From Lane 18 to Pump 42.30

From Lane 18 to Pump 42.30

I didn’t expect the moment to arrive while I was standing behind Lane 18.

Balls rolled. Shoes squeaked. Coaches gave quiet nods. And practice began—not with a buzzer or a speech, just with motion. I stood behind the lane and realized the simplicity of it: step up, focus, release.

That rhythm has always mattered more than the scoreboard.

Later, I stood near another lane and remembered a conversation I’d had earlier in the day—about pros and ambassadors possibly doing clinics on military bases during the summer. The idea stuck with me—not because it was shiny, but because it sounded like legacy. Like something more than just the game.

Right then, I looked up and Bella was moving freely across the lane. Calm. Present. Like a bowler. Not my baby girl. A bowler.

Standing by the snack bar, I saw Bella starting to pack up her equipment. For a second, I almost jumped in to help.

Then I paused.

She didn’t need help.

She had it.

She’s not little anymore.

She’s growing in real time.

And I was the one learning to let go.

Later, I sat behind the camera on Lane 22.

Another boy was nearby, taking off his bowling shoes and putting on his regular ones. Bella laughed. Barbi was outside on a call.

And I just sat still, watching it unfold.

No narration, no notes, no direction—just being in it.

We walked out. Bella was ahead of me, ready to go find some food.

The practice had gone well, and the evening air felt like closure.

I didn’t overthink it.

I just marked it as success.

Then came the dinner decision.

Nobody could pick a place. Panda? Nowhere nearby. Everything was either closed or inconvenient.

It was like an episode of “What Do You Want to Eat?” starring “I Don’t Know” and “Whatever You Want.”

No one was upset. No one forced it.

Just family, orbiting each other in quiet love.

At the gas station, I stood by the pump. Cars rushed by on the freeway. Everyone was still undecided.

And then it hit me.

I wasn’t even hungry.

Maybe I was just tired. Maybe both.

I looked at the pump: 42.30.

That number felt like a closing line.

The day wasn’t about food, or practice, or traffic.

It was about presence—and making space for each person to be exactly who they are.

By the time the trunk shut and the night wrapped around us, I realized:

Some days, your only job is to notice what’s unfolding around you—

and be glad you didn’t miss it.