“Yo, when you said you were takin’ us to a new hot nightlife joint, I wasn’t expectin’ this.”
Paul George looked gloomily out the window as Andrew Bynum’s fancy car pulled into the parking lot of the decidedly dilapidated-looking “Indy-Bowl”.
“Shut up, I’m gonna show you guys the meaning of a good time tonight. Andrew Bynum is the king of the pins!”
Donald Sloan echoed his teammate’s skepticism as he and the others clambered out of the car. “Man, you know Andrew I ain’t never bowled in my life, I don’t wanna look a fool, you know? And are you sure your knees can handle this? I don’t know if coach would be happy if he knew you were doing this.”
“Just do as I say and you’ll be fine. And don’t question the structural integrity of my knees. The shooting, searing pains only happen once in a while.”
They walked in. The place was totally deserted except for a sad looking man behind the shoe counter. Bynum smiled widely. “Isn’t this place great? Best lanes in town. I’ll get us some shoes, you guys can pick out some balls and a lane.”
Sitting down at lane 13 with two horribly chipped and ratty looking bowling balls, Paul and Donald looked around the place skeptically. It was a relic of the past; even the automatic scorekeepers hadn’t been updated for decades.
Andrew returned with the shoes. “Why you guys looking so glum? This is gonna be great! Let’s get started!”
And so they started. While Andrew showcased his bowling skills, honed by years of practice, the other two were comically poor, constantly rolling gutterballs. The expert was a never-ending source of jibes and criticism.
“You know, we can ask that dude to put up the bumpers for you guys if you want.”
“The point of the game is to hit the pins, you know that right?”
“Another strike for me! Damn I’m good!”
“I don’t roll on shabbos! Shomer Shabbos!”
This continued for almost an hour, with the neophytes clearly getting more and more frustrated. Eventually Sloan threw up his arms in disgust.
“Man, this sucks. I’m done. I’m so done. Screw bowling. There aren’t even any chicks here.”
Paul George nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that’s enough for me. You sure showed us who’s boss, Bynum.”
As they packed up and headed to the exit, something caught Bynum’s eye.
“Hey look, a Dance Dance Revolution machine! I love that game! Come on, let’s check it out!”
With speed that defied his 7-foot frame, he ran over to the neon-flashing arcade game. He dug out his wallet and popped some quarters into the machine. “Haven’t played this in forever. Gotta start with something easy.” He navigated to the song “Max 300”, set the difficulty to expert, and stepped onto the arrows.
The skeptical looks that had resided on the faces of the other two for the entire night grew somehow even more skeptical.
“Alright, the bowling was crazy enough, but this is lunacy!” Sloan’s face now softened into a look of serious concern. “I seen people play this before. No way can your cheesesteak knees handle this.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m a veteran. Here we go!”
The notes started moving up the screen to the rhythm of the music. Bynum hadn’t chosen one of the hardest songs for no reason; his feet flew across the dancepad showing his advanced skills.
“Keeps me limber! And how do you think I got my footwork in the post so good? No sweat for a fit and nimble man like…”
His words were cut off as he tumbled to the floor, holding his leg, the lower half of which was jutting out at an unnatural angle. He looked disbelievingly at it for a second, and then, seeming to realize what had happened, resumed his vocalizations.
“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH! MY KNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!