in the City Open finish their stretches, lace and re-lace their shoes, and polish their bowling balls.

The only good thing about traveling with Dad for competitions is that he prefers I get extra hours of sleep. Last night, we settled down around eight, and I was in bed by nine—the perfect way to avoid him. This morning, it’s all been about focus. Or at least that's what I’ve told him to get him off my case.

The announcer welcomes everyone back to the alley, shouting out the rules of the competition. He explains that the bowler with the highest score at the end of ten frames wins the Albuquerque City Open Championship.

Simple enough.

One by one, the bowlers line up and throw their balls down their lanes. I follow suit after patting my jersey’s bowling pin patch twice. The numbers add up on each digital screen above. Lots of spares, one or two seven-ten splits, a couple Greek Churches, and one ferocious-looking picket fence formation. All being calculated to determine the best player for second place. I know I’m going to win. It’s what I’ve been trained to do since I could walk.

“You’re getting too cocky, son,” Brett Thorne calls out from behind me. “You’re moving too fast. Slow down.”

“I guess those loaded fries yesterday didn’t make me too sluggish, did they?” I wave him off, knowing that doing it in public only irritates him. I can’t believe he has the nerve to tell me to slow down when I’m doing exactly what he wants.

Winning.

An hour later, all the balls circulate back to the return table, the pins set back to their original spaces, and the lights go out over the pins near the back end. Everyone takes note of their scores on the digital screens and, realizing I have the highest score, begins to issue me quiet congratulations from across the lanes.

The announcer broadcasts over the speaker, “Truett Thorne, Lane 9, wins the Albuquerque City Open Championship with a crisp score of 300 after rolling twelve perfectly consecutive strikes!”

The crowd goes wild for what seems to be five seconds and then proceeds to pack up and leave.

And it’s over. Just like that.