How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy (9 page)

I
slump in my seat to hide. Our driver is NASCAR crazy, weaving through traffic, pressing on the horn and cursing other drivers who won't move out of his way. All for ten extra bucks. We're going to die.

Billy talks on the phone, assuring our competitors we're on our way. He's pleading with them as if they're ready to call it off.

Soon we pull up in front of Wabash Bowling Lanes. Billy drops another ten-spot on the front seat and jumps out before the cab comes to a complete stop. He hollers and points at me.

“Hey driver, give my friend your business card.
We'll call you when we're ready.”

I get the card and catch up with Billy inside. Before I can say anything, I'm totally freaked by the ugliness of this place. The lights are dim and the place is a ghost town.

I bet Wabash Bowling Lanes doubles as Wabash Funeral Home. It's eerily quiet in here, no music playing, dingy red carpet without any colorful swirls in it like at Striker's. Dang. I'm dying just standing here. And it's Sunday! This place should be packed.

“Washington, we need to talk.”

“What's up?”

We walk toward the video games, and he puts his arm on my shoulder.

“I need you to gutter your first two rolls, okay?”

I slam my brakes. “What? No way.”

“I'm going to double our money. I'll make these guys think you blow and then sucker them into doubling the bet. They're rich boys.”

My brain searches for answers. “We're undefeated. We can beat them.”

“Just listen to me. Then, in the third frame, I want you to switch back to bowling lights out, okay? Just follow my lead, Washington. I know what I'm doing.”

This reminds me of a football coach asking the worst player on the team to take a cheap shot on
the opposing team's quarterback. I'm a flunky, a hired chump. On top of that, I'm wheezing.

After I take a quick puff from my inhaler, Billy pats me on the back.

“You a'ight? Handle your business and you'll have enough for that ball you want.”

Somebody whistles. Two guys signal to Billy. He looks their way and points.

“I see 'em, down near the low lanes.”

I squint. “Is that hair on their faces? They look old enough to be in college.”

Billy nods. “They are. Keep walking, we're already late.”

“What? You set up a game against college guys and you want me to fake the funk? Are you out of your mind?”

“Relax, Washington, and get your head on straight. This is not the time to chump out. Don't worry about them; focus on your game. I'll take care of everything else.”

I slow my pace. “Billy, even if we win, these guys might take our money, knock us around, and then make us walk home. I can't believe I came all the way out here to get jacked up.”

He jerks around to face me. I've never seen this look.

“This game is mega, understand? I've been waiting all summer for a payday opportunity like
this. I want you to drop those gutter balls like hot grease, and then bowl lights out. Got it? Now man up. It's time to go to work.”

I don't like Billy's tone. That's mighty big talk from a guy short enough to be the mayor of Munchkinland. I understand he's nervous. And we
are
partners. And I guess there's a lot of money at stake. Okay, I'll handle my business, but after this game, Billy's going to hear from me. And if he tries to chump-talk me again, I'll crush his cookies.

Billy enters the bowlers' area. “Thanks for waiting, guys. Hey, nice shirts! Which one of you owns the red corvette? Actually, the Lexus convertible must be yours? Yeah, that's what I thought.”

I block out Billy's butt-kissing session and give these college boys a once-over. There must be lots of money in Wabash. These college chumps make sure we see their Rolex watches and diamond stud earrings.

One has on a white designer shirt with the collar popped. I laugh at his played-out look.

I check out the ball return and roll my eyes. This is where they should have spent their money. Instead, two cheap no-name bowling balls sit side by side on the ball return like butt cheeks. Mr. Popped Collar nods my way but speaks to Billy.

“Is he your partner? Where's his gear?”

Billy turns to me like I'm new in the place. I speak for myself.

“Uh, where's the shoe rental booth?”

Both guys laugh so loud it echoes off the walls. Mr. Popped Collar points down the carpet.

“If you're bowling in house shoes, you need to go that way. What a joke.”

The other guy joins in. “Just bowl in your Jordans. Who cares?”

I can still hear them raggin' me as I step up to the rental booth. A teenager wearing a yellow polo shirt with WBL stitched on the pocket comes to the counter.

