by Abbie Johnson Taylor
In 1981, I was entering my second year at Sheridan College in Sheridan, Wyo. I was required to take at least two semesters of physical education. Being visually impaired and because of many unpleasant experiences with such classes in elementary school and junior high — falling on my face while running, balls hitting my nose — I was reluctant. But it was time to quit procrastinating and do it. I signed up for bowling because that required the least athletic ability, and the chance of injury was slim.
The first few days of class were humiliating. I found that no matter what I did, the ball always ended up in the gutter. Nobody laughed at me, which they would have done in elementary school. But between frames, I watched others bowl strikes and spares and heard them cheer for one another. The realization that no one was cheering for me was depressing.
Seeing that I was floundering, the instructor arranged for me to have a lane all to myself, so I could practice continually without having to wait my turn. She worked with me to perfect my arm movement, so I could aim the ball right down the center of the lane.
Gradually, I improved. My gutter balls became less and less frequent, and I began hitting more and more pins each time. One day, I finally made a strike, and the bowling alley reverberated with my classmates’ cheers.
By the time the holidays rolled around, my average score was 76. I loved bowling and wanted to practice in order to improve my game. I even watched the professional bowling tour on TV.
I was living at home at the time. Since I couldn’t drive, it was impossible to borrow the car and go to the bowling alley whenever I wanted. I constantly begged my parents to take me bowling, which they did most of the time. My younger brother Andy often tagged along. At Thanksgiving, when my uncle, aunt, and cousins from out of town were visiting, I talked them into bowling with us, and we all had a wonderful time.
As Christmas grew closer, I was saddened to realize the bowling class wouldn’t continue in the second semester. I had come to enjoy it and wondered if I would ever bowl again once the term ended.
Then, to my wondering eyes on Christmas morning, there appeared a bowling ball, a pair of shoes, and a bag in which to carry them. My parents even gave me an electronic bowling game. They’d realized that I was serious about this sport, just as Andy had been serious about tennis a few years earlier.
Through the years, I continued to bowl when I could. In 1987, after moving to Fargo, N.D., to complete a six-month music therapy internship, I became involved in a couple of bowling groups for the blind.
One year, after returning to Sheridan, while I was working as a registered music therapist, I joined a ladies’ bowling league team. But we only bowled a few times, and the team finally broke up due to lack of interest. I offered my services to another team captain I knew, but I was never called. Maybe my 76-average score didn’t make me league material.
I recently learned that the local senior center has a weekly bowling group. When Andy, now living in Florida, came for a visit, I asked him to help me find my bowling ball and shoes, which I thought were stored in my garage. But we never found them. No doubt they were lost in transit during one of the many moves I made in my life. Because I often had trouble finding a ball with holes fitting my fingers exactly, and I didn’t want to pay extra for shoe rental, I decided not to bother with the senior bowling group.
I may bowl again someday. Meanwhile, I’ll always cherish the memory of the best Christmas present I ever received, the realization that I could bowl.