There probably are better fates than finding yourself in a claustrophobia-inducing bowling alley on a wonderful spring day.

That’s just a guess, though. No one entity decides the worth of fates, at least so far as a quick perusal of the NIU phone book can tell me. So I’ll have to

hypothesize and wonder with no clue as to the truth. Don’t worry, I’m in the NIU Experts Guide under that entry.

Imagine, if you will, the pinnacle of a youth’s bowling season. The league play is over, and teams soon dissipate, leaving lefties and righties, big hooks and backup balls, all in the collective memory of alley rats everywhere.

These kids have dealt with plenty of social and athletic pressures on their way to the big tournament of the year in the state’s capital. Bowling isn’t exactly the most accepted sport in the world detailed by ESPN, if you know what I mean. In some rare cases, bowlers aren’t the most athletic-looking in the world.

OK, OK, that case isn’t so rare. And the fashion sense of its participants isn’t deemed as “cool” by fashion moguls, either. Some bowlers have less taste than a smooth rock of the ’70s compilation. But instead of “Sister Golden Hair,” we get “Brother Beer Gut.”

(One of these days, shirts with names and patches on them and big metal hand contraptions will show up in the coolest of cool music videos. Just don’t hold your breath.)

In fact, holding your breath would probably be a good thing in this environment. Masses of ratty kids and unkept parents have created a mangled form of body odor, one that doesn’t mix nicely with cigarette smoke or lane oil. Then again, what does?

These kids are members of the Young American Bowling Alliance, and these used to be my people. In fact, the first time I ever had my name in the newspaper, it was for picking up the dreaded big-four split (4-6-7-10) when I was 8 years old. Yes, these columns are written by a phenom.

Now, I’ve grown too old, and I accompany my 16-year-old brother Mark in his quest to win a plaque and the admiration of his peers. But like all sports, there are wide ranges of talent to contend with. That innocent girl could be a ringer, using wide eyes to hide the perfect strike ball. No one is dismissable, and everyone stands on guard.

I watch from the concourse as the bowlers warm up, all slowly nodding their heads at the oily lane conditions. No big hooks today, at least until the third game. But that’s a hard thought to keep when a mother yells out to her son and into your ear, “YEAH BABY, WE’LL TAKE A BROOKLYN!”

Expert bowlers like myself will tell you that Brooklyn is code for a strike that hits the head pin on the wrong side. But expert bowlers also have a high incidence of voice cracking, loneliness and extreme cases of acne that require delicate surgery, so listen at your peril.

Although three games never can accurately judge a career, my brother does me proud. He bowls well but misses a few key spares and leaves a few misery-inducing splits. Another day at the lanes and another memory in the life of a bowler. He doesn’t win, but he competes very well.

Looking back, this Springfield weekend reminded me of simpler times when strikes were the most important thing on my mind, but spares were the key to success. Now, the rigors of daily work fill a college student’s life, but the simple pleasures keep me hoping for another day, or another game to make a strained metaphor.

And seeing my brother excel while I turn into a makeshift coach makes me smile a realized smile. I hear the words of the best bowling coach I ever had, nicely completing the metaphor.

“Slow down and follow through,” my dad would say, probably knowing it could apply to pretty much everything that’s important.