Two Shots

Pin Busters Beer And Bowl - Manchester, New Hampshire

I have to focus to keep my game first.  I'm used to Eve popping in to see our frames, but I was flustered when she walked in with her father and introduced him just before my team started rolling.  He would watch and judge my every little move because I would marry his only child, whom he raised.

While he must be a great guy, I felt not one but two hairy eyeballs looking for reasons to toss me in a discount rack as I self-consciously drank draft beer and scratched my balls. I feel the eyes.

I joined the First Responders League when a starting team member fell off a roof while clearing leaves out of his home's gutters. My friend Police Chief Ron Strier installed me, and the theme of gutters continued.

One guy permanently disabled himself because of the gutters on his home, and then a new guy took his place on the lane and could not keep his three-fingered rocks from falling into the gutters on the lanes.

I pop into a lane most weeks because I need to practice more than the other guys. I'm working on being the G.O.A.T. of the first responders league.

Tonight, because I am under the microscope, I won't be limber because I won't be downing at least a gallon of suds, loosening up the limbs and mind before each roll. I don't want my future father-in-law to think that his baby girl is marrying a lush. Tonight, I sip and try to focus.

I'll draw on past experiences to guide me. My team needs this win.

I learned in Parris Island long ago to reduce my focus to only things I can control immediately and to shut out the noise of other things happening.

Years ago, in Iraq, on a beautiful morning, I was focused on a house filled with military-age combatants. 

Those terrorists who yesterday killed three Marines are about to come out of a known Tango-infested house, a target-rich environment. 

I will be the first to engage them when they leave the dwelling after a long evening of sleeping, eating goat meat, watching C.N.N., and drawing up their plans for the day.

For the good of my team, I will reduce their population, starting with the heavily armed.

Terrorists have work schedules like everyone else.

They get up, drink coffee, and then suit up with all the noises that happen in a Rambo movie as they rack their rifles chamber rounds, and jam a last resort knife into their sheaths.

Then they backslap each other and step outside into the already blinding bright sun, looking for a chance to kill more infidels.

Before their pupils adjust to a different environment, I hope to let the Corp know that the Marksman Badge they gave me is a correct decision.

We had been waiting for this moment for two hours.

It's time for me to roll.

My first ball starts down the lane without the speed and surety I try to deliver, but at least it is aimed right. It hits the lead pin, and I can see that not all the pins will fall. I left two standing, and I must pick up a spare.

The superficial "Oh Fuck" I utter is an apology to my teammates. I reflexively reach for my beer but stop because of the hairy eyeball.

While waiting for my ball to return, I think back to that morning in Iraq.

I heard a foreign tongue just before the door opened. It sounded like Mr. Tango was admonishing someone before going to work. Maybe Mrs. Tango did not get Mr. Tango's coffee how he liked it.

The door opened, and now my focus came into play. The rest of my Platoon will stand down while I let all the targets leave the house before we grease them.

There are five of them. 

As they all look at the sun, one man sneezes. 

FOCUS - I see one very nasty heavy machine gun and another man holding a satchel, which is part of the Daily I.E.D. giveaway. 

The rest are armed but with the usual AK-47s.

I calculated a solution: the first two shots. 

Mr. Heavy Machine Gun will go first. We don't need to buy what he is selling. 

The second shot will go to Mr. I.E.D. The platoon will mop up the spill in aisle Fallujah.

I steadied, aimed, and stayed calm.

I only see the man holding the heavy machine gun. Mr. Satchel is two to the left. 

The solution is to hit the first and second before Mr. Heavy's Machine gun hits the deck.

Pop-Pop - First shot, chest. Second shot, head. They drop at the same time, and then the platoon opens up.

My ball is back, and I reflexively reach for a "Comfort Sip." Do I have a problem?

The second ball has an accurate aim, and I drop the two pins for the spare.

My team cheers, and I look back at Eve and Mr. Crowder.

Eve is yelling, cheering and waving. Mr. Crowder is stoically drinking a beer. We lock eyes and he nods.

That was a low-level approval.

I take a sip and celebrate my roll while Strier sets himself up. He's another Marine, and I wonder if he's thinking of Fallujah.