I am an amazing bowler. You could say it’s in my
blood.
My great-great-grandfather, Frangelico Milosh, was the
three-time Prussian Bowler of the Year. In 1871, he left
Prussia, upset that his homeland had been renamed Germany. He liked
the way the word “Prussia” sounded better.
Frangelico came to America with his wooden bowling ball in tow
““ it was one of the few luxuries he afforded himself back in
the motherland. It is noteworthy that, Frangelico, who was a
shepherd, anglicized his surname ““ changing it to Miller
““ so that it would be easier to find work. Funnily
enough, older members of my family recall (fondly) that Frangelico
would often claim that he invented the saying, “No one likes
a foreigner!”
My great-grandfather was a fantastic professional bowler, as is
my grandfather and my own father.
So, when I decided I didn’t want to be a professional
bowler, my dad took great offense.
I remember when, at the age of two, I told him of my decision.
The images are burned into the retinas of my brains.
It was dinner time and my family was sitting peacefully around
the table. Then out of nowhere, I picked up my glass of apple juice
and threw it against the wall, causing it to shatter, sending glass
everywhere and also juice.
“Damnit dad I don’t want to be a professional
bowler.”
“Son, when I was growing up we were so poor I had to
fashion my bowling ball out of a bunch of sand and a string. Did I
give up?”
Well, I gave up right then. I abhorred the long winters of
practicing in the snow, and the dreadful summers when all my
friends could sit around eating pop rocks and gum while I had to
practice.
I still enjoy the sport, I just am trying to focus on my real
dreams of becoming a cardiologist. So now when I go bowling, I have
to get drunk to blur the memory of a shattered glass, a broken
dream and a destroyed legacy.
Tuesday night was bowling night for me and six friends, and it
all went down at Mar Vista Bowl. Initially there was some semblance
of order within the group but the whole situation quickly
degenerated ““ chalk that up to the White Russians we were
drinking.
Still, the bowling blood that courses through my veins gets the
best of me sometimes as a I become “DM the serious
bowler.” This involves not speaking to my friends while a
game is in progress and launching expletive-laden tirades into the
air when pins don’t fall, among other flattering habits.
I really tried to keep this behavior in check Tuesday night, and
did a decent job, until word spread that “cosmic
bowling” would commence shortly. Oh brother, if there is one
thing that I cannot stand, it is the combination of
glow-in-the-dark pins and Donna Summers. Frangelico is turning over
in his grave.
It appeared as though a higher force prevailed Tuesday night,
because, for no apparent reason, “cosmic bowling” was
never activated.
Instead, we bowled in wonderful lighting, with more-accessible
hip-hop music blaring through the speakers.
A lot of my favorites got spun. There was R. Kelly’s
“Ignition (Remix),” and my new favorite song,
Nelly’s “Pimp Juice.”
What’s pimp juice? I don’t know. But I like the
sound of it.
In a world in which new technological advancements devalue
religious faith, and strange respiratory illnesses plague mankind,
it’s nice to know you can still go bowling.
For me, it’s not just a pastime, it’s my
lifeline.
E-mail Miller at dmiller@media.ucla.edu if you know the song
this lyric comes from: “A yo, I’m Murphey Lee the school
boy/The civilized jewel boy.”