Where is the Trophy?

Striking similes, Batman, it's a sermon about bowling!

Ahem! Ahem!

Good morning, brethren (and sisteren or whatever -- Sorry, I can't think of the feminine equivalent of brethren. Any guesses out there? No?). No, seriously, congregation, I was at Valley Lanes in Harrisonburg, Virginia, last Saturday evening, right? bowling a game or two with my niece and her parents -- on unlucky lane 13, as it turned out, and right before the onset of something called "cosmic bowling" -- for which we were forced to surrender our bowling balls and exit stage left at 9:00 sharp so that management could "get ready" for their apparent Saturday night tradition. In fact, every 10 minutes, management would "get on the horn" to remind us (in a booming voice that positively frightened my niece) of the looming deadline, reminding us not to start any games we could not finish before the big hand was on the 12. "And that goes for you over there on lane five!" added the voice at one point when it became clear that the young people at that latter station were ready to press their luck. "Do not bowl that bowling ball," says he in that ominously deep voice of his, as Bessie-Marie puts her hands to her ears and makes a sour face: "I repeat: Do not bowl that bowling ball!" (Well, now, I suppose you've got to lay down the law at times, even in a bowling alley.)

Anyway, we adults are bowling rather pathetically, when my niece gets this strike, right? in frame three or something. Well, naturally we make much of it (we're like, "Give me five, Bessie-Marie"), the more so in that there were no guard rails on the lane at the time, so that the strike was legitimate (although maybe her mother helped her just an eensy little bit when it came to propelling the ball in the first place). So we're like, "Great job! You're a great bowler!"

Well, what do you suppose, gang? (er, I mean, congregation). I walk up to the foul line to help Bessie-Marie in Frame 4, as she's standing there cradling the proportionally huge orange ball, and giving the waiting pins an evil eye (as who should say, "Your number's up!"). And I'm like, "Okay, let's place the ball on the floor and then push it!" And she's like, "Uncle Brian, when do we get a trophy?" And I'm like, "What?" And she's like, "I want a trophy."

See, she figured she was doing a great job so she deserved a trophy: quoi plus naturel, as the French say. Well, I had to stop and think about that one. But within a few seconds, I had hobbled together an answer along these lines: "Well, they don't really hand out trophies unless you're in a league." But then to encourage her, I quickly added, "But you can join a league in a few years and then you can win a trophy."

This silenced her concerns temporarily as she went back into ball-launching mode (this time by herself, thank me very much, as her confidence level had sky-rocketed after her recent strike), subsequently racking up an additional 3 pins or so for the frame (which, we assured her, was respectable under the various circumstances: the crowded alley conditions, the lack of a guard rail, the nervewracking and unexpected onslaught of that deep bass voice, which, ever and anon, would prophesy the imminent arrival of Cosmic Bowling).

You see where I'm going with this, right, folks? I mean we're all like Bessie-Marie: We ask ourselves, "Where is the trophy?" after we get what we consider to be a strike in the game of life. Right? Okay, then. But just like my niece, we must learn to wait for our rewards, or better yet, we must learn to quote-unquote "bowl" without selfishly insisting on a trophy at all. Fair enough?

Ah, where is the trophy, indeed?

Thank you, Bessie-Marie, for asking that profound philosophical question last Saturday night at Valley Lanes in Harrisonburg, Virginia. (Yeah, and now get off the lanes, for heaven's sake, 'cause they're about to start Cosmic Bowling, already! And that goes for you lot over there in lane five!!!)