“Welcome to the IBF International Bowling Final, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight we’ll see whether undefeated champion Alexander Wolfe becomes immortalized, or will our three challengers usurp the king to start a new chapter.”
The announcer flashes looks at the audience, back and forth with a huge grin.
“Only one bowler will leave with the ten million dollar cash prize. Only one spot at the top. We are in Las Vegas, Nevada at the customized forty million dollar super complex”
A rumble of feet rolls through the arena.
“Final Frame…” The announcer drags the words in dramatic fashion.
The crowd roars in applause, the sound booms across the huge complex. Music starts to rise intensely, electric guitars rip the sound of manic streaks in the air. Smoke machines activate and the room starts to fill with an aesthetic sheer of smoke. Flairs and fireworks explode from columns around the arena as the music kicks up.
“Lets meet the challengers,” the announcer’s voice echos.
Purple lasers rip from the stage blurring through the smoke. The haze of the purple consumes the smoke until the building itself looks purple. Then drums and the rest of the band join the guitar in a pounding harmony.
“Coming all the way from Europe, representing the United Kingdom… A man who needs no introduction, a former champion of Final Frame.”
He pauses.
“Elias Marlowe…The Crow!”
The dark mega screens above flicker to life, showing the view of the smoke on stage. A towering figure arrives leaving a shadow in the smoke. Chaos ensues, the crowd erupts in huge screams and wails. The band plays a hard rock thrum of sounds.
“Crow! Crow! Crow!” The crowd chants.
“With a record of a hundred and eighty nine wins and two losses as a professional. Over a hundred perfect games, Elias returns to claim his crown.”
Elias finally steps in, a foot emerging from the smoke.
The step is a slow deliberate pulse, cracking through the cloud.
People around the arena pull out their phones to record the spectacle. Not a single person in the crowd wants to forget this moment.
Then, like a veil lifting, the man is revealed to the crowd in another slow dramatic step. His dark long hair still glows the purple haze of smoke.
You can feel his intensity glowing.
The mega screens zoom in close to the man. Crows swirl around his dark fabric, with symbols of black feathers embroidered into his pants.
With cool demeanor Elias doesn’t keep basking in the loving crowd instead, he walks over to the bowling rack. When he sits, the smoke starts to dissipate but the lights still cast a dark shadow over the complex. It becomes so quiet you can hear some people chatting in the crowd, murmurs.
Then a thundering pulse of red light booms across the stands. It’s paired with a deep bass drum.
Again. Boom! Then it gets faster. Boom! And faster Boom! Boom! Boom!
Thick 808s rumble into the crowd with thumps. The beat becomes an iconic rhythm of hip hop. The huge screens shine on and a video begins to play.
The announcer appears with his face covered with an odd mask. “Ladies and gentleman, we have something truly special for this fan favorite challenger. Please enjoy the show”
A spectacle of film turns on, magical plays appear on the screen. Impossible shots made with ridiculous flair, but it’s the loud rhythm of the beats alongside getting the crowd amped up. They are catching on to who the challenger is. Just as you see the point of view of someone standing behind a bowler, his golden curls flowing elegantly.
You can hear shrieking from the women in the crowd. The yelling only increases as the man turns around before he rolls, revealing himself.
“A man who needs no introduction.” A prerecorded voice calls over.
Then he does a walk up towards the lane but backwards. He swings the ball up towards the camera and releases it behind him like a pendulum. The ball hums on the hardwood, and then crashes as all the pins fall.
“The Miracle Boy… The Fallen Prince… Bowling for his home country! The fan favorite from Las Vegas Nevada.. MARCO HALE!”
The screens fade into a camera angle centered on the stage. A hush falls over the arena. A section of the floor splits open, and from the wooden stage, Marco rises into view. Lifted up before thousands of stunned spectators. Like a magician appearing mid-act.
The crowd goes ballistic.
Marco waves and cheers feed off the energy, urging them louder. When he steps off the lane and sits at his bowling rack, he’s staring across from Elias.
“That’s how you put on a show” Marco sneers. “Not some dark,gloomy funeral. I thought you Brits loved the finer things.”
“Hmm,” Elias mumbles. He doesn’t even look at Marco.
“What the hell was that?” Marco calls out.
Then he shrugs and stares on to the crowd again waving at the fans.
“And now,” the announcer starts. “Our final challenger arrives.”
A man walks up the stairs to the stage. An absolute powerhouse.
“The pins will do all the introductions” the announcer calls out. “Those are the exact words we got from his team about his introductions. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome our last challenger coming all the way from Iceland, “Jónas Magnússon!”
