Chasing My Own Version of Perfection

When I stepped on the lane to start my tenth frame, I looked up at my score. I still didn't have one, but those 9 X's made me grin a little bit. The bowling alley was muted, all eyes on me, as I chased bowling perfection. I went through my routine, exhaled, then released my ball the way I always do. Perfect. I watched, smiling, as my ball curved smoothly into the pocket, knocking all of the pins out of the way. Strike number 10. The crowd cheered, and I waited patiently for the ball to return.

The thoughts running through my mind actually had nothing to do with bowling right then. I mean, I was aware of the moment, but I wasn't what would be considered an avid lover of bowling. On my list of things I love, bowling is pretty far down on the list. Writing, traveling, cooking, dancing, and at least seven other activities are ahead of bowling. I looked at the people watching, and I thought of how much they love the sport. Some of them have four or five bowling balls, but will never crack 250, or hadn't so far. I needed to do this for them.

I went through my motions, my routine relaxing me. I exhaled, then released another perfect shot, eradicating the pins. Strike number eleven didn't make the crowd erupt. It made the bowling alley freeze. I heard a couple shouts of "Yeah Duck!," followed by an oxymoron which I had never understood until right then. There was a "deafening silence" with no one moving, no sounds from anywhere, and all eyes on me.

I didn't go through my routine, did not stomp on my preferred spot, and I did not exhale as I released the final shot, perched on the precipice of perfection. I short-armed it, knowing the results as soon as I let it go. The crowd moaned as we watched the ball overshoot the pocket, sail past the friendly confines of "Brooklyn" and managing to move only 6 pins out of the way. Crap.

I returned to hugs, applause, pats on the back, and assurances from the crowd that there would be another chance for me to shoot a 300. How could I tell them it really wasn't of much importance to me? It would be like telling them I was too arrogant to care as much as they did. Sigh. I wish I'd have gotten it, not for me, but for my friends and supporters.

In the typical human life, there will be no flirtations with perfection, as most of us are only chasing mediocrity. Sad, but true. We'll chase society's ideals fervently, pursuing picket fences, diamond rings, pensions, and the opinions of others. They'll never know the feeling of cooking a seven course meal for the President, or flying out of Midway on a private jet, or finishing a novel, knowing it is as about as close to perfection as your writing will ever be.

The best conversation I had this week, was from what most would consider the least likely source. "Marlon, I have watched you with pride, thrilled at your ascension. I knew you had it inside of you, even if no one else believed or knew. I have a request. One day, you'll be at the Oscars, because something of yours will have been nominated. I want to be there, walking the Red Carpet, thrilled for you. Me and your mother and Traci, we'll be there, because you will get there."

I was surprised, but I knew where she was coming from. Do you have any idea the thrill I get when I open a magazine and see something I've written inside? When I finish a book, the feeling of perfection fills me. With every project I complete or publish, I climb closer to my own version of chasing perfection. One day, I'll open up a publication to see my name on the bestseller's list. I'm not chasing mediocrity or social acceptance, I'm chasing the most elusive form of perfection, immortality.

Oh, and Cynthia Denise Porter, you definitely will get a ticket.

msh