I Won for Being the Worst
I was the kid in high school who never did well in anything requiring athletic ability. I invented creative excuses to miss gym class, was the one left at the end when teams were picked, and perfected sneaking around the vaulting horse rather than jumping over it. Instead of trophies or medals, I took home certificates dressed up in cardboard frames, for the high mark in English, Math, or Business Machines, and skipped the awards presentations when possible. I didn’t need that kind of recognition from my peers. As an adult, I never won raffles or had the winning number under my chair at bridal showers and time after time watched the coveted centerpiece go home with someone else. I did win an ugly yellow laundry basket at a shower once, but it became apparent everyone was getting a prize and I watched as my friends took home bath and spa sets or pretty kitchen accessories. My luck changed one day, although I wasn’t certain if it earned me bragging rights when it took being the worst to get a trophy for being the best.
After starting a job at a new company, our friends convinced my husband and I to join their bowling team in the corporate fun league. We bowled with this couple from time to time and they knew bowling was amongst my numerous failed attempts at sports, but they wanted to spend time with us and said they needed me for my handicap. I had no idea what this meant but was happy to be helpful. I looked forward to our Tuesday nights out and since our children were at the ideal age where they were out of diapers and preferred the babysitter to their parents, there was no downside.
We bowled with fun-loving, non-competitive people who were encouraging and supportive even when my ball spent most of its night in the gutter. Instead of judging me, my fellow bowlers were kind enough to make excuses for me. My hands were small, my fingers were short, and the balls were all too heavy. Members of other teams even scoured the alley to find me the lightest ball but chances were the holes were either too far apart for my limited finger span or they were too small for my adult-sized fingers. I knew how Goldilocks must have felt.
My handicap was about the same as my average. I didn’t understand why my team found this comical but knew when I bowled a bad game, which happened on a regular basis, my handicap was meant to raise my score to a respectable number. I thought this was rather decent on the part of the bowling rule-makers. One night, I was on fire and nobody was more surprised than I was when I broke 100. Word spread throughout the bowling alley and sent most of the league into a high-five, fist-pumping frenzy. What a good bunch.
The season ended with an awards banquet, also a first for me, and despite my inability to knock over many pins, my team ranked well in the final standings. I wasn’t paying close attention to the awards and didn’t understand what most of them were for, anyway. There were a lot of qualifiers and descriptors having to do with handicaps, spares, and turkeys. I clapped at the appropriate times but was otherwise ambivalent, in favour of my beer and the company of my teammates.
It was then that I heard the convener announce my name. I sat still for a moment and then the banquet hall erupted in applause, hollers, and whistles. My husband nudged me out of my stupor, I went up, smiled, and accepted my trophy while still confused by what it had to do with me. Gutter-ball queens didn’t get trophies. As I turned to go back to my seat, feeling the heat rise up to my hairline, the crowd was still applauding. All except for my table, that is. My beloved teammates were doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down their cheeks.
Once they were able to speak, and after they noticed I wasn’t laughing, I said, “What’s so funny? What’s this for? Somebody explain!” It turned out the one exceptional game I’d bowled, combined with my high handicap, had earned me the Ladies High-Single with Handicap award. I suppose I should have been grateful to the bowling rule-makers once again.
My husband boasted about my award to anyone who would listen and encouraged me to buy a lightweight ball with holes customized to my hands. I also treated myself to a baby-blue leather bowling bag and new shoes that didn’t smell like talcum powder covering up foot odour. My game didn’t improve. A few more bowling seasons passed and by a stroke of luck, a severe case of carpal tunnel gave me the excuse I needed to retire.
I came home from work one day to find, as a tribute to my contribution to the sport, a shrine with my ball in the middle, my shoes resting on either side at 45-degree angles, and the dust-covered trophy elevated on a turtle foot-stool behind the ball. Completing the presentation was a hand-written sign reading, “Norma’s Bowling Shrine, A Legend In Her Own Mind.” My husband had outdone himself.
I was never sure whether I was a legend for being the best or the worst and every time I looked at my trophy, I felt a mixture of pride, embarrassment, and shock. Perhaps though, after thirty years and two house moves, I had what I needed and not what I wanted. My bowling gear is in the small hands of some other bowler, the trophy is in a landfill somewhere, and I still own the ugly yellow laundry basket.
