This reporter knows nothing about bowling. So he picked up some spare knowledge from the Kent State Bowling Club
Story by Andrew Hampp
Photos by Laura Freeman and Elliott Cramer
Knocking down all the pins is not just luck for the Kent State
Bowling team, it’s their job.
I have a confession to make: I am a professional bowling virgin. At least, I was. One trip to the Stonehedge Family Fun Center in Akron changed all that.
Tucked behind a diner and a bank, Stonehedge Family Fun Center is the most unassuming yet humongous bowling alley, or “house,” as they call it in the bowling world, I’ve ever seen. I walk through the two massive wooden doors, which momentarily have me thinking I am walking into a massive church (especially since it is a Sunday morning) and into the sprawling, seemingly never-ending bowling mecca that is Stonehedge Family Fun Center.
Forty-eight lanes long, Stonehedge is a good 32 lanes longer than the biggest bowling alley I’ve been to, although I’ve only been to a total of three. And it is fully equipped with a bar, two sets of bathrooms and vending machines, its own grill and a variety of other stations. It would take entirely too much effort to walk past all 48 lanes to check these out.
I immediately notice the Kent State club because all the girls are wearing their uniforms, which include sky blue polo shirts with “Kent State” on the back. They pair these shirts with plain black skirts and the most interesting bowling shoes I’ve ever seen—like tennis shoes, but way cooler. Frankly, all the girls look like diner waitresses. When I find Kimberly Dick, a junior news magazine journalism major, I half expect her to ask me what I want on my burger.
Instead, she is eating food of her own—greasy french fries. I suddenly recall what she had told me prior to the practice: The team is not allowed to eat at all during play because members’ hands would get greasy, and their fingers could get stuck in the balls.
“He's the kind of person that only comes to a bowling alley to bowl with his friends”
Realizing this, I cry, “I thought you weren’t supposed to eat!” I half-expect the Bowling Police to come up behind her and seize the fries from her hand.
“I’m not,” says Dick, smacking her lips as she licked the grease off each finger. “But I’m not using this hand.” She holds up her right hand, instantly identifiable as her bowling hand—her fingers are positioned as if they are holding an imaginary bowling ball.
She gets up and exchanges the greasy hand hazards for this blue and orange-colored hacky-sack-esque thing and rubs her hand all over it. Then, almost in slow motion, she grabs her purple ball … digs her thumb, index and middle fingers into the three holes … bounces on her toes for a few moments … throws her arm back …and bowls a nine. In the next frame, she knocks down the remaining pin—a spare. Even though this is a spare (something I instantly squeal with pride upon bowling), she is disappointed. I soon notice this about many other teammates as well. Some of them even look disgruntled when they bowl strikes!
According to senior Troy Damicone Kent State has one of the best
bowling programs in the country.
I soon realize this is due to not hitting “the pocket.” My eyes scan Dick’s skirt for a second—she doesn’t even have any pockets! But—silly me—that’s not what she means!
An average bowling lane is made of 39 boards, each about an inch long. Lanes also have seven arrows, which bowlers use to aim. In order to hit “the pocket,” which is different for every bowler, Dick must plant her left foot three boards to the left of the center arrow. She throws the ball two arrows to the right of the center.
Dick officially introduces me to Rob Malcolm, the Kent State bowling club’s president, and several of her teammates.
“He’s the kind of person that only comes to a bowling alley to bowl with his friends,” she says of me, eyes practically rolling at my inferior bowling skill.
“Oh, one of those get-drunk-and-bowl people,” jokes Evan Belfiore, a senior broadcast journalism major.
I laugh in agreement, shuddering at the thought of what would happen to me were I to bowl drunk. I could probably kiss my toes good-bye since I would be dropping bowling balls on them.
The talk then turns to the biggest bowling alleys—sorry, “houses”—in the state.
“That one in Lorain is a two-sided house,” says Belfiore, which means the lanes run parallel along both sides of the building But even Lorain is no match for Western Bowl in Cincinnati, which Malcolm says is likely to take the cake for biggest house.
“It’s decent,” Malcolm says of the 80-lane house.
“That place is a shithole!” blasts Belfiore. “They didn’t even have two sets of bathrooms!” Apparently, Malcolm had to walk all the way down from lane 81 to lane 2 at one point just to quench his thirst.
“Rob was gone for 15 minutes,” Belfiore says, laughing. “We’re like, ‘Where’d you go?’ And he just goes, ‘I went to get a drink of water!’”
“If you have more than 80 lanes, you should have more than one set of bathrooms,” Malcolm says simply, putting the kibosh on the Cincinnati argument.
Pat Snyder was a Freshman All Conference
Honorable Mention and was 2nd place on individuals
in Toledo in 2003. Snyder still proves to be a valuable
player for the KSU bowling team this year.
Over the next half hour, I watch the team bowl to varying levels of success. At the end of each game, they hand in their personal score sheets to Malcolm, who comments on a few. “Wow, Pat, a clean game—that’s awesome!” he says, congratulating Pat Snyder, a freshman exploratory major. I am a little afraid to ask what a “clean game” is, especially since it seems like such a basic term, but I ask anyway.
A clean game is when a player bowls all spares or strikes without any “opens,” or extra pins. And they’re pretty hard to come by on lanes like Stonehedge’s. “Conditions are really tough on those lanes,” Belfiore explains. “There’s a two-inch margin either way to make the pocket. If you miss, you could end up in the ditch.”
It’s a clean game such as Snyder’s that can secure him a spot on the A team, one of three categories for bowlers. But Malcolm doesn’t seem to take these too seriously.
“There’s really no difference between the three,” he tells me. “A is the strongest, and the people in C are just there for fun. One time we named the teams ‘Kent,’ ‘Read’ and ‘Write.’” I laugh at the reference to Kent State’s unfortunate nickname.
I say my good-byes to Dick shortly thereafter. She appears a tad disgruntled. “You just witnessed my worst game in three years.”
Based on all the knowledge I absorbed in the entire hour and a half I was there, I can point to the reasons why her game was so disappointing: Perhaps it is because she missed her “pocket.” Or she didn’t rub her hands enough on the rosin bag (that hacky-sack thing I saw her use earlier).
Or maybe, just maybe, it was because she had one too many “opens” (extra pins) that time around.
Whatever the reason, I leave the bowling alley with an increased knowledge of bowling, a newfound respect for club sports teams and a full stomach. The Stonehedge Grill makes a mean buffalo chicken sandwich.
Andrew Hampp is a junior newspaper major. This is his first time writing for The Burr.
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