Bowling again, but please ignore that man on lane 12

"What will you give me if I pick this up?"

My nephew Dan looked down the lane at the two pins standing far apart, then looked back at me.

"$2 bucks."

I turned back to the 5-7 split that waited 60 feet away and went through my ritual: Raise the ball to even with my chin, slowly lower it until it's below my chest, sight the target, four-step approach, let it fly.

This time, my aim was true.

The green ball started wide of the 5 pin, slowly curved left, and clipped it just enough to slide it over into the 7. Both went down.

Arm pump, whoop and giant grin followed.

Dan shook his head and handed me $2.

"Nice," he said.

I've recently resumed bowling, a sport I was quite passionate about in my youth. My return has been kind and cruel.

I've picked up the 5-7 twice, the 5-10, and even the 4-7-9. I actually managed to toss a "turkey," three straight strikes. I still love to shout, "Brooklyn!" when the ball tossed by my right hand crosses to the left of the head pin.

On the other hand, I've missed the 5 pin - yes, the stinking single 5 pin that's right there in the center of the 42-inch lane - who knows how many times. I've missed the 7, 8, 9 and 10, too. I've completely missed the 2-4-7, and how that's possible, I don't know.

Bowling, as maddening as it is, once again has me in its grip. I've been visiting Sunset Lanes for that special 99 cents a game deal after 9 p.m. Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. I bought a ball, bag and shoes. I'm calling my sons and nephew and asking who wants to bowl. I'm anxious to see what I can do, to see if I can beat someone, to see if I can be perfect and shoot a 300 game. Ha. That's a joke.

I laugh more now about my abysmal bowling. I smile when I miss the 5 for the fifth time. I shake my head quietly when I get robbed on a solid pocket hit and the 10, the hated 10, the much-despised solid 10, still stands.

I say "Well, that's just the way it goes," when I leave a 4-6-7-10 split. "I'll do better next time."

In my head, though, I'm fuming. I'm muttering. I'm cursing.

That's long been my bane with bowling - anger.

When I was a teen, my reaction to adversity was not exactly exemplary.

I was infamous for:

• Tearing up the score sheet (this was in the day when you kept score with pencil and paper).

• Breaking pencils.

• Kicking the ball return.

• Slamming the ball down.

• Screaming

• Swearing

• Storming off

Such was my rage they threatened to kick me out of the league if I didn't tone it down.

What's with the temper tantrums? Why so ballistic over bowling?

You see, there was a stretch I loved the sport. I lived for bowling. I thought I would be a pro bowler like my heroes, Larry Laub, Jim Stefanich, Mark Roth and Johnny Petraglia.

Oh, the memories of watching them on TV.

I'll never forget Stefanich and his 300 game, when he pulled his final shot high, the pins still fell, and he dropped to his knees.

I'll never forget the 299 by Earl Anthony, how the lefty with the crewcut threw the perfect, smooth, last shot, how he raised his left arm high in triumph, how he was running back with a big smile, about to celebrate - and then, when the rest of the pins scattered, the 7 stood still.

But I digress in explaining my zeal for tossing a 16-pound ball with accuracy.

I once carried my ball 3 miles to the lanes after delivering my papers on a Sunday morning, and then bowled 14 games (they charged 4 cents a frame). Alone. The only reason I finally stopped was because my right thumb was torn up, skin ripped off, and bleeding.

On Saturday afternoons, the Professional Bowlers Association was on national TV. I would take a ruler and pen, and score the games, complete with date, tournament name and prize money. On days I was late because of my paper route, my little sister Nancy scored until I got there. Inevitably, in checking her work, I found scoring errors and berated her. "He can't have 23 for this frame when he had a spare."

I was in three leagues at one time, including being on the varsity bowling team at Blanchet High School when my brother, a senior, was on the JV. I constantly threw that in his face.

Often, on Sunday nights, our family would go to Green Lake Bowl in Seattle, where games were 3 for $1.25, and we could take all the warm-up frames we wanted - for free.

I still consider one of my greatest Christmas gifts the blue, Ebonite bowling ball my parents bought me.

But somewhere, I lost the passion for the game. Perhaps it was because I couldn't seem to get beyond my 165 average. Perhaps because my older brother Mark developed a big hook, got rid of that backup ball he threw, and passed me by.

Looking back, I'm not sure why I stopped bowling. But I wasn't alone.

Over the years, the bowling alleys closed in Seattle, the city of my youth. Green Lake and its 16 lanes became home to shops and a laundromat.

Greenwood and its eight lanes, home of my first 200 game, fell to apartments.

Palladium, where my brother and friend Randy formed "The 3B Buddies" - Mark was "Boom Boom," Randy was "Bub" and I became "Bucko," was bulldozed to the ground.

Lelani Lanes, where I dutifully scored 9-pin tap tournaments for the adults and earned tip money, closed its door.

And Sunset Lanes, where they charged $8 for two hours on Sunday morning, the last bastion for bowlers in Ballard, shut down.

Even the PBA tour, once so popular it commanded big TV audiences and Budweiser commercials each Saturday, went off the air.

And I, too, turned my back on bowling.

Occasionally I returned to the lanes with family or friends, including the old Cove Bowl in Coeur d'Alene. But the love for spares and strikes was gone.

For decades, I let it go.

Until now.

I've returned to the lanes.

I'm excited about the game again.

I want to bowl.

I want to join a league.

I want to beat my career best, a paltry 224.

So, yep, I'm back.

Just one thing.

If you see someone late nights at Sunset Lanes acting like a lunatic after missing the 5 pin, if you see someone pounding his head on the table after leaving a solid 10, if you see an old guy silently muttering to himself or kicking the ball return or punching the automated scorer, please forgive him.

He knows not what he does.

Bill Buley is city editor of the Press. He can be reached at 664-8176, ext. 2016, or bbuley@cdapress.com.