38
Give Me A Boost

“There’s a certain shot that you should probably take.” Kevin whispered in Sanchez’s ear. Fingers outreached to point. “Oil composition in the middle has basically made it into a wet-dry.”

“I mean, you could stave left on this one to hopefully draw some more carry. You got try it.”

“Okay.” Kevin slowly retreated into his chair back behind the approach as his teammate threw.

“It needs to hold.” Alex took note of the 6-7-10 split that had materialized a brief second after his comment.

“It’s alright. Come on.” Mikey placed a hand on Sanchez’s shoulder.

His brushed up his plastic spare ball and threw it corner-to-corner at the side with two pins. One of the pins flew back onto the deck, and rolled right in front of the 7 at the opposite corner.

The entire center had a brief ahh as everyone saw the stray pin fall into the gutter and was thus trapped.

Alex had his eyes on the opposing team in mud green. The team captain in spiked-up hair is exercising his right wrist to free it before grabbing his Red Ripper from the ball return. His fingers from both hands criss-crossed on his lap. Kevin shot him a look, but he didn’t notice.

“I know about that anchor attitude.” Complete disregard.

The crowd grew silent as Cranker Chris stretched his fingers inside the ball in front of him, lowered him, and loaded it up like he would a yo-yo. With big steps he trudged toward the foul name as his right hand swung upwards, then he rapidly decelerated before the line as the long but slender fingers snapped as the ball reached the bottom of the swing.

The snap was so powerful a loud pop was heard when the fingers exited the ball at around twenty miles an hour. Even with the amount of sideway rotation the speed overpowered the spin as he stayed relatively close to the center as he launched it from the left of that imaginary line. Within a second it was the loud crash of the thirty-five pounds of synthetic bowling pins as the whole rack disappeared into the void.

Cranker Chris stared at where the pins stood just a few seconds ago as if he braved over some beast that hounded at him but eventually succumbed.

Alex’s chest rose and shrank more significantly as the cold stare at his rival was showered with a loud yet anxious cheer that only passed the latter by as his Red Ripper was shot right back at him through the pneumatic ball return.

“I only hoped that he’s gonna miss this. If he nails both shots in the 10th here, you need two and eight.”

Neither player had the heart to oversee what they deemed trivialities.

Chris cupped another shot and loaded up on the approach. Another five big steps. Another ten-sweep.

Alex closed his eyes and attempted to slow his breathing down. He counted the ticks of an old analog clock in his head.

Tick-tick-tick. Here went Cranker Chris again.

Tick-tick-tick. Here is the load as the crowd falters.

Tick-tick-tick. The Red Ripper staying true to its name and staying close to the six hundred RPM mark as it popped again. Another loud strike.

“Boot Camp finishes with a 243.” The tournament director’s voice boomed to a cheering crowd. “Max score for Tag Team here is 246. Alex Fritz plays anchor.”

All his mind headed to the smooth blue-purple fusion ball. His motions became robotic at this point. Take it in his hands, spin it against the towel to clear it of its latent oil. Sticking to the right side of the lane itself, his hand in the ball tilted to the left as his slowdown was a little more controlled but kept his hand above his head on the follow-through.

The ball skated the board closest the gutter as almost fifty-percent of the ball hung above the gutter. It took a hard left turn before it met the pins and carried all ten into the void. The gasp turned into a whistle, and an applause.

“There’s one.”

Alex’s eyes remained fixated on the arrows and slid his left foot on the approach to confirm that he could slide properly for his second shot.

“Oh, you are kidding!” Kevin shot one look at his anchor. “I’ll be right out. Don’t worry, the crowd understands.”

Another ball pickup, another few practice flexes of his right wrist, then the outward bend. Position at eight-and-a-half, crossing five at the arrows. It also seemed like an entirely different language. He waited two seconds before he let the ball fall into the swing and shoved it forward, skating the rind of the gutter again to land yet another perfect shot.

The crowd got louder as the visual confirmation that a second strike has been issued is seen by everyone. Eight is a lower number than ten, after all. 

He allowed himself a small intermission as he finally looked back at the crowd. It was a scatter of eyeing different members of the crowd subtly venerating the fact that nailed two of two. Then Kevin lead one green and one purple into the back of the crowd. Angel smiled and peered her head at him on her way in, and Irene quickly made her lose sight of her boyfriend.

“Not over yet, fellas. Tag Team needs eight on this last ball.”

What was robotic became manual. Every small inflection became a point of distraction.He found himself pondering on the exact angle he needed to pour his wrist out towards. Ball in hand, he found the ball quaking minutely.

Tick-tick-tick.

It was speedy out of his hand. It swiveled right of where it should’ve been. The ball grated on the rail and almost produced sparks, and through the sheer friction it dived hard left as it lost speed. Right through the center. He watched in slow-motion as two on the left remained as the pin in front passed the airspace above the 4 and 7.

The crowd leapt for joy. His heart rate shot up by 30 as he saw his girlfriend lunged for him and indulged him in one sweet little moment. It was as if she planned it for the world to see how much she belonged to him.

In the shut-eye as he got lost in the kiss, the world returned to normal speed for him.

“Tag Team reigns over the State of California!”