Yesterday included a round at the White Oak Duckpin Lanes. Duckpin which would seem like an easier variation on classic bowling--three balls instead of two, lighter-weight pins--but it is actually far more difficult to get a strike. I've always been fond of it because I can hold my own against stronger-armed men, whereas in classic bowling I tire after only a few frames of throwing a 9-pound ball.
Hailey broke out a Hawaiian shirt ideally suited to the occasion, complete with sequined embroidery, which should have given her some kind of magical powers. But two poets and a novelist racked up a combined score of only...199. Ah well. I blame the fact that our beer supply was a mere watery pitcher of Yuengling; clearly, such athletic challenges require more potent lubrication.
On the upside, there's gotta be a poem embedded in a game whose vocabulary includes "strike," "spare," and "deadwood."