The crowd roars in boo’s, and chants. “Kick that cheater out!”
“Dirty cheater!”
“You don’t even deserve to be here.!”
Curses and chants thunder around the arena as Jonas arrives at the bowling rack. He doesn’t seem to mind as he just sits down immediately.
“Settle down people, settle down.” The announcer cuts the rebukes.
“Everyone gets a chance to prove their worth in Final Frame! We have taken a raffle draw before the competition deciding the first two matches. On the left alley we will have”
Shuffles of feet rumble the ground, sticks pummel drums into a roll.
“Elias Marlowe vs Alexander Wolfe!”
The crowd cheers in approval.
“On the right alley we will have”.
Shuffles rumble again.
“Jónas Magnússon vs Marco Hale!”
“Trash that dirty cheater Marco!”
“Marco! Marco!” Marco!”
Marco raises out of his seat heading for his rack. It’s a chariot of flair. Plates of pure silver gleam off the sides. On the rows are three layers of hard round urethane balls. All of them swirl with golden waves reflecting his curls. He grabs one and pumps it into the air.
A surge of applause ripples through the arena. Then the lights cut out.
Confusion spreads as heads turn. The challengers are gone, the stage vanished into darkness.
Then violin strings rise, slow and haunting. A beautiful requiem drifts through the complex, calming the crowd into silence.
“The lane architect. The champion. The unstoppable force.” The announcer’s voice drops low, heavy with reverence.
“ALEXANDER WOLFE!!!” He roars.
The final rack ignites under the lights, revealing the champion. Alexander Wolfe lounges in his seat, slim frame folded casually, feet kicked up. He makes a show of him yawning but his eyes glimmer with a sleeping intensity.
Two scoreboards turn on between the two alleys. On the left Alexander and Elias, on the right Jonas vs Marco. The champ is up first.
Alexander’s confidence oozes off as he snatches a ball from the rack and struts up to the hard wood. He has both hands on the dark burgundy ball. He wipes his pants habitually and then you can see his activation. He starts his walk.
One. Two. Three. Four. The ball flies from his wrist. It hugs the right side of the lane edging, kissing the gutter. It’s a long second until it cuts inward. Like an arrow it flies toward its target.
Pins smash. A huge X marks onto the scoreboard.
“Strike! Alexander starts off hot.”
Unfazed Elias doesn’t wait. He stands up and approaches the rack. His long arms reach out for his ball, a solid purple with streams of lighting.
On the next lane over, beneath a cooler stretch of lights, another clash begins.
Marco revels in the pump in the crowd, urging him to bowl something flashy. You can see his shoulders roll back and chest start to get puffy with confidence.
Across from him, Jonas stands like carved stone. Unblinking, staring at Marco.
Marco steps to his rack and grabs his ball, glossy and slick. Five holes are placed in different positions, for his style.
Marco sets himself at the line.
Then he turns toward Jonas and points. You can see it in his eyes, the decision of his play. Then in succession he starts his walk.
Sideways.
Impossibly Marco takes four steps directly straight and cocks his left arm back. Without looking he releases it and snaps hard, ripping off his hand. The ball curves right then left unpredictably.
It straightens at the last moment.
Pins scatter violently.
The crowd roars.
“Welcome to Final Frame brute.” Marco grins at Jonas.
“Marcos kicks lane two into high gear with a strike of his own!”
Jonas sits stoic and still. He has no reaction.
He simply gets out of his seat and steps toward the rack. His walk shows no sign of flare. He grips his heavy ball, 15 scribed on the simple black ball. Only one vent hole.
The big man stands directly in the center line holding the ball with both hands top and bottom.
He steps. The ball slams onto the wood like a rocket.
Hard wood hums and rumbles as the ball shoots as straight light.
Pins erupt.
Strike. Dead center.
”Jonas returns!”
Marco scoffs a laugh. “Still a brute.”
The thunder of the pins left the building silent. The tension bleeding into the next pair of lanes.
And Elias is left with it.
He’s standing in front of his lane, spine straight standing at his full height. He takes a deep breath sharpened by his focus. Silence brings him into a zone. He wipes his left hand over the purple ball, feeling it asking it how it wants to be thrown.
The crowd stares as the camera swings over. All eyes are on the crow, last to bowl.
He sets his feet deep into the left arrow. Sharp eyes locked on the pins. His body overtakes him and the crow begins to move.
First step.
It’s deep and intentional Elias’s body drives deep into his left hip. His right arm flows back hard, gaining momentum.
Second step.
Unnaturally the next step forces his body so low it looks like a jet about to land. His left arm flowed backward in the same momentum.
Final step.
