Page 4 of Right Up His Alley

I could say, “No, Dad, you haven’t taught me anything except how to be a demanding asshole.” But he’d hang up before I finished, call me an ungrateful fool, and then ten minutes later, my mother would call, trying to mediate peace between us. Even then, she’d take my side, laughing as she told me all the little ways she planned to irritate him that week just for fun because of how unfair he was being toward me.

When it comes to those two, my mother is the only person who can truly get under Brett Thorne’s skin, fight with him tooth and nail, and in the end have him groveling at her feet. She’s that kind of woman. Both a thorn in his side and the only one who can heal the wound.

Mom has always done what she does best: keep our family together. That’s become her role over the years. With a stubborn son and an even more stubborn husband, she’s learned how to navigate our intense dynamics and keep us going.

Being on the road and away from home for so long, I’ve come to appreciate her even more. Especially when this thought creeps in: with all the travel and hyperfocus on being the best, I may never find someone who completes me or challenges me the way she does Dad.

With this thought in mind, being a professional athlete—never able to truly claim a home of my own—makes what I’ve trained so hard to accomplish feel incredibly lonely.

“I’ll get my ass in gear, sir,” I speak up a moment later, making sure he hears me across the Bluetooth. “I’ll report back with what I find.”

Even though I will do no such thing, I’ll tell him what he wants to hear. I have no interest in being a part of his plan for me to get the upper hand in the competition. Plus, I already know Spare Time like the back of my hand. I don’t need any extra time breaking the rules and intervening with the USBC to get inside information.

“That’s what I like to hear. You’ll thank me later when you win.” With that, the other line cuts off. No goodbye. No have a great day. Not even a friendly fuck you. I’m just left with myself and the Chappell Roan song that picks back up where it left off before the phone call interrupted it.

I turn off the ignition and step outside the car. I can’t help but breathe in the strong but savory scent of sweet, smoky BBQ lathered over hot brisket from Judy’s Diner across the street. I could recognize that smell anywhere, anytime. A memory from my adolescence slaps me across the back of the head harder than hunger pains stabbing at my stomach just at the thought of Judy’s BBQ. I’m immediately taken back to a summer day when I brought a fixing of Judy’s brisket over to the bowling alley before jumping in a lane to roll ten frames.

I was in a time crunch that day, practicing for a tournament my father signed me up for the following weekend. Carlada, my family’s chef, didn’t start her shift until noon during the summer. The thought of Mom’s health smoothies curled my stomach, and my dad, well, he was never home, nor would he ever be caught dead in the kitchen. With the rush to get to the lanes, I didn’t have time to make myself a snack.

Judy’s BBQ just had to do.

Not to mention, I remembered what the alley’s pretzels and hot cheese dip did to my stomach one time, so I wanted to avoid Spare Time’s concession counter at all costs, especially the week before a tournament.

After a few solo rounds, the owner of the alley, Mr. Jiménez, came up and asked who I thought I was bringing in food to the alley from another business. With the steam still coming off the BBQ brisket I placed to the side while I finished my frame, I tried to fib about being allergic to the type of oil Spare Time’s kitchen used.

Even though Mr. Jiménez entertained the idea, I knew he wasn’t buying my lie. Eventually, he put his hand up and said, “Son, I was just going to ask who you thought you were bringing in food and not bringing in any for me. You really think I’m that brave to eat the hot cheese I sell?”

The next four days, I came back to practice before the weekend of the tournament, each time bringing two servings of Judy’s BBQ brisket. It was that week, over several shared meals and about fifty frames, Mr. Jiménez taught me how to position my feet in order to send the bowling ball down the lane with a slight curve to knock out two split pins.

Mr. Jiménez was more than just the owner of the alley. He was a teacher, a mentor, a friend even. I can’t help but smile, knowing he taught me more than just how to add a side spin to my throws or position my feet. But then a wave of sadness hits me, realizing a stranger has had more of an impact on me than my own father—even in the very career Dad pushed me toward, urging me to follow in his footsteps.

With Mr. Jiménez, it was the only time I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, that I could just learn a new skill without feeling pressure. There were no major expectations of me.

The flickering neon lights above the bowling alley doors bring me back to reality. Walking toward the entrance, I stare up, noticing the neon sign is missing a couple letters.

Spa e T me

I can’t help but let a soft chortle escape. This old place has probably been so busy lately, Mr. Jiménez hasn’t had time to change the bulbs, let alone notice them. I make a mental note to let him know about the sign if he wants to make a good impression on the USBC reps.

“Hello?” I call out, glancing back as the door yanks free of my grip and crashes shut, louder than it should be.

The alley is a dead zone, dark and completely void of any humanity. My nostalgia fades a bit before I call out again, “Hello! Anyone here?”

A head of dark curls pokes up from underneath the register in the kitchen area located to the left, directly across from the shoe counter.

“Oh.” I pause. “Hi!”

“Sorry. Give me a minute,” he says curtly. His head swiftly returns underneath the fryer, presumably attempting to fix something.

“Take your time! I’m in no rush.” I walk toward the open lanes, swiping my finger across a rack of bowling balls, collecting an amount of dust I am not comfortable with. I pat my golf pants to wipe it away, which leaves a line of gray dirt on my Avalons.

I take a seat at a high-top table in the center lane. The empty seating areas around me give me pause. If Spare Time hosts the USBC, I worry if we’ll even have enough audience members to buy tickets.

“You have a reservation?” comes a voice from behind me. When he enters my view, I realize his voice belongs to the most attractive face I’ve seen in a long time. His toned body moves toward me with the silkiest confidence, a tattooed arm etching across his sleeve, skin glowing with a sun-kissed warmth even in the alley’s dim light. Dark curls crown his head, wild yet controlled, framing a rugged jawline I can’t help but trace with my eyes.

“I’m… my name is Truett Thorne.” I try hard to mask a goofy smile.

“Okay? Does Truett Thorne have a reservation?” he asks before moving behind the shoe counter.