Olympic Lanes on Tuesday Night 1984

The crack of pins falling in the night is what I

remember most. A thunder clap my dad, Zeus

strews the end of lanes striking down frail and

inconstant humans. White doves blood red rings

around the neck spin and fall set after reset. My

dad bowls the kind of game strike after strike that

earns him a place on the pantheon of his team a

motley assortment of middle-aged men and women.

Gods of Olympus who gather together and make

the air tremble every week from eight to ten on

Tuesday nights.