Ranger Bowling


The lights strobed wildly in the Zocalo amusement area, and the new rangers 
and their friends had to scream to make themselves heard above the blaring music.  

“It’s called ‘Cosmic Bowling,’” Garibaldi explained to his comrades.  “This 
is gonna be great, guys.  Come on!  We’ve just become Rangers.  We’ve got to 
celebrate.  I would have taken you to Disney Planet, but we don’t have that 
much leave time.”

“I am aware,” said Lennier, “of the cosmic plane, and at the temple, we learned 
of the cosmic sphere.  But I am afraid I am not acquainted with the cosmic bowl.”

“Nah!”  Garibaldi replied.  “The Cosmic Bowl is in January.  The big football 
playoff.  This is different.  You’ll love it.”  He led the way into Babylon Bowl. 

“I’m astonished that there’s space on station for a bowling center,” Drew remarked. 

“They built it over the baseball diamond,” Garibaldi explained.  “Sheridan’s 
been too busy with his wars to notice it was gone. OK, first things first: beer.”  
He sauntered over to the bar.  “Gimme a pitcher of beer for the humans and the 
Centauri, and a pitcher of birch for me and my Minbari friends.”

“You are planting a tree in a pitcher?”  Tulenn inquired.  

“Birch beer, guys.  Great stuff.  My grandmother used to give it to us.”  
Garibaldi settled up with the bartender, hoisted the tray and headed for the 
central counter.  “Hey, Lou!  We need a pair!”  

“A pair of what?”  Tulenn whispered to Lennier.  

“I am not sure,” Lennier replied, “but perhaps it is a reference to another Earth 
tradition Mr. Garibaldi has tried to teach me.  It was called ‘poker.’”

Londo chortled.  “No, no, no, my friends.  When the humans speak of ‘a pair’ 
I assure you it is an anatomical reference.”

Lennier and Tulenn both turned to him, and Lennier made as if to speak, but 
just then Garibaldi leaned over to them.  “Hey guys, come on.  You’ve gotta 
get your shoes.”

The three aliens looked down at their feet.  Finally Tulenn ventured, “But, 
Michael… we already possess shoes.”

“Nah,” Garibaldi said, “You need shoes with a special sole that reduces 
friction.  Helps you slide down the lane.”

Londo skated away to the shoe rental, a wicked grin suffusing his features, 
singing softly a little Earth ditty he had heard.  “…one for the dame, one 
for the little girl…”

“How does a soul reduce friction?”  Lennier inquired, clearly bewildered.  
“Is this achieved by special meditation?”

Garibaldi sighed.  “They’re ritual shoes, all right?  They’re necessary to 
properly delight in bowling.”

When the entire group had been properly shod, and each equipped with the 
appropriate beer, Michael began the lesson.  “Now, the game uses balls like 
these…” He held a sphere aloft in each hand. 

Lennier interrupted.  “Michael, it appears that your balls are defective.”  
Londo spit beer across the lane. 

Garibaldi laughed.  “Nah,” he said, setting one ball down and wiggling his 
fingers into the cavities in the other.  “It’s just how you grab them. Now 
they come in different weights, so hit the racks and pick one that feels 
good to you.”  

Each member of the group chose a ball and set it carefully in the channel 
that Michael pointed out to them.  “It’s called a ball return,” he explained.  

“How can the ball return,” Londo protested, “when it is already here?”

“Well!”  Garibaldi teased.  “It’s not going to be here for long.  The object 
of the game is to use your ball to knock down the pins.” 

“Pins?  Knocking down pins?”  Londo asked.  “The wonder is that such tiny 
slivers of metal stand up in the first place.”

“Not that kind of pin,” Garibaldi said.  “Look.  Down there.”  He pointed 
down the lane.  “Those are called pins.  Now there are three kinds of pins.”

The Minbari murmured approvingly.  Three, after all, is sacred. 

“There’s this shape, and duck pins, which are shorter and fatter…”

“And have webbed feet, beaks and feathers,” Londo contributed. 

Lennier leaned over to him and whispered.  “I believe that you are thinking 
of cats.”

“Cat pins?”  Londo asked. 

“No!”  Garibaldi snapped.  “These and duck pins, and candle pins, which are 
taller and thinner.”

