Today I have a tale of minimal importance. No, that’s not right. There is no import to speak of here. Certainly not the beer. $8 at least for an American “pint” they make on-site. It’s almost criminal.

I digress.

My first year of league bowling started last week at the finest alley in town. There are a few of these fancy new lanes within hip “casual upscale pub whatevers” but only two true bowling alleys left. This one has 24 lanes of 10-pin and six 5-pin and is attached to a brewpub of no great distinction. The service is slow and the playlist seems to be about 60% Fergie classics.

My favourite place closed a few years ago. It was the ideal greasy bowling alley. Dark, seedy, and cheap as hell ($11 for unlimited bowling). The draught beer delivered an immediate headache while the staff were—to a man—surly, unhelpful, and openly disdainful of their customers. The bar area contained a patched-together wrestling ring at which the local cocaine-addled denizens could watch low-rent regional matches while basking in the pervasive odour of growing marijuana that seeped through the walls from the several grey market grow ops next door. Indeed, other than the alley and the grows the only other tenants in the strip mall were a sinister looking pawn shop and a brothel. When one of the operations’ jerry-built electrical set-ups caught fire it sent the panicked staff and clientele of said cathouse fleeing pantsless into the night and ultimately spelled the end of the alley’s existence. It was perfect.

While the novice curling league in which I played had teams mostly made up of middle-aged swingers, employees on company-sponsored squads, and young couples who’ve been together long enough to be bored by both each other’s degrading bodies and the pets they’ve purchased to convince themselves they really do enjoy their empty, childless lives, the bowling sect is a far more motley crowd of weirdos.

The males of this clade aren’t filling their days poring over fantasy football minutiae while the eggs wither inside a woman they’ve been dating since she suggested getting breakfast after a rummy night at that nerd bar with board games turned into a brief act of coitus preceded by a three hour monologue about her friend’s shitty boyfriend and how much she loves sketch comedy.

No, they’ve accepted they will wake up every day and find themselves sharing a bed with the embodiment of dried corn husk. A varied crowd – age, sex, colour – all united by the desperate hell reflected in their eyes.

There are no dreams of better days here. League bowling night is as good as it’s going to get.

Naturally, upon arrival at league night the crowd was exceptionally friendly, welcoming, and more than tolerant of my rookie team’s several lane etiquette violations. This made all my hackneyed generalizations moot but did lead to a real hum-dinger of a good time.

Our opposition consisted of a pair of middle-aged fellas, both appearing to be seasoned league bowlers, along with their wives who were decidedly not and surely hatched this couples bowling team idea with little regard for their husbands’ mental health.

We were able to scrape out a three-point victory in the first game despite my own score being the lowest of either team. Yes, even the one lady who walked up to the line, stopped dead in her tracks, and rolled the ball at a speed that must be as close to going backwards as the laws of physics allow.

In game two we won comfortably by 45 points or so. I picked up my game considerably with the aid of a few lagers. Still the worst on my team but at least better than the two retired ladies on the opposition. If the one guy who took his bowling very seriously wasn’t scunnered enough at losing the first match to a group of reprobate rookies (he was), this clinching of the three-game set really put the grit in his knickers.

With a sweep being worth some sort of extra points there was still some meat on the bone in the last set. Alas, having downed several litres more beer and whisky than the table next to us, we finished the night strong but couldn’t quite manage it. They topped 500 and sent us out the door with a 25-point loss to wrap it up. We did take two of three and I finished up by rolling strike, strike, 9, spare, strike to slough off some shame with the fourth-best score amongst the teams. Good enough for the girls I go with.

We’re back in action next week and based on my improvement as the night went on it seems obvious that drinking earlier and oftener is the strategy best employed. Is it ever not?

Mind the line and enjoy your evening, ladies and jerklemen.