Elias’s final step sends his right leg backward, balancing the man’s insane positioning. His body is almost completely parallel with the floor.
He flicks the ball directly in front of him with insane wrist twisting movement. It launches the ball in a perfect arc from the left unto the deep right lane and then sails in the corner of the top pin.
Pins detonate.
Strike.
The arena explodes.
The split-second of silence shatters under a tidal wave of noise, whistles and cheers. Feet are pounding the bleachers as the cameras snaps in on Elias. His position is still low, and balanced.
“THE CROW RETURNS WITH A STRIKE OF HIS OWN! What was that angle?! Elias levels up right in front of us!”
People sway in the stands in rolling disbelief.
Some scream
Some stand with their hands on their heads.
Some just shout his name.
”CROW! CROW! CROW!”
Elias straightens slowly and smoothly. Clearly unfazed by the wild position. No smile. No fist pump, He just points at Alexander and nods.
Alexander stares and watches him the whole way bemused. The champions smirk rising into a grin. Like a fire has been lit within him.
On the next pair of lanes over, Marco can’t help but stare wide eyed.
“What the hell was that! I have to try that,” he laughs.
Jonas, the only one staying focused on his own lane doesn’t move a muscle.
Back on the main lane, Elias returns to his seat, hands resting on his knees.
“Ladies and gentlemen… if this is how Frame One looks..”
He leans into the mic, hype rising.
“..This will be one hell of a night.”
Frame Two
The crowd is still on a high from Elias’s impossible shot but Wolfe steps up with confidence. A man who doesn’t fear the moment at all. His ball rockets down the lane fast, controlled.
Strike. Clean. Surgical.
When he turns his face is a terrifying smile towards Elias.
Elias walks up quickly, still calm as still water.
Another wide hook this time the ball sweeps in perfectly, shredding the pocket.
Strike.
Marco is up. He runs up with swagger. No hesitation in picking his ball. Except this time he grabs Jonas’ hefty black ball. Rare in the tournament, but allowed. He smiles at the choice like a child doing something mischievous.
He lines up in the middle. Runs up quick and in the same form as Jonas. A rocket blasts down the center. Humming over the hardwood.
Pins burst.
Strike.
”Yeaahh! That’s how you do it Jonas!” He yells, hyping up the crowd.
Jonas doesn’t flinch. His dark eyes just flick toward Marco, then back to the lane. No emotion at all.
He steps up, grips a ball with practiced ease, and lets it fly. The motion is effortless.
Strike.
The crowd isn’t silent this time but there’s an awe mixed with tension. Marco is laughing at the simple shot from Jonas.
The scoreboard flashes: Two X’s marking over both lanes.
Frame Three.
The energy in the super complex is intense as Alexander lines up again. He stands tall and unphased, then he does his walk. He unleashes a thunderbolt down the lane.
Triple. Three in a row. The crowd roars.
”TURKEY! TURKEY! TURKEY!”
Elias is walking up before Wolfe even returns. He ignores the crowd and grabs his ball. His third curves even wilder, kissing the gutter edge before snapping back in.
A third strike.
“Crow!” Chants, shake the arena.
Alexander just smiles, studying Elias showing no sign of intimidation.
Marco attempts an unbelievable shot in the lane beside, tossing the ball between his legs. The ball slowly burns down the hardwood until it crumples the pins.
Nine fall, leaving the first opportunity for a spare. “Shit” he mutters. He grabs his second ball and stands into the deep right. His body is diagonal looking at the pin in the deep corner. He rockets a shot straight into it.
Spare.
A slash lines across the scoreboard.
Jonas seizes the opportunity with another simple powerful roll. Strike, like a machine.
The arena is electric. The crowd is on its feet, pins exploding on both sides.
“We are witnessing nothing short of a masterclass in bowling! The intensity is rising! Alexander the champion, hasn’t missed a beat. Elias with absolute clinical accuracy… Jonas, a machine and Marco, a man who doesn’t know a bad shot!”
The camera pans over to Alexander the man stands in front of the lane, ball in hand.
“And who else but this man right here Alexander Wolfe”
Frame Four.
Alexander, calm as ever, breathes in, and the arena goes still.
He steps forward and releases.
Eight pins explode apart, clattering across the lane, leaving a split. Two pins stranded on opposite corners. Alexander shrugs unfazed. He grabs his next ball and lines up on the left arrow, nearly standing on the gutter line.
He lunges forward, fast and sharp, rolling the ball along the edge. It hums down the lane, flirting with the gutter but never falling in. The ball clips the pin, sending it flying across the deck but it comes up short, collapsing behind the last pin.
