Free How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy by Crystal Allen

grins.
    â€œHow’s your fish?”
    â€œCrunchy. Hey, can you think of anything that rhymes with Makeda ?”
    â€œWow, that’s a tough one. Not offhand. Did youdo your breathing exercises today?”
    â€œYes, sir. I also stopped by Dr. Avery’s office and made an appointment for tomorrow. Will you call and tell them it’s okay for you to not be there?”
    Dad raises an eyebrow. “I can be there. What time? Is something wrong?”
    â€œNo, sir, nothing. I’m thirteen now and it’s just going to be the same old ‘Breathe in, breathe out’ routine. You know Dr. Avery never flips the script.”
    Dad winks at me. “I get it. You’re almost a man now. Can handle your own business.”
    Xavier opens his big mouth. “You should take him, Dad. Lamar’s a baby. His breath still smells like Gerber.”
    â€œShut up, X! Dad, it’s time. You’re absolutely right. I’m old enough.”
    He reaches into his wallet and hands me a twenty. “This is for the insurance co-pay. I’ll call tomorrow and give my consent.”
    I stuff the cash in my pocket. “Thanks, Dad. Did I tell you I’ve beat Sergio in eleven straight games of bowling?”
    Dad chuckles. “No kidding?”
    â€œHe can’t handle me, Dad. I’m the bowling king at Striker’s.”
    He nods as he chews, then gets this oh-I-meant-to-tell-you look on his face.
    â€œI did some research on that bowlingscholarship thing we were talking about a few days ago. Nada. Zilch. Couldn’t find one school willing to fork over a bowling scholarship. I guess things haven’t changed.”
    If Xavier’s grin gets any bigger, his head’s going to explode.
    I scoop a big chunk of potato salad into my mouth. Then, out of nowhere, Dad taps on the table.
    â€œYou know, bowling on a team is one of my happiest high school memories.”
    I stop chewing. So does X. Dad’s eyeballs bounce back and forth between us.
    That’s just as good as pulling the clip on a grenade and dropping it in on Xavier’s head. My mouth opens. Potato salad falls out and splats on my plate. Did I hear what I think I heard?
    â€œDid you say you bowled on a team?”
    His head tilts. “I told you that, didn’t I?”
    Dad keeps chewing and reloads his mouth with steak. “ Mm-hmm. Yep, I was nasty good. Bowled cleanup, you know, anchor. My teammates called me Clutch. Clutch Washington. I won a trophy. It’s somewhere in the closet at home.”
    I’ve got clumps of drooled potato salad on top of my catfish. I drape my napkin across my plate. The catfish was good, but not nearly as good as this bit of news.
    â€œI knew you bowled, but I thought it was just for fun,” I say.
    He gobbles more steak. “Boy, I loved to bowl as much as you do now. It’s too bad they don’t have bowling teams in schools anymore.”
    â€œYeah, that would be way cool. I’d roll lights out for my school.”
    Dad chuckles again. Xavier tries to break in, but I’m not having it.
    â€œHey Dad, when you find that trophy, I want to see it.”
    â€œReally? Okay, I’ll look for it. Anything exciting happening at Striker’s?”
    I quickly glance at Xavier. He thinks the conversation is over, but it’s not.
    â€œBubba Sanders is coming on the Fourth of July.”
    Dad’s fork stops halfway between his plate and his mouth. “Is he really?”
    â€œAnd he’s giving away four of his brand-new Pro Thunders with the matching bags.”
    Xavier breaks in. “What’s he going to do, chuck the bowling balls out in the crowd and whoever doesn’t get knocked out gets to keep ’em?”
    Dad laughs at that one but then gets serious. “Really, what’s the catch?”
    â€œYou have to write a five-hundred-word essay to Bubba by June thirtieth, explaining why youshould be one of the four