The Minbari bowed.  “We stand between the candle and the star…” 

Garibaldi rolled his eyes and tried to continue.  “Now in this version, you 
get two balls.”  The assembled group rose as one and returned to the ball 
racks.  “What are you doing?” Michael asked, confusion apparent in his face.  

“We have procured only one ball,” Tulenn explained.  

“No, no, no,” Garibaldi laughed.  “You only need one ball.” 

“One good one, yes,” Londo snorted.

Lennier looked confused.  “But you said….”

“It comes back.”  Michael decided to start over.  “You get to roll your 
ball and knock down the pins.  If you don’t knock them all down, your ball 
comes back to you…” He pointed to the machine.  “…on the ball return, and 
you get a second chance to knock down all the rest.”

“And if one does knock them all down?”  Londo asked 

“That’s good.  We call that a ‘strike.’”

“Do you have to get a new ball?”

“No…” Clearly Michael was confused.  “Your ball comes back.  Ball return, 
remember?”

“Let me see if I understand this.  You throw away your balls, the ducks 
fall down and your balls keep coming?”

“Something like that.”

“And if you knock down all the ducks with your ball, you strike someone?”

“Not exactly.”  Garibaldi sighed.  “Why don’t I demonstrate?”  There was 
general approval. Michael lifted his ball from the ball return, turned his 
back to his friends, and paused, the ball balanced on his upturned palm.  
After a moment, he stepped forward, pushing the ball forward with his first 
step, then letting it swing first back and up behind his body, then forward 
again, as he continued walking.  By his third step, the ball left his hand, 
spun onto the wooden planks ahead of him, and rolled toward the triangle of 
pins.  It struck the head pin, initiating a collapse, and drawing murmurs of 
amazement from the others.  When Garibaldi turned back to the group, only two 
pins still stood, at the two farthest vertices of the triangle. 

Several of the aliens covered their heads with their arms. 

“What?” Garibaldi asked in confusion.  

“This is the moment at which you strike someone, is it not?”  Lennier asked 
from behind an upraised arm.  

“No, no, no.  That’s not a strike.  It’s not a strike unless all the pins 
fall down on the first try.”  Slowly, they lowered their arms.  “That’s a 
split.  A 7-10 split.”

Londo sneered.  “You broke it?”  

Garibaldi blinked quizzically.  “Broke?  No.  It’s fine.  What are you 
talking about?”

“You just said it was split.  Now we cannot play.”  Disappointment rippled 
through the group.  

Garibaldi could not contain a giggle.  “I didn’t say it was split.  I said 
it was A split.  When you leave pins that are far apart like that, it’s 
called a split.”  He chuckled under his breath.  “OK, now I score 8 so far, 
for the pins I knocked down, but I’m not going to record it yet, ‘cause I 
get one more ball to try to pick up the spare.”

“The spare what?”  Lennier inquired.  

“If you knock down all ten pins with one ball, that’s called a strike.  
If you do it with two balls, that’s a spare.”  Londo muttered something 
Garibaldi chose to ignore. “When you have a split, like this, it’s harder 
to make the spare.”  

An ebony orb with three cylindrical bores popped from the ball return, to 
the accompaniment of ahs from the group.  Garibaldi grinned widely and pointed 
to the channel.  “See! Your ball comes back!”  As the others nodded to one 
another, Michael hoisted his ball.  “Ok, now I’m going to try to hit the 10 
pin and – hopefully – make it fly across and take out the 7.  Yes?”

Tulenn’s hand was raised.  “Michael, if the pins can fly, why do they not 
flee the path of the ball before it assaults them?”

Garibaldi was beginning to think this was a bad idea.  “It’s just a figure 
of speech, OK?  Now.  I’m going to try this, but it’s tough, so I probably 
won’t make it.  Here goes.”  He turned away from them and repeated the 
ritualistic, accelerating walk, letting the ball swing a bit farther behind 
him this time and whipping it forward again.  The ball cut across the boards, 
clipping the right side of the ten pin, kicking it up and left.  It bounced 
off the left wall and circled the seven pin, which shuddered, rocked, but 
refused to fall.  There was a collective moan from the group.  

With a shrug, Garibaldi walked back to where they sat.  “That’s OK.  That’s 
a tough split to pick up.  OK, I score a total of nine pins for this frame.”  
His eyes were on the scoring console, which had already recorded his count, 
but his peripheral vision registered Lennier’s quizzical expression.  He 
headed off the question.  “A frame is just the name for one turn, one round 
of the game.  Each turn score gets put in one of these little boxes,” he 
said, gesturing to the display screen, “each turn in a little frame. 

