Free A Brand-New Me! by Henry Winkler

rolling down the lanes and striking the pins. The second thing we heard was everybody calling out hello to Papa Pete. He’s a regular at McKelty’s, and as a matter of fact, there’s a new picture of him over the shoe checkout desk because two weeks before, he scored another perfect three hundred. What a bowler.
    Papa Pete got us all fitted in shoes and picked his favorite lane, which is number seven. He always says that seven is his favorite number because he got married to my grandma Jenny on the seventh day of the seventh month in 1947.
    I tried to concentrate on my bowling, but my mind kept drifting back to the audition. Papa Pete could tell something was wrong immediately because I rolled four gutter balls in a row.
    â€œSomebody doesn’t have his head in the game,” he said. “Come on, Hankie. What did I teach you?”
    â€œZip’s been out of it all day,” Frankie said. “The guy’s like a space cadet.”
    â€œCome on, Frankie,” Ashley said. “Give him a break. He’s got a big audition tomorrow. You know what, Hank? I have an idea on how to get your mind off it. Don’t try to get your mind off it.”
    â€œIs it just me,” I asked, “or did you just say something really confusing?”
    â€œIt’s what I do,” Ashley explained. “When I can’t stop thinking about something, I don’t try. I just go with it.”
    â€œOnce again, young lady,” Papa Pete said to her, “you show great wisdom.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I’m going to take that wisdom and roll with it. Watch this.”
    I picked up a bowling ball with orange swirls on it. I’m a little embarrassed to say that because it’s the kind that little kids use, but the truth is, it’s lighter and that makes it easier for me to aim.
    â€œI am a bowling ball,” I said. “I know . . . you’ve noticed. But did you know that it’s hard to be taken seriously when you’re all orange and swirly. People think you’re squishy, like an overripe cantaloupe, that you can’t smack those pins like the typical black ball. It’s lonely being orange.”
    Ashley and Frankie were laughing like mani acs. Papa Pete had a smile under his bushy mustache that lit up his entire face.
    â€œThrow the ball, Hankie,” he said. “I’m going to get you guys root beer floats.”
    After Papa Pete left, I took aim and let the ball fly off my fingers, but I carried on as though I was still the ball.
    â€œOuch, I’m getting wood burn from rolling down this lane. I guess they didn’t put down enough oil. Uh-oh. There’s the gutter. I’m not going there. I’m leaning to the left. Oh no, too far to the left. Here comes the other gutter. I’m leaning to the right, straight at the center pin. Here I come, buddy. You’re mine.”
    When the orange ball struck, it actually clipped the very edge of one pin, which teetered for a long minute and finally fell backward, leaving the other nine standing at attention.
    â€œAaarrrgggfff,” I grunted, in my best impression of a bowling ball crashing into the back of the lane. “That hurt. Anyone have a ball Band-Aid?”
    I turned around, expecting to receive a round of applause from Frankie and Ashley, but standing right in front of them was the mouth breather of all time, Nick the Tick McKelty.
    â€œA ball Band-Aid?” he said. “Are you serious? They don’t make those.”
    â€œThanks for the tip, McKelty. I wouldn’t have known that without you.”
    â€œListen, Zipperbutt. Maybe if you shut up when you’re rolling, you could hit more than one pin,” he said. “Nobody talks when they bowl.”
    â€œFor your information, Nick,” I shot back, “that wasn’t me talking. That was the bowling ball.”
    â€œBowling balls do not talk,” he said. “And I should know because