The Mavericks

The mavericks are gone. What else would you call a bunch of guys who opened a bowling pro shop in a storefront several blocks from the nearest bowling alley? I knew their business was doomed from the beginning, but admired their gusto in following their crazy dream. For the several months that they were open, I never saw a customer in the store (I saw someone once holding a bowling bag on the sidewalk outside their store once, but for some reason I didn't get the impression he was a happy customer; more likely one of the owners just back from the lanes). I would see them at night occasionally after I got home from work, gathered around the small counter, eating takeout and laughing it up, and think to myself, "Man, they're living the life!" As much as I envied their carefree existence, inwardly I knew their days were numbered. They were laughing now, but in time they would be down with the rest us, grinding it out, hating every minute of it. And now they're gone and I feel a little guilty that I never gave them any business. Although I vowed many years ago after a resounding trouncing in a men's bowling league in Queens that I was "bowled out" and that I probably didn't need to bowl ever again, I contemplated buying new shoes or one of those modern bowling bags I saw in the window that didn't even look like a bowling bag to me (was there some secret shame attached to the old style bowling bag that I was unaware of?), if not to single-handedly keep their business afloat then at least to show them a sign that their insane endeavor had not gone completely unnoticed. The mavericks are gone and I miss them already. Their likes, I fear, will never be seen again.