Page 90 of Right Up His Alley

My face flushes. I know without a doubt, I’m happy. Happier than I have been in a long time. I’m in love and opening myself up to my mom. Something I should have done a long time ago.

“I would like that.” I lean in to kiss her cheek. “I love you. I’m only the best son because you are the best mom.”

This conversation settles deep in my chest, anchoring something that has been drifting for years. There’s a new lightness where darkness once was. I won’t ever let myself get to that point again. Not now. Not after everything that’s been said.

Together, we leave the alley, my arm around my mother and my hand in Truett’s. And as the door closes behind us, it feels a lot like ending a chapter, only for a new one to begin.

Two Months Later

“Welcome, bowlers and fans of the game, to the USBC Championship Tournament, hosted in what I hear is not the heart, but at least the gallbladder of Texas: Pflugerville. We’re coming at you from Spare Time Lanes, the home alley of none other than multi-time national titleholder Truett Thorne!”

As the alley is broadcast on ESPN’s national bowling channel, the announcer’s voice crackles overhead, rushing through the vibrations of excitement raging across the packed crowd and bouncing off the polished wood lanes and hard plastic of every filled seat. I’ve heard it hundreds of times before, but my name announced over Spare Time’s intercom brings a joyful smile to my face, making the stress of the past several months feel lighter.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking. It’s strange not to see Thorne on the approach this year. He withdrew at the last minute, before registration for the tournament closed. Nobody seems willing to say whether it’s temporary or something more permanent. I’m sure his legendary father, Brett Thorne, has his opinions on the matter. Some insist he’ll be back next year. Others aren’t so sure. Either way, for the first time in years, the USBC trophy will be won without a Thorne on the lanes.

“And for those of you watching from home, with all the speculation about Thorne’s future, it looks to us like he’s traded in his bowling shoes for minimum wage. He’s still here in Pflugerville—just not knocking down pins. Instead, he’s serving up French fries and, believe it or not, collecting names and numbers of families who want to sign their kids up for bowling lessons here at Spare Time. And, according to my notes, I am being asked to emphasize that there will be bowling lessons for kiddos here at Spare Time, starting ages eight and up, so bring out your littles, and they can learn a thing or two from one of the greats: Truett Thorne.

“It’s incredible, really. This is the same alley where Thorne first learned to bowl, which might explain why he’s come home to give back to the place that gave him his start. Temporary or not, that’s a pretty cool full-circle moment, if you ask me.

“Still, with Thorne stepping aside, the lanes are wide open. This could be the moment for rising star Blake Fisher, who qualified with a second-place finish at the Southern Regional tournament in Dallas. After emerging as one of the South’s top contenders, Fisher now has to prove he has what it takes to go from runner-up to becoming the next USBC Champion. He’ll have to be on guard, though. He’s got stiff competition in Midwestern Regional Champ Jamal Wallace, who’s been steamrolling through the past year’s qualifiers.”

The announcer’s voice fades beneath a swell of applause and chatter, the air thick with the scent of shoe polish, floor cleaner, and popcorn. I watch the audience make themselves right at home as they find their way around all the alley’s new amenities and refurbished fixtures Ezra and I have installed over the past several months.

The new arcade games are a big hit, drawing kids in as they run from machine to machine, all bright-eyed with new excitement. People take selfies and group photos against the wall, posing in front of the 80s-style paintings I bought for the alley—the same ones I thought I’d have to beg Ezra to let me hang up. Thank goodness he ended up loving them just as much as I do.

I finished syncing the scoring tablet at Lane 12. One down, four more to go. Luckily, the rest of the lanes were closed down and turned into bleachers and seating arrangements brought in by the USBC. It’s been unreal being on this side of the approach, seeing everything that goes into setting up these major tournaments. Normally, I’d be so focused on warming up and dialing in my equipment that I wouldn’t even have time to look around. I’d be too busy with a sanding pad in hand, or listening to my father’s coaching about a lane’s specific oil pattern to be fully present.

“Could I get some tape over at Lane 8?” a coach calls out.

“Where are the rosin bags around here?” a player asks frantically as I walk by.

No one seems to care that a former USBC Champion is bouncing between them, making sure every professional bowler and coach has what they need. I move between them all like I’ve belonged in this role for a while now.

Because I do.

No matter what that announcer tells the world about me slinging French fries and sign-up sheets, it’s the most at ease I’ve felt in a very long time.

I nod at the head USBC volunteer to double-check the brackets, then circle back to the snack counter just long enough to make sure the fryer timer isn’t beeping unattended. With the smell of overcooked mozzarella sticks, I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Who’s watching the fryer?” I call out, leaning over the counter. “Are the sticks burning?”

Making his way out of the kitchen area, Damien appears, stress written all across his face. With Ezra picking up more shadowing hours at his tattoo shop, Damien promised to lend a hand around the alley today for the event, but I don’t think he was expecting to also train the new kitchen hires.

“I’m so sorry, bro. I’m so used to adding extra time on these damn machines for food to actually cook through,” he says. “I thought putting five more minutes on would do the trick.”

I smile. “It’s all good. We’ve definitely upgraded since the last time you worked here. Can you ask the new staff to throw some more in the oven, just in case these come out too crisp?”

“I’m on it.”

After I thank him, I head toward the front desk to check on the new cashier we hired a month ago. Mrs. Jiménez and my mom are already there, training her at the shoe-and-register counter we’ve turned into Spare Time’s merch and ticketing counter for the day. Things seem to be going well, at least by the look of their smiles and mischievous giggles. Then again, the half-empty tequila bottle and shot glasses hastily tucked under the counter as I get closer could have something to do with it.

These two.

We ordered new licensed tournament shirts with the approval—and partnership—of the USBC, as a benefit of hosting the championship. With how many shirts have sold, it looks like it will be lucrative for the alley, thrilling my new business brain.

Now that everything seems to be ready for the tournament to begin, I scan the alley, looking for a specific face. One I’ve been able to go to sleep and wake up next to every day for the past month, whether it’s sleepovers at my family’s house or the Jiménez house.

Unlike my professional athletic career, being near Ezra isn’t something I seem able to take a hiatus from. He fills almost every thought and every space I step into. The upside is, I don’t think either of us plans on letting go anytime soon.