“OK, who’s up next?”  They exchanged glances, but no one moved.  “Londo!  
Your turn!” Garibaldi declared.  The Centauri was reluctant, but the 
human was insistent.  “Get your ball.  Watch your fingers!  Now, index 
and middle fingers in the two smaller holes, thumb in the big one.  If 
the fit is good, you should be able to hold it down at your side without 
dropping it, but your thumb should slide in and out without sticking.” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” the petulant ambassador fussed, “in and out, I have some 
experience with this!” 

Garibaldi laughed softly.  “Ok, hold the ball in front of you.”  He 
pantomimed the motion as he spoke.  “First step, push the ball out, second 
step, let it swing back, third step, bring it forward and as you slide, 
follow through!”  He noted, as he stepped out of Londo’s way, that the 
Centauri’s eyes had glazed over.  

There was a long pause before Londo began his approach, but once he pushed 
the ball forward, he lurched down the approach with a stagger worthy of 
a few liters of Brevari.  He barely kept his feet at the foul line, and 
the ball arced from his hand and bounced on the boards.  It rolled, it 
skidded, and then with a plunk, it tipped off the boards and into the channel.  

“Oh, no!  You’re in the gutter!”  Garibaldi exclaimed.  

Mollari spun on him in indignation.  “I beg your pardon!  Your opinions 
of my conduct, if they have any validity at all, can wait for a more 
private setting.” 

Garibaldi flushed crimson.  “Uh… uh…I’m sorry, Londo.  I… I didn’t... 
mean…”  There was no graceful exit.  “We call those channels down either 
side of the lane gutters.  Your ball is in the gutter.”

Londo stared for a moment, then turned back to the lane.  “They did not 
fall down,” he said, staring at the pins slack jawed.  

“No, they didn’t,” Garibaldi agreed, trying as best he could to cushion 
the blow to Londo’s pride.  “Try to keep your second ball on the boards.  
You can still pull out a good score for the frame.”  Mollari’s second 
ball did stay on the boards, although barely so.  He snarled his disgust 
when the automatic scorer recorded his three for the frame.  

Tulenn stepped forward next.  Without coaching from Michael, he moved 
to the ball return, inserted his fingers in the holes in his ball, and 
lifted it from the rack.  Holding the ball respectfully, waist high in 
front of him, he turned toward the pins, and bowed slightly.  He 
straightened, closed his eyes for what Garibaldi suspected was a moment 
of meditation, and then pushed forward.  Three steps later, he dropped 
into a deep slide, almost kneeling on the hardwood, and his ball spun 
down the lane, rotating over the arrows.  As it hit the back end of the 
alley, it grabbed on the change in oil, and hooked hard, crashing into 
the pins just left of the head pin.  Tulenn did not rise until the clatter 
of falling pins had ceased.  When he did, only the headpin still stood.

“All right!”  Garibaldi exclaimed.  “Very nice.  Brooklyn side, but 
very nice.”  

Tulenn turned to face him.  “Brooklyn?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael replied.  “Just do what you did before, 
one more time, but this time, try to put the ball down just a hair closer 
to center.”

Obediently, Tulenn repeated his approach and delivery, and this time the 
head pin yielded.  He bowed humbly to the applause of his companions.  
“Michael?”  Garibaldi turned to face him.  “I believe the scoring computer 
is malfunctioning.”

Garibaldi glanced at the display screen.  “No…”  he looked to Tulenn and 
then back at the screen.  “It’s fine.”  For a moment, he thought he 
detected irritation in the Minbari’s face, and then it was gone.  

Londo spoke up, uncharacteristically demonstrating a sense of fair play 
and a concern for someone other than himself.  “It has not recorded his 
score.  He knocked down all ten pins, but the number does not appear on 
his border.” 

Garibaldi shook his head but the confusion lingered.  Then it clicked.  
“Oh! In his frame!  No, the number won’t show up yet.  See the little 
slash mark in the corner?”  He turned to Tulenn.  “That means you got 
a spare.” 

“Yes.  I knocked down ten pins with two balls,” he said, demonstrating 
his understanding of the terminology.  “It should say ten.”

“Not yet,” Garibaldi replied. 

“When?” 

