With a little help from a pro, an admitted bowling novice finds a form - of sorts.
By KEITH NIEBUHR
Published August 8, 2004
HOMOSASSA SPRINGS - At the side of the building, a half dozen men ate hot dogs and drank beer. Not far away, a dog munched on a burger. At the entrance, two women chatted loudly. Inside, people sitting at tables talked while a group of kids played pool.
One guy handed out bowling shoes.
Another lifted up a ball and closely examined the holes.
Everyone looked relaxed. In place.
Well, everyone except me.
For many, the bowling alley is like a second home. I, however, felt like the kid whose parents had just dropped him off at his very first summer camp. Only a bowling alley? No way. This was nerve-wracking stuff.
My best guess is that I hadn't picked up a bowling ball since the 1980s, when at the time I think I was wearing black parachute pants and rocking out to Vanilla Ice.
Back then, I weighed about 120 pounds and wasn't incredibly strong. Now I'm no bowling guru, but this much I know: If you can't lift the ball, chances are you won't be very good. So I was doomed from the start. I don't recall much about those past bowling experiences, except that I stunk. Two decades later, at age 32, I returned a smarter, stronger person. Yet I still had doubts. Serious doubts. This, it seemed, was the perfect time to try again.
A local alley, Neffer's Bowling, was holding a clinic with professionals from the PBA Senior Tour. Steve Neff, who owns the place and is a well-respected pro, convinced me this was worth a shot. He paired me with a guy named George Pappas.
I'm not a huge bowling fan, so I didn't recognize the name. But as it turns out, George is more than just a so-so pro. Now 57, he won 10 tournaments on the PBA Tour and owns two PBA Senior titles.
In 1979, George claimed the Tournament of Champions, bowling's version of The Masters, earning a cool $30,000. Bowling's popularity, some say, was at its peak back then, and I certainly remember many weekends as a little guy watching the sport on the tube with my dad.
George and his wife, Peggy, live in North Carolina, where they own two bowling centers. When George was a kid, his pop owned a restaurant that had a bowling alley beneath it. At 6, he began playing. By 18, he was a pro.
"That's what I wanted to do," he said. While on tour, he traveled 35 weeks a year. "I love to bowl," he said.
George says the competitive fire remains, which is why he plays in about 10 events a year. "It has to be there, because for what we bowl for you can't make a living," he said.
George seemed like a great guy. He said he liked teaching, sharing his wisdom. But I wondered if he would feel that way after 90 minutes with me. After chatting with George, I slid out of my flip-flops and into a pair of red, white and blue bowling shoes, then headed to Lane 6.
At the clinic each pro worked with three people, and my group included John Flanders and Sylus Wilkes. I was more than a little intimidated by these two. During warmups, John and Sylus looked calm and cool as they released the ball and watched it glide toward the pins. Clearly, these guys knew what they were doing. I was way out of my league. By the way, John and Sylus are both 10.
I was afraid to pick up the ball, so George gave me some prodding.
"Don't be nervous," he said.
But I was. I had the feeling everyone was watching, that they'd all hoot and holler when I shot one into the gutter. And, at that point, my heart was racing.
George offered a simple tip. "Just take four steps," he said. With that, I was off. I started with the right foot, then left, then right again. Before I could take my fourth step, the ball was out of my hand and in the gutter. "That's okay," he said. "Be patient."
Soon, the ball was finding the pins. With every attempt, it seemed to get a little easier. Easier, not easy. Big difference. The ball felt heavy. My motion was out of whack, and it took a good 30 minutes to start feeling comfortable with the steps.
Words of encouragement came from George. And John. Yes, the 10-year-old.
While I struggled, John, who has played two years, kept slinging strikes. He always seemed to know where the ball was headed. When he missed, he had an idea of what went wrong. Sylus wasn't bad either. He picked up the game about two months ago and had a nice flow to his release. "They've got potential," George said.
My results weren't great, but I was getting the feel of things. There were times when I knew where the ball was headed and others when I didn't. Midway through the clinic, I asked John, who still is in elementary school, to assess my ability.
"You're doing good for a beginner," he said. "If you play more often, you'll get better at it." Smart kid.
While George worked with Sylus, I got coaching from John. Seems as though I was turning my shoulder at the ball's release. This caused my shots to go offline. He told me to keep my shoulders straight and drop my right arm in a straight motion toward the target. Or something like that.
Whatever he said, it worked. On the one hand, it was great advice. On the other, it's always a little strange when someone who watches cartoons is telling you what to do.
Forty-five minutes into the clinic, I asked George for feedback. "You're not doing bad," he said. "You don't look unnatural." To a guy who had not picked up a ball in forever, those were beautiful words. He really was saying this: "You're not a spaz." A few minutes later, I rolled my first strike. What a feeling. It's like in golf, once you hit that perfect shot you want more.
Toward the end of the clinic, I began to tire. George said that was natural. "You're using muscles you've never used before," he said. I plan to use them again. Soon.
A $20 clinic brought me back to the lanes. The fear factor is gone.
Now, if I can just figure out how to beat those 10-year-olds.
This is a story for A Day In The Life, a Sunday summer series in which Times sports writers chronicle a typical sporting day of someone, some place or something on the North Suncoast.
