Guttersnipe

The final month. The stretch drive. The long walk off a short pier. That’s where we are finally at in this endless winter of a bowling season.

The sun is out, the snow is gone, yard waste collection has resumed, but the league year continues unabated. It cares not for seasons, it only wants balls on pins.

We were a mere four points back of 16th place going into last week. We would’ve had a chance to pull ahead but we were hamstrung by a lack of warm bodies. I, like every sane individual, understand the gripping erotic pull of the morgue but when it comes to winning a league game those cold, stiff fingers just don’t cut it.

It was just me and Lily at the game last week. Our other half begged off due to some work requirements that could have easily been done at any other time. I’m convinced they are simply exhausted by the inexorable march of the bowling season and I can’t say I blame them. Lily does. He’s downright offended by their truancy. “It’s a team game” is the refrain I’ve heard more times than I can count. Which is up to ten.

He’s even hoping to play in the spring league. Another two months that I can’t fathom enjoying. It’s been six already and we’re still going. Even the lure of some sort of nine-pin strike format with coloured pins that win you money if you get them all doesn’t do it for me. Especially not if I have to listen to his infernal whining every week.

Which is to say this is about all the rolling I can handle. We got slaughtered again with two of our scores coming by way of 90% of the average of the missing bowlers. Didn’t even have a chance. Sweet Mary Brown it was ugly. I didn’t even bother taking note of the final tally.

So we remain second-last in the standings. Waiting for the tide to go out so we can gasp for breath, dying slowly on the shoal. Take us now, sweet seagull of death. This fish is so very tired and needs to rest  

On the bright side, we are one week closer to the end and I’m ready to get out and do some frolfing. No schedule, no (or very little) paying of money, and the beer is liquor store prices. Only have to contend with overzealous disc nerds who would be righteously offended by the term “frolf”. Well, they can fornicate themselves with an iron rod. One shouldn’t take oneself too seriously whilst traipsing about the woods tossing plastic saucers into baskets.

Well, there’s probably some sports on but I don’t care. I’ve got a free preview of Britbox with twelve season of Vera to sink my teeth into. Happy hunting, folks.