“Welcome to Wabash Bowling Lanes. Do you need rental shoes?”

“How much are they?”

“A dollar and fifty-four cents. That includes tax because everything's half off on Sundays.”

I give him money for a size nine. He gives me an ugly pair of two-tone bowling shoes and keeps one of my Jordans. If the shoes are this grubby, I can't even imagine how terrible the balls must be. I find a rack of twelve-pounders and can't believe my eyes.

Three green Bubba Sanders Pro Thunders sit on the rack. They sparkle with a newness that excites me. I want to tell someone what I've found, but I don't think they'll care. I wonder if this is
where Billy got his. I stick my fingers in the holes of the first one.

Awwww. Oooooh.
I'm bowling with this baby.

As soon as I return, Billy takes a look at my ball and grins. I set it on the ball return. These guys don't seem fazed by the presence of greatness. Mr. Popped Collar steps forward with four one-hundred-dollar bills in his hand.

“Billy, show me your money. Two bills per bowler. No backing out and no excuses. Are we doing this?”

Just before he answers, the front door of the bowling alley flies open and bangs the back wall. The biggest man I've ever seen, bigger than Makeda's dad, makes a path down the carpet. At least twelve feet tall, this fee-fi-fo-fum dude stomps our way in a dingy T-shirt, blue jean shorts, and army boots. My heart thumps “Taps,” because no one in my family knows I'm here and I bet this dude is a chainsaw killer.

Judging by the looks on our competitors' faces, they don't know Goliath either. But Billy does.

“Hey, Uncle Mickey, thanks for coming over on such short notice.”

Billy strolls over and gives the big guy a hug. Holy guacamole, the giant is on our side! My chest puffs out. Leave it to Billy to find an equalizer.

“Washington, come over here and meet my
uncle Mickey. He's going to hold our money until the game is over.”

I pimp my walk, sporting Wabash Bowling Lanes' house shoes. Billy introduces us. As I head back to my seat in the bowlers' area, Popped Collar whispers to me.

“House ball and house shoes. What a joke.”

I stand next to the Pro Thunder on the ball return.

“This isn't just an ordinary house ball. This is a Bubba Sanders Pro Thunder. I can't believe there're three of them collecting dust on the racks. That's crazy.”

Popped Collar shrugs. “It's just a ball. Nothing special about it. Never heard of this Bubba guy either. But he sounds like a big country hillbilly to me.”

He just won himself a chin check. I ball my fists. Nobody talks about Bubba like that. Billy yanks me away.

“Pump your brakes, Washington. Like I told you before, everybody's not down with Bubba. Use that anger. When it's time, introduce them to the King of Striker's. Don't forget the plan.”

I look over my shoulder at Uncle Mickey, then at Billy. “I'll be back in a second.”

My strut is hard with purpose and soul. I've got to set things right and get this place ready for
a Coffin-to-grave experience. At the shoe rental counter I ring the bell for service. The teenager seems bothered that I'm back.

“Yes?”

“You got a radio or something?”

“We try to keep the noise down in here, since the balls and pins make such a racket.”

“Not today.” I point at Uncle Mickey. “He likes hip-hop and he wants it on right now. Or you can tell him what you just told me.”

The teenager shrugs and walks to the back. “No problem, I'll turn it on.”

I lean over the counter. “And he's hard of hearing, so thump it!”

Seconds later, a beat breaks off in the speakers. The bass guitar rumbles through me and a rapper talks trash about his skills. The guy working the snack bar bobs his head and puts popcorn in the popper. It's time to get this party started.

I lock in on everything Bubba says in his book. First, I take a seat and prepare myself to bowl. Second, I check the lanes. They're oily, which means my ball is going to slide a lot before it actually begins to roll. I need to adjust for that.

Third, cancel everybody, even Billy. This isn't about money. This is about Bubba.

Billy tries to introduce me to the rich boys.
“Washington, this is—”

I cut him off. “I don't want to know. I'll just call them Pete and Repeat. Put me last.”

Billy shrugs at the preppies. “Whatever.”

