While we were in Minnesota, we went bowling.
Until the fourth frame of the first game, when it never came back from the return.
I reported it to the kid on duty and he ran in the back to get my ball.
Several minutes later, the ball return starting…smoking. It smelled like burning rubber and smoke was billowing forth from the return.
Some other guy walked up and the kid and the guy started examining my ball. Finally, he walked over and asked if the damage on the ball had been there before.
The ball had deep, deep grooves and scratches in it. It was so scratched up that I couldn’t even hold it because the dinged-up finger holes would’ve torn my skin. My mother’s name had become “TER-scratch-scratch.”
Finally, after days of back-and-forth phone calls, I was told they’re going to replace the ball.
Yes, I Know That’s Not a Bowling Ball Bag