86, Alexander’s score is highlighted on the screen.
Elias follows up. Gliding into the lane like a predator. He flicks his wrist, sending the ball out wide.
Strike. “CROW!” The crowd roars. Elias,still calm and steady, returns to his seat.
Marco steps up, adrenaline pumping hard. He’s feeling the energy, the crowd, the confidence. He decides to push it further. His feet stand out deep in the left. Replicating Elias’s stance from his first shot.
He plants his feet deep on the left arrow, eyes sharp on the pins. He’s a few inches shorter than Elias but he moves on instinct. His first step drives hard into his left, planting his foot. The second step drops him dangerously low, almost skimming the floor, his left arm holding the balance behind him. The final step sent his right leg shooting back, holding his body in an impossible parallel to the lane. Then the ball snaps out with a violent wrist-twist, launching it from the far left into a sweeping arc. It crashes into the pins but one stubbornly sways, wobbles… and stays standing.
The arena is in disbelief, roars from the sheer audacity of the move. Marco exhales, then stands back up straight, still smiling but different.
“He tried to mirror the crows signature angle shot, just look at that form. Nearly sticking the landing but that impossible control stays reserved for Elias.”
Elias is glaring from his seat, lip curling just slightly. Looking almost relieved.
“Not bad,” he murmurs, barely audible for the mic. “But that move will be difficult to copy.”
Marco doesn’t react. His eyes are fixed on his lane. He steps back up, resets, and drills the spare clean.
“Pride speaks loudly, mastery does not need to speak at all.” Jonas finally speaks. Standing from his seat.
He steps onto the lane and like a glove he puts his hand on the ball. Arms bulging in the sleeves of his shirt. Body standing slightly bent, he moves. Automatic, he shoots another missile down the lane straight unwavering.
Strike. The scoreboard ignites. Marco 68, and falling further behind.
Frame Five.
The match rolls on, pace speeding up.
Alexander opens with a strike with barely any effort. Elias fires back, matching the champ. The crowd feels it, two giants locked in a zone neither willing to budge.
Jonas follows with a strike of his own, another power shot down the lane. Marco, unbothered, shoots a beautiful arc from the left side. Not quite the trickshot but still just as flashy. Another strike buried.
Frame Six.
Strike.
Strike.
Alexander and Elias keep trading blows, the scoreboard rising in identical lines. No mistakes. No cracks.
Marco settles into himself, shooting a strike of his own, but the gap stays still. Jonas is a machine, another perfect line, same tempo
Frame Seven.
Alexander: Strike.
Elias: Strike.
The tension is absolute, electric. Alexander is trailing right behind Elias.
Marco answers with a strike of his own, but without a miss. He will lose. Marco eyes Jonas walk up the rack. “Careful, clockwork,” he mutters, just loud enough for the arena to hear from the mic. “One miss and you’re in shark infested waters.”
Jonas doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pay it mind. The ball slides into his hands like normal. Marco smirks, standing up. “C’mon big guy” he adds.
The crowd joins in with the banter but Jonas is unfazed. He powers into the lane and launches the ball. Strike. The streak continues.
Marco exhales and shrugs. The seed of tension is being planted, all he needs is One misstep, one distraction.
Frame Eight.
Alexander steps up, sweat beading at his temple. Both him and Elias have taken no breaths between shots. He still rolls, the release smashes into the pins. It’s just not quite the same though, the snap is softer.
Elias follows, the sheen of sweat on him clenching his clothes. He lines up in the middle this time, his form is more traditional. Both hands are on the ball, left on the side, right holding with four fingers.
He takes a cautious approach, keeping the ball close to him. Then just before his last two steps, he swings his arm back to top. The ball jerks from his wrist into a steady forward roll. At first it looks like it will stay forward but it wobbles just to the right.
Pins clatter amongst each other, two then four, until six are down. Four stand strong. Two upfront on the left side and two in the back left side. Elias clenches his fist tight until the knuckles start to turn white.
He heads to the rack to pick up the next ball. Then slams his first down on it, repeatedly.
“Shit. Shit. Shit” he curses. “It has to be perfect. It has to be.”
He snatches his spare ball and lines up on the left, squared straight at the pins. He does the same approach but the ball jets harder this time. It crashes into the first set of pins sending them scattering. The ball gets knocked off balance, deflecting left and clipping on one of the final pins.
204. Elias Marlowe, his lead remains but it’s no longer comfortable.
Marco steps up, eyes locked on his lane. He’s picked up Jonas’ ball again and with perfect replica he shoots a rocket down the hardwood. Strike.
