BOY
It’s the final frame of the final match, the pin count perfectly tied. My opponent is at the line. A bead of sweat starts at his temple and runs down his cheek to his chin.
I watch it fly through the air that is so thick with tension you’d need a chainsaw to cut it until it lands on the lane. But I’m so intent on my next shot that all memory of that fateful drop leaves me.
(Beat.)
The ball is off—whether it’s nerves or those 12 espressos finally catching up with him, he rolls the fabled 7-10 split, and when he knocks out the 7 but not the 10, I can smell victory. I can taste it. We are the Flying Saucers of Roswell High, and we are one frame away from the state championship. One frame from tenpin immortality.
(Beat.)
I stride down the lane, but as I plant my right foot, that one tiny, forgotten drop, it changes New Mexico bowling history. They tell me my foot slipped by less than one degree, causing my arm to slip by less than one degree, causing the ball to strike less than one degree off its target, culminating in the dreaded Big Four split.
(Beat.)
We shall avenge!