Humble: not haughty or arrogant. Humiliate: mortify. This was definitely the latter, total and abject, and a dry, barren dessert existed between the two. A merciful god would have simply terminated my existence at that moment, eliminating the need for a funeral and leaving the audience with surprised "O"s on their mouths while they rubbed their eyes in disbelief and wondered what had happened. It would have been the disappearance they remembered. As it was, they had "O"s all right, but only long enough for the guffaws to build up steam and rumble to the surface. To the credit of some, there were a few embarrassed twitters but they were soon drowned out.

     The day had started out great. As one of the top junior bowlers in the state, I had fought my way to the semi-finals of the state championship one game at a time. I had handily won several matches but two had needed doubles in the tenth frame to win by mere single digits. Those two matches had earned me a fan club as the field narrowed and spectators began cheering for their new favorites. I was glad I had chosen my black pleated skirt for the day. It was short and perky and definitely more feminine than the slacks which some of the girls now wore on the lanes. Besides, there were TV crews broadcasting live so our hometowns could see how we were doing and, at 15, I definitely wanted to not only do my best, it was almost even more important to look my best!

     Now in the last match to determine who would bowl for first place in the state, I had had trouble sticking on the approach of the left lane. I consulted with my dad. Could I be dropping my heel? "No," he cajoled, my delivery "looked perfect". Twice I had called the tournament director and asked if they would steel-wool the offending spot. Twice he had inspected the approach and denied my request, leaving hot tears stinging the backs of my eyes. I grew more nervous each time I stepped up on that lane. In the ninth frame my opponent and I were tied and the air was crackling with excitement. The crowd, which had grown considerably, was collectively holding its breath each time I stepped up.

     I set my jaw and considered my options. It was a good thing the camera was on my back; though cute and bubbly for the audience, I had no smile to waste on the pins, only determination. I adjusted my stance in the hopes of missing the trouble spot. There was not a sound in the stands. I took a deep breath and said a short and silent prayer, "Please, God, help me." One, two, three, four steps; out, down, back, forward with the ball. As I began my slide, my left foot STOPPED abruptly and the momentum of the ball catapulted me forward, onto the lane. I let go of the ball, OK, but landed face-first like a newly felled Douglas fir. There was still no sound and as I landed, my own "oooooof" resounded in the building. As I became aware of the smell of the alley oil, now intimately close, I became equally aware of the fact that my perky skirt was now over my head and there was a TV crew directly behind me. My bowling ball was thumping loudly and pitifully towards the pins in the stunned silence and I perversely wished that my brand new, lace-edged panties were black.

     Darn! God did not devour me! There was no modest way of extricating myself from this indiscreet position. I had to raise up to my hands and knees, bottom to the crowd, in order to get up and straighten my skirt. Finally realizing that I was unhurt, those guffaws broke the air and rolled out to meet me like a tidal wave as I turned. I am really a terrible and nasty loser, but caught in moments like this, somehow I have always been able to see it from the spectators point of view knowing that if I had watched it, it would have been funny. The fact that it had happened to me really didn't change the humor. As I raised my shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and grinned, the crowd broke into wild cheering and clapping. My opponent was unnerved and demoralized: she blew the last two frames. I got to finish on my strong lane and, with the crowd cheering me on, I rolled two strikes.

     I have a picture of that day from the front of my hometown newspaper. I am holding a state championship trophy. I'm glad I have that hard-copy proof of the day because human memory can be very selective and mine has stored nothing of the win. The retrieval that quarter-page picture activates from soft-copy storage includes only the FALL!