Bowling with Diane Keaton
Diane Keaton (Photograph by Annie Leibovitz) Friday night, 80s halcyon, a memory of October bowling. The suburban lanes loud with kids and kinetic release of balls slamming on maple. My delivery pre-amateur, pre-Lebowski revival. I have no footwork, no sense of release, fingers sweaty in the grips, resin dropping with a hollow boom followed by derision from more adept friends. I remember reading about bowler superstitions: Lucky shoes, towels, and socks or prayers and chants. We just saw “Baby Boom” – executive Diane Keaton saddled with unexpected baby altering her corporate ambitions – and since Diane has been good in everything forever, I chose her. On every approach, perfecting my four-step, under my breath – Diane Keaton, Diane Keaton, Diane Keaton – and the ball lightens, rolls straight, connects dead center on the headpin, then it's strike after strike all night. Four decades flown, and I don’t bowl often, but Diane is still the mantra. And when she dies,...
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