![Hubris A Tale from Lane 23.png](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/lordtimoty/AKF3zAo5zwy9wb5uwfuhyxV6JfUf3won8cdEeos21gSYhJC6yvunecNxYTFSNXn.png)


Hubris [noun]: Excessive pride and belief in one’s own infallibility, ultimately becoming one’s fatal flaw and leading to their downfall. 

Larry was in the middle of his celebratory dance; a shuffle to the right, a wiggle of his derriere and a series of fist pumping motions. It was during one of the shuffling movements when he began to imagine the crowd looking on at him in awe. It was his ninth strike in a row, and he was going for his first ever perfect game, and of course, the lane record. He didn’t need to look about him to know that the entire bowling alley was focusing their attention on lucky lane number twenty-three. 

He came to the end of his routine and took his seat, swinging his right leg over his left knee and sprawling his hairy arm over the red plastic chair next to him. It was then that the panic begun to set in. Larry knew that the eyes behind him were paying attention to every slight movement he would make, and he stiffened. It occurred to him that his emerging bald patch was on show. Uneasy thoughts went through Larry’s mind, as he started imagining the judgement that fell upon his failing looks. He once considered himself a Casanova of the Lucky Strike Bowling Centre, but now he felt that it was what he did with his balls that attracted the attention of the ladies. Every time he had that thought, he’d chuckle, and imagine his clever word play made him an intellectual giant, and his head would get a little bit larger, figuratively, of course. 

But also, quite literally – his red cheeks seemed to be swelling up recently. The centre’s cafe had introduced a new meal deal which included two hotdogs and a bowl of French fries. Larry had been eating this meal for his dinner six nights out of seven for the past couple of weeks. He loved mustard and chips heavy with salt, and the emptiness of his own kitchen made him lonely, as he used to wander from the fridge to the cupboard and vice versa preparing a couple of toasted sandwiches with a swath of deli meats. Truth be told, Larry also liked the way Elsa, the cafeteria’s resident cook, would flirt with him as she’d hand over his order. Tonight she had commented on his tummy beginning to poke through his oversized Hawaiian shirt, and he felt confident that it was the extra skin showing through his buttons that had captured the young woman’s attention. It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d been abrupt and rude to flatten his own advances. 

Larry gulped, and re-focused. He stood, and with an unnatural posture, stood by the ball machine which was returning his green and white marbled ball from the lane’s end. Larry felt the eyes on his back and realised the ridiculousness of the way he was standing so upright, so he slanted his neck and stretched his fingers – finishing the stretch in a flourish as his ball was spat out towards him and was rolling around the belt to meet him. 

Placing his fingers gently into the ball, he brought it up to his chest. Feeling like his performance needed some additional power, he lifted it further to his mouth and kissed it. For Larry, the moment was mundane, yet he believed the eyes behind him would see this as a moment of intimacy; a connection between the hunter and his weapon, as he stepped closer towards his prey. Larry took one step to the right and lined himself up with the pins. He was one swing of his arm and 18.288 metres from glory. He could nearly hear the crowd behind him gasp and whisper and cross their fingers in nervous excitement. It was certainly building to be a moment of awe!

Larry took to his toes, gently raising his heels off the ground. The shoes he was wearing, of course, looked ridiculous, but they were a necessary costume; and, he imagined they were akin to his superhero’s cape. A smile begin to linger on Larry’s face, and he felt he was drawing out the suspense of this final bowl for theatrical effect. And then he began to lower the shiny ball and begin his dance to the line, but he was struck by a sudden need to turn around. 

He loved the idea that he gathering crowd were on his side, and that they wanted him to win. He loved the idea that they were standing in solidarity with him, egging him on the perfect game. He loved knowing that he was the object of their attention, and that as each of them held their breath, that he was held for him. He just needed to see their faces; he needed to see their love and not just imagine it. 

On turning, he was dumbstruck. There was no one. Larry scanned the carpeted area up two stairs from the bowling floor and he noticed no one seemed to care about this momentous moment. He scratched his bald spot with his bare hand and let out an inaudible sigh. All he needed was their adoration; but in their absence, whoever he imagined they were, he began to wonder: would it even matter if he hit the final strike? Larry strode back to his ballbag, and returned his ball to its perch. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes as he sought to quickly amble to the exit.