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31 05 2006It happened. It finally fucking happened. Yesterday night, May 30th, at around 9:30 PM EST, I threw twelve strikes in a row… in one game. That is correct, folks. Correct.
I mean, who saw it coming? The first series had enough intrigue of it’s own. In the 2nd game, I left a stone ten pin on my first shot, covered it, then preceded to rack up eleven more strikes in a row. 290. My new high sanctioned game. Good for me; I threw the ball well– surely it was all downhill after that. And for the next 3 games afterwards, it certainly looked that way. I had only split my games with my opponents, I wasn’t striking when I needed to, I was leaving tough spare conversions at poor times.
Then game the sixth and final game of the evening. I don’t remember much about the whole game itself– I put together a bunch at the front, and my opponent opened like 3 times, so I knew I was in fantastic shape to pick up a couple points– just that I think 300 began to creep into my mind after six in a row, and I began to think it was actually doable after eight in a row.
The tenth frame– whoa boy. Got up, adrenaline going– first shot, I didn’t get quite as far right as I wanted; the ball picked up very strong in the mids and came in high flush, tripping the four pin in the process. My first thought was “oh God, I lost my line!” This led to an incredibly nervous Colin for the 11th shot– I piped it, about 2 boards right of where I had thrown my last shot. Boom. Flushness. Eleven down, one to go. Oh crap. Now I actually MADE it this far. What to do now? I remember going through the motions (superstition maybe) of tapping the rosin once on each of the finger holes, then wiping it off, then throwing the ball up, catching it, and putting it down on the scoring keyboard. I got up on the approach, and went through the whole “Colin talks to himself ordeal.” (you know, “C’mon kid, you got this– shoulder up, walk straight, back square, clean release follow through– c’mon kid– all you can eat buffet here”) It’s funny, because one other thing I remembered while I was up there was that once someone told me that Pete Weber ALWAYS moves deeper on a 12th shot of a perfect game to compensate for the inevitable “fluffing” of the ball. So I did just that– feet a couple boards left, target just a hair more right. I don’t even remember if I hit my board. I’m pretty sure I didn’t stay square to the lane and wrapped myself up in my backswing. All I know is that I let go of the ball behind the foul line– and about halfway down the lane, I knew it. The ball was going to hit flush. All it had to do was carry. And carry it did. There it was. Perfection. 300. One of the life goals, accomplished on an evening where I was ill, but had already shot my high sanctioned game. All I mustered was a measly fist pump. A mildly loud “Yaya!” Got high-fives and handshakes from the rest of the league, including a few bystanders who weren’t there to bowl in the league, but happened to catch a glimpse of perfection. I was exhausted. I mean– I had already been exhausted from three hours of sleep, then ten hours of work, and a daily diet that consisted of bottled water and peanut butter crackers. But I got up for the last game. Yeehaw I did. Was I nervous. You fucking bet I was. I mean, I wasn’t quite shaking like a leaf like I thought I was– but I definitely suffered from a bit of the Jello body. Thank God for muscle memory.
I still can’t really fathom it. I need a day to let it sink in. I can’t wait until I get my ring.
I did it. I bowled a perfect game!
Yyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssssssssssssssssss!
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