My father was a bowler. I can’t remember a time in my childhood when he didn’t go out on Thursday nights to bowl with other men from the newspaper where he worked. Most of them worked in the print room, some drove the trucks that delivered papers around town. Only a few of the “white collar” folks bowled on the league. My Dad was one of them. He’d drink a beer or two with the guys and smoke a few cigarettes and then stop at McDonald’s to bring home milkshakes for my Mom and the kids who were still living at home. It was a highlight in the week and we all looked forward to it.

Unlike golf, which my father played and taught my brothers how to play, bowling was for the whole family. We all had our own shoes and hand towels with our names stenciled on them, right below a cute little ball and pin logo! The towels were bright orange and it was impossible to miss them when packing up at the end of the night. None of us ever lost our towels! We bowled on the weekends sometimes, but not every week like Daddy did with his league. When we went, it was all about being together and getting chips and cola at the snack bar, and playing a game of pinball before going home. Mom even had her own ball, and we were told that if we liked to bowl well enough, we’d get a ball once we’d grown enough to know how heavy it should be.

When I was in college, my Dad had a heart attack. Not a hugely serious one, but bad enough. He took some time off work. He took some time off from bowling. Back then, they didn’t start cardiac rehab right away like they do now, and he was never sure what he could safely do and what he couldn’t. He got depressed – he missed his time with the guys. He could give up the beer and smokes for the sake of his health – but he missed his buddies. After a year or so, he went back to bowling. His first night back, he was half way to a perfect game when he had another heart attack. He never brought milk shakes home again. Some years later, I asked my Mom if she was ever mad at him for going to the lanes that night. She said she wasn’t. “What better way to go than doing what you love with your best friends around you?” What better way, indeed!

My brother Ken kept bowling, long after the rest of us hung up our orange towels. I didn’t really know it until he died. When Ken died, my other brothers went to his house to look for valuables they should secure. What they found was a newsletter for a gay bowling league. “Why would he have a newsletter from a gay bowling league?” I got the joyful duty of confirming that Ken, like me, was gay. They were stumped. They’d never guessed. Never dreamed… So clean cut… An Eagle Scout…

When Daddy went bowling, he got to shed his white shirt and tie and just be one of the guys. When Ken went bowling, he got to leave his carefully constructed closet and just be one of the guys. We all need something like that, where we can leave pretense and roles behind and can just be ourselves for a little while. We all need friends like that, who don’t care which side of the building you work in or who you sleep with. If you’ve got either one, be very grateful. If you don’t, maybe we should go bowling someday…