Charity for All

Susannah Bianchi takes us bowling. For the kids, of course, and maybe a Prada bag.

There was the time my friend Camille convinced me to enter a charity bowling contest. It was for a good cause – to raise money for five kids who couldn’t afford summer camp. Honestly, I would have preferred to write a check. But Camille needed company — and someone who actually knew how to bowl.

It didn’t hurt that a Prada bag just happened to be one of the prizes. Not first prize, as it turned out. But we’ll get to that.

Yes, it's true. I was on a bowling team in my youth, gleaning several trophies my mother proudly displayed in our Ethan Allen China cabinet. Imagine a cupboard full of miniature bowling pins inscribed with my name and date of win. I tried explaining it was decades ago, but this meant nothing to Camille.

"You're too modest," she said. “Bowling has to be like riding a bike. You'll be knockin' down pins in no time. And remember, it's for charity."

"You're not fooling me with your concern for these kids. This is all about that bag."

"What a terrible thing to say,” she scolded. “But you must admit, that patent leather satchel that retails for two grand is a beauty."

"I knew it."

"So what if they've lured us here with a little fashion frippery."

"Excuse me, us? Camille, admit it, you're an accessory to an accessory."

"Lighten up Susannah, will you?"

I did, but it required two slices of pizza and a big cookie.

---

We arrived at Frames, which calls itself a Bowling Lounge, and surveyed the situation. The place was crawling with men. Which made sense when we saw that first prize was a trip to Hilton Head Island to play golf. To my eyes, that meant sunshine was the top prize. Not that a new purse didn't interest me despite the name Prada in four-foot lettering. But a long weekend in shorts inspired me to see if I could resurrect a strike or two.

"Wow, look at all the goodies," said Camille scanning the room.

"Is there a buffet?"

"There's a buffet alright. The men!”

The first thing on the agenda was to be fitted for footwear. Bowling shoes give the term ‘sensible’ a whole new meaning. They're that ugly. You'd think someone would have stepped in by now to design something a little more chic. Jimmy Choo, where are you?

"We may as well be wearing clown shoes," Camille said, her baguette-length shoe flopping in front of her.

"Remember why we're here."

"That's right, must keep our eye on the bag… I mean ball."

"Excuse me," said a good-looking man dressed in a Nike track suit, "have you joined a team yet?"

"No, we just got here," said Camille, sizing him up.

"Me and my buddies are down two people. We really want that golf trip, and we think you look lucky. So why don't you come play with us?"

It was far too early for double entendre. "Maybe we should wait," I said, afraid he would think we actually knew how to bowl.

"Don't listen to her. We’ll be right there."

"Camille, look where they're sitting.” I pointed to the champions banner from last year. They were seated right under it. “They think we're champs too."

"Well you are."

"I was thirteen years old. Do the math."

"What's a few years between games?”

“Try sixty.”

“Once you get up there it'll all come back."

I wasn't so sure. First of all my shoes were too big since they ran out of nines. Even though I stuck Kleenex in the toe I was still tripping over my roomy tens. And my arm hurt from trying to choose a ball I could actually lift.

Camille acted as if she was at a lawn party with lanes. Before you could say waiter, she was sipping a martini from the open bar courtesy of Harry Cipriani.

"Did you come here to bowl or drink, Camille?” I noticed she was back in her Manolos. Then it hit me. She figured I'd bowl and if I won, give her the bag. UGH, the nerve.

"You are so sneaky. I know what you're up to. I'm the one who gets to make an ass out of herself for charity."

"You're so dramatic."

"And what are you going to tell our team captain?"

"Oh no! I've got a leg cramp! I'll watch, or keep score."

"You don't know how to keep score."

"How hard could it be,” she said, ogling our teammates.

"I so hate you right now.”

---

Next thing I knew I was seated with some very large men, their biceps bigger than my thigh. Camille, the little imp, was next to Randy, who appeared to live up to his name, pretending to keep score.

"Don't you dare cheat," I whispered. "It's just a bag."

But I know Camille too well. She's always had a little larceny running through those veins of hers, like the time she borrowed some banker's Porsche to drive herself home then left it on the corner with the keys in the ignition. Thank God no one stole it before she politely left an anonymous voicemail saying where it was parked.

Models, even those of a certain age, have a way of wheeling and dealing that the rest of the world may not quite understand.

My turn arrived. You've heard the phrase, ‘no atheists in a foxhole’? Hail Mary full of grace. I started to pray.

"Gutter ball," yelled Camille as if she were a sports announcer. "Can't win anything throwin' those."

I gave her my best dirty look. Then I visualized how professional bowlers stand while they're waiting for their ball to come back. I wiped my brow to make it look as if I was working hard, so my next gutter ball would at least have some style. But lo and behold: a strike. An actual strike!

How shocked was I?

"That's what I'm talkin' about," squealed Camille. "She was a champion back home. You're looking at a real pro there guys."

I was positive it was dumb luck but then did it again – and again.

Soon I was leading the team in strikes. Omigod, it actually looked as if I knew what I was doing. I really didn't. I just kept saying Hail Marys, never realizing the Virgin Mary was a bowler.

This went on all afternoon. Other teams were eliminated until there were just two. Yup, we were a finalist. I excused myself to go to the ladies room, and Camille tagged along.

"This is too much,” I told her. “I know I've been lucky, and those guys are just so-so players. I'm not sure I can pull this off."

"Don't worry about a thing. Just bowl, and think second place."

"WHAT?"

"I want the bag, not the trip.”

"Come on. Think of the sun and bikinis, sushi by the pool. Like a Sex and the City episode.”

"We want the bag," she hissed.

  So not only did I have to win, but I had to win second. I felt like a fixed filly at Hialeah. Nonetheless I kept getting strikes, angry when I got a spare. I was suddenly a bowler with an attitude. When we won, my team was ecstatic, hugging and kissing me. But Camille's face dropped three feet.

After posing for pictures and shaking hands like a dignitary, I met Camille at the bar.

"You know,” I told her, “that was really sly of you to set me up that way. Luckily it had a happy ending. Those kids will all have a fine time with the money we raised. But I'm not about to apologize for winning."

"Okay fine, let's just get out of here."

"We need to stop at the desk for a second."

The woman behind it handed me a big parcel.

"Here," I said.

I have to say, I never saw Camille quite so shocked or so happy.

I had swapped my long weekend with a guy on the second-place team for his bag. Every member of his team got one, and he was the only single man in the bunch.        

“Don’t you want to use it as bait?” I asked him.

"Nah, nine holes in the sunshine mean more to me than just one."

I almost blushed at that. Almost.

---

Susannah Bianchi has written for More Magazine, On The Avenue and Chicken Soup For The Soul. Follow her adventures at athingirl.com. She lives in New York City. Enjoy her other contributions to Certain Age, including Last Year's Model, and First Date with a Double Standard.

Images:

Bowl with a bow by Tara Mae Miller

Bowling shoe by David Iannace

Bowling nails from Getty Images