Sure, our ancestors worked hard, but they knew how to have fun too. When I think about leisure time in my family, I don’t think of vacations or hobbies. I think of bowling.
Friday nights meant one thing: the babysitter came over, and Mom and Dad headed to the bowling alley. Eventually I became the babysitter myself, watching my younger siblings while they rolled strike after strike across town. When we moved to Ohio, the bowling nights came with us, and so did my babysitting duties.
Mom bowled alongside Dad for a while, but eventually she stepped back from the lanes. Dad never did. He kept bowling well into the 2000s, ball bag in hand, just as he always had.
Being my dad’s daughter, I wanted to be just like him. So when I was in grade school, he signed me up for a junior bowling league. I only remember bits and pieces of that season, but one memory has stayed with me all these years: my very own personalized bowling ball engraved with the nickname Dad always called me, Peanut. I can still picture it. I also remember my bowling partner, Mark, the oldest son of my parents’ good friends. He was my age, and to my fifth or sixth grade self, he was unbelievably annoying. Looking back, most boys probably fell into that category at that age.
My parents loved to bowl, but I think they loved the friendships just as much. We kids knew all of their bowling friends by name, and those friendships lasted for decades. One even became family when my sister married the son of one of my parents’ bowling friends. That’s a story for another time.
Trophies filled our house while I was growing up, so many that I probably stopped noticing them after a while.
It wasn’t until I sorted through Dad’s belongings after he passed away this spring that I really appreciated what those awards represented. Along with the trophies, I found patches from some of his most memorable seasons.
But the best find was a plaque from the Greater Cincinnati Bowling Association, and a patch from the American Bowling Congress, all commemorating the day he bowled a perfect 300 game in April 1985.
For anyone who has never bowled, a perfect game means throwing twelve consecutive strikes. It’s something most bowlers dream about but very few ever accomplish. Dad was incredibly proud of that achievement, and he kept those mementos for the rest of his life. I was proud of him too.
Dad even got me hooked on watching the Professional Bowlers Association tour on television. I can still picture us sitting together in front of the TV, watching every frame. Even now, if I happen to come across bowling on television, I stop and watch for a while. It’s one of those small things he passed on to me without either of us realizing it.
Dad bowled for as long as his health allowed. Around 2021, Parkinson’s disease finally took away the game he had loved for decades. It was one more thing the disease gradually stole from him.
I don’t think I ever became the bowler Dad hoped I would. My left hook never cooperated, and I remained, at best, a mediocre bowler. He probably wouldn’t have minded me saying so.
What I did inherit was his love of the game. Every time I hear the crack of bowling pins or pause to watch a tournament on television, I think of him. That’s a legacy I’m happy to carry.
- Kirsten Max, photographer, bowling trophies and plaque, digital photograph, Blue Ash, Ohio, 2026; privately held by Kirsten Max, [ADDRESS FOR PRIVATE USE], Blue Ash, Ohio, 2026. ↩︎
- Kirsten Max, photographer, bowling patches, digital photograph, Blue Ash, Ohio, 2026; privately held by Kirsten Max, [ADDRESS FOR PRIVATE USE], Blue Ash, Ohio, 2026. ↩︎
- Kirsten Max, photographer, bowling plaque and patch, digital photograph, Blue Ash, Ohio, 2026; privately held by Kirsten Max, [ADDRESS FOR PRIVATE USE], Blue Ash, Ohio, 2026. ↩︎
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