I can’t believe I am about to write the following sentence

Sonny beat me at bowling.

Once a week or so, when the wife has to work evening hours at her part-time job, I’ll take the kids to the mall and its souped-up arcade, complete with a miniature six-lane bowling alley in the back. Each alley is about twenty yards in length, and the balls are much smaller than in standard bowling — it’s all very kid friendly. I don’t usually partake of bowling myself, but yesterday one of the alleys was set up for a free game, so I bowled there while the kids took turns on the adjacent lane.

Peanut’s first ball was a strike. Sonny’s second ball was a strike. He would go on to add two spares to his score, including an unlikely, jaw-dropping five-pin split. Not too shabby for someone who might as well be bowling with his eyes closed.

As for me, I couldn’t knock down all the pins to save my life. I can obviously throw the ball a lot harder than my kids, and from the pin action I was generating at the other end of the alley, it sure looked like I should be doing well. But for six frames in a row, only nine pins fell while the final one remained resolutely upright. And I couldn’t knock over that final pin with a loaded bazooka, much less a bowling ball. I would miss it by a hair. I would miss it by a mile. I would miss it every single time. I wanted to howl and shake my fists at the unfair world, but I’m trying to teach Peanut how to be a good sport, and I thought falling to my knees and screaming, “GOD, WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH?!?” might send the wrong message.

Final score: Me, 89. Sonny, 91.

Luckily, Sonny isn’t the type to rub it in. Nonetheless, I want a rematch.