There's nothing but squawk and gobble coming from those starched-collared turkeys. I'm strolling to my seat when Popped Collar tries to punk me.

“Don't take this beating personally, House Shoes—may we call you House Shoes?”

I raise one eyebrow. “Whatever, Pete. Or are you Repeat? It doesn't matter.”

Dang. How am I supposed to talk trash when I'm sending my first two rolls down the lazy river? This better work or I'll never be able to show my face here again.

Billy rolls first. He spares, and that's good since he usually has a slow start. Pete strikes and Repeat spares. I give Pete a long look. He's mine. I take my ball from the return and stand on the lane. Billy yells mixed messages.

“Come on, Washington. Roll us a strike.”

I hold the ball close, take four steps, swing it back, and aim for the gutter.

Thump!

My ball waddles toward a mass of blackness next to the pins.

“Dang, it slipped,” I say.

Billy goes ballistic. “I thought you told me you were good?”

Pete and Repeat hoot. I can't look at them. I can't look at Billy either. Once my ball returns, I grab it, stand the same way, take the same walk, and throw that same ball.

Thump!

Billy bangs on the scorer's table. “We are so dead, Washington.”

“It slipped off my fingers again. My bad. I'm going to get a different ball.”

Popped Collar hollers to me. “I told you to leave those Bubba balls alone.”

I step up to the rack and grab the next Pro Thunder in line. This isn't about the money anymore. I'm going to crush their cookies.

When I come back, Billy whispers that those chumps have upped the bet.

“One more gutter frame, Lamar. Then follow my lead.”

I sit and wait. When it's my turn, I throw another bad one. Pete and Repeat laugh.

Billy walks up to the lane. “Lamar, calm down. Just relax and try to hit your mark. Come on, we're going to lose if you don't get with it!”

I roll a ball close to my mark and knock down four pins. Billy claps. I turn and grin at him. I really want to grin at Pete and Repeat because
their party's over. I'm about to open up a can of Wabash on them and they don't even know it.

When it's my turn again, I get up and make an adjustment to my normal roll by moving my feet just a little to the right on the approach line.
Focus, Lamar.
With Bubba's Pro Thunder resting on my side, I feel power oozing from the ball. Here comes something stank filthy. I just know it.

POW!

Billy fist-bumps me. I don't look at the preppies on my way back to my chair. I don't have to. They stop bumping their gums, and that tells me a lot. That's right, I got skills.

Billy gets hot. His third frame is a strike. Pete and Repeat argue over whose idea it was to bet so much money. Pete throws a split. Repeat gets a spare.

It's my turn again. Pete leans forward in his chair.

“What would that Bubba guy say if he knew you were bowling gutters with his ball and wearing house shoes?”

My heart sinks for a moment. Am I disgracing Bubba in front of these haters? No. No way. And I'm going to prove it by making them respect Bubba's ball, my skills, even these busted house shoes. I look over my shoulder at Pete.

“I'll show you what he would say.”

I take my time, find my mark, and roll a nasty message down the wood.

BLAM!

Popped Collar fakes a clap. “Lucky shot.”

With a smooth move, I snatch my comb from the back pocket of my church pants, fluff my fro, and pimp-walk back to my seat. Pete and Repeat watch me. For fun, I stop in front of them and pretend to wipe something off my rental shoes.

I roll so many
boom
s,
blam
s, and
pow
s on them that by the ninth frame, we're so far ahead, Billy calls our cab driver. In the tenth, I roll three more exclamation points to be high scorer at an even 196. Billy stands in the bowlers' area like it's no big deal.

Pete and Repeat congratulate me on a great comeback. They want to shake hands, but I'm not down. It's not that I'm a sore loser, but to me, it's just not that kind of party. They talked trash about Bubba.

I kick off the rental shoes. My feet and toes expand back to normal. Repeat tries to smile at me.

“Hey, Washington, nice game. What's your secret?”

I hold up the house shoes. “These.”

I stand next to Uncle Mickey and break those boys off. “In Coffin, we call the spanking you just
took ‘punked, skunked, and slam-dunked.'”

I turn to my partner. “I'm out.”