by Tom Hanks
“Tonight,” he hissed at Anna, “you are going to die!”
“Bit heavy with the taunts,” she told him. “No one dies bowling unless a tornado is involved.” She then knocked down nine of the pins and expertly closed the frame on her second ball—she and MDash were tied.
Then came Steve Wong, sighing as he took his custom ball out of its custom bag, the spherical tool of his legendary alley work. I may exaggerate by saying the bowlers in the place stopped what they were doing to watch a master at work, that the whole joint suddenly went silent, wondering if, somehow, Lightning would strike again and start another chain reaction of perfect games, proving that Steve Wong was the true God of Turkeys. I think it was mostly in my head.
He stood still on the lane, holding the ball once again to his heart, his eyes locked on the faraway wedge of ten white pins. Then he began his swing and step-step-stepped to the lip of the foul line and released Lightning, lifting his bowling hand up to the sky. His right toe tapped the floor behind his left heel, the total of six Xs displayed for all to see. His ball curved and spun down the long lines of the shiny hardwood, headed for that pocket between the 1 and 3 pins, looking to be a strike for sure.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Anne Stringfield, Steve Martin, Esther Newberg, and Peter Gethers—the four in-laws of these married words.
Special credit to E. A. Hanks for her blue pencil and sharp, honest eyes.
Plus, a tip of the cap and a buck apiece to Gail Collins and Deborah Triesman.
And thanks to all those at Penguin Random House who examined, admired, improved, and made presentable these stories.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tom Hanks has been an actor, screenwriter, director, and, through Playtone, a producer. His writing has appeared in The New York Times, Vanity Fair, and The New Yorker. This is his first collection of fiction.
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