“After your next ball.  See, you get a bonus for making the spare.  
After you throw your next ball, it’ll add the count for that ball to 
the ten, and score that for your first frame.”  Tulenn moved silently 
to the ball return and lifted his ball.  “What are you doing?”  Garibaldi 
asked.  

“I am throwing my next ball, so that I can obtain my…” He thought a 
moment.  “…bonus?”

“Not now! You’re done for this frame.  When your turn comes round again, 
the first ball of your second frame will get added to..”

“Mr. Garibaldi!” Londo interrupted petulantly.  “Are you sure you are not 
inventing these bizarre customs?”

“No, no, no.  Really.  Trust me.”  They were silent, but their facial 
expressions suggested they did not trust him at all.  “OK Lennier, you’re 
next.  Come on, guys.  Relax.  Have fun with it.”  

Lennier moved slowly into position, and lifted his ball.  “I am still 
troubled by this,” he said softly, his gaze downward.  

“The scoring computer?  Relax, really, it’s fine.” 

“No, Michael,” he frowned as he tapped the ball.  “This!”  Garibaldi 
looked, but saw nothing unusual about the ball.  Lennier looked up at 
him.  “The three drillings, they should form the sacred triangle, but 
it is… distorted…the spacing is all wrong.  This is not a good omen.” 

“The spacing is to fit your hand, Lennier.  It has no cosmic significance.  
Come on, bowl.”

Lennier complied, his approach looking like a slow motion playback of 
an instructional vid.  The ball tumbled smoothly over the second arrow, 
hooked just a little, and clattered into the pocket, sending pins flying 
in all directions.  The entire rack tumbled, and the scoring computer 
flashed a congratulatory message.  Garibaldi was applauding enthusiastically 
when Lennier turned back to him, seeking reassurance.  “This is good?”

“This is great!!” Garibaldi assured him.  “That’s a strike.  That’s 
perfect. That’s exactly…”  He realized suddenly that he was the only 
one applauding.  He turned to the group behind him to find them staring a
t the scoring computer’s display screen.  “Folks?  A little appreciation 
here?”  

“It is split.”

“Split? No, that’s a strike: all ten…”

“The scoring computer is split,” Londo insisted.  

“Split?  You mean broken?  No, guys, really, it’s fine.”

“It is not displaying a number 10.  It is not displaying the bonus sign.  
It shows only an X.  It is broken.”

“The X is the symbol for a strike.  That’s exactly what it should show.”

“But I have no points,” Lennier protested.  

“Not yet.  After your next two balls…”

“Michael!”  Lennier’s interruption was emphatic and angry.  “I am ashamed of 
you! Your behavior cannot be tolerated.  First you try to deceive us into 
consuming alcohol with your claims about your birth beer,…”

“Birch…”

“… and now,” Lennier raised his voice, “now you try to cheat us of the 
points we have scored with these absurd claims that the better we perform 
the longer we must wait for our reward.  This is nonsense.  It is …unseemly!”  
He hurled the last word as the greatest insult he could imagine.  

Garibaldi’s mouth moved as though to speak, but no words came forth.  
Tulenn rose from his seat, and followed Lennier out of the bowling center.  
Londo rose and started in the same direction, then turned back, and 
grabbed the pitcher of beer.  “Bah!” he scowled at Michael, and then 
he too left.  

Michael stood silent for a few moments, trying to understand what 
had just happened.  He looked at Drew, the only other human in the 
party, and the only one left.  “I didn’t cheat!”  he protested.  

Drew shrugged.  “I believe you.  I mean, it’s not my game, so I don’t 
know all the rules, but I believe you.”

Garibaldi dropped into a chair.  “So what…what did I do?”

Drew smiled.  “Well, diplomacy and intercultural affairs never were 
your strength, Michael.” 

“I try to organize a night out, and I start an intergalactic incident?”

“Why do you think they taught us how to face terror?”  He waited, 
but Garibaldi did not laugh.  “Delight ...  Respect ...  Compassion,” 
he continued.  

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s delighted,” Michael observed, “and they 
think I’ve been disrespectful.”

“So fall back on compassion.  See it from their viewpoint.”  Drew 
rose from his chair, and drained a glass of birch beer.  

“It’s a game!”  Garibaldi protested.  “It’s just a game!”

Drew lifted his ball from the return.  “Face it, Michael.  Humans 
play strange games.”