Before Jonas steps up, Marco leans over the rack and wipes the sweat from his brow. Then slapping the slippery hand on the rest of Jonas balls. A silent, subtle ploy.
Jonas looks calm, he doesn’t notice. He grabs his ball from the rack and wipes it down smoothly. Then with even greater power he blasts the ball down the lane. Strike.
Marco claps. A smirk tugging at his lips.
Frame Nine.
Alexander steps up, sweat glinting, muscles tight. The ball snaps down the lane. Strike.
Elias applying the pressure has his ball in hand before the pins fall, his strike follows immediately. Pin after pin exploding under their relentless pace.
Marco does the opposite. He lingers, eyes locked on the lane, taking an extra beat to measure. The moment feels an eternity until he releases. Strike. Then, casually instead of his seating he walks over to sit beside Jonas.
Still no reaction Jonas just stands but he doesn’t walk. He looks back at Marco with sharp glare.
“I did not cheat in my last match.” His voice is deep, stoic.
“My opponent was frustrated with my simplicity and accused me. The fans don’t watch my matches, they just read the headlines.”
Then the big man strides towards the rack, no longer glancing back. When he lines up in the center, it’s not different from the last roll. Every habit, every movement, instinctual.
He rolls with the same automatic motion but something is off. The ball slips a fraction too early, and his powerful release sends it toward the left gutter.
Jonas’s eyes widen, genuine surprise.
The ball falls in. 0.
Marco grins from the side as the crowd erupts. The trap was set and executed perfectly. Jonas is the first to score a gutter in the tournament and the audience makes sure he knows it.
“Gutter! Gutter! Gutter!”
Jonas stands frozen, disbelief written across his face. Finally he picks up his next ball. Marco watches, smiling menacingly, wiping sweat from his brow as he gestures forward.
Jonas closes his eyes, fighting to hide his frustration, jaw clenched tight. When looks back at the lane, his rhythm is gone. He must find his spot again, start over.
The motion seems the same but it isn’t. The ball falters, knocking down only six pins.
Marco has done it, the scoreboard lights up. 222 for Jonas, 238 for Marco.
Final Frame.
The scoreboard flashes, numbers locked into place. Alexander and Elias neck and neck. Jonas trailing behind Marco. The arena shifts. The air is electric thick with anticipation. Every eye is glued to the lanes, every heartbeat echoing in the hardwood.
The crowd rises to a roar, shaking the floor with their energy. Chants, shouts, feet stomping. Hungry for a crack, a mistake, any sign someone will fall behind.
Alexander steps up first. The champ has sweat dripping now, but his face is stone. Elias is standing behind him already waiting at the rack building up pressure. Marco readies himself, eyes lasered onto the pins, mind enjoying the crowd.
Everyone is ready to throw a signature move, nobody can afford to miss. The final frame is tension incarnate.
Alexander’s moves, his feet dig deep into the left arrow, mirroring Elias’s stance. Then the first step his left foot echos Elias, bringing his body in deep. The second gathers the balance for the twist but the flow is faster, sharper. Alexander doesn’t just copy the move he’s evolving it. The crowd gasps, standing unable to make a sound, unable to believe. Elias freezes, eyes wide, mouth barely parted. Even the announcer is caught, voice rising in awe.
Wolfe carves into the final step violently, his final step stomps into the hardwood. His wrist flows like a river snapping an absolute laser. The ball isn’t on hardwood for a second, it arcs straight into the pocket.
Pins explode. The ball slices through the rack with a blend of speed, power and finesse that seems impossible. The arena erupts, not just noise, but awe, disbelief, a collective realization. Alexander Wolfe is the champ. Strike.
Elias steps back stunned, as Alexander straightens, eyes calm but smoldering. The game has changed. The stakes and skill have been raised.
Alexander returns to the rack seizing Elias’ spare ball this time and lines up on the left. Mirroring the last throw but a second faster. Strike. The man dead set on crushing Elias’s pride.
On the final throw he grabs his ball again, settling on the left arrow. Before the pins even reset, he begins his approach. The moment the pins are released, the ball detonates, obliterating them in half a second. Strike.
Alexander finishes at 266. His win secured.
Elias still finishes his set, and ends with 264. Both bowlers receive a standing ovation. Alexander is now one win away from defending his title and 10 million dollars.
Final Score: Alexander 266, Elias 264
Marco stands at the edge of his lane. The scoreboard glows above him, Alexander has won his match. He knows what’s at stake.
Three strikes. No mistakes. Every move must be perfect. He rolls his shoulders, takes a deep breath. The ball feels heavy in hand but his grip is steady.
He steps forward, locked in. The ball launches like a missile down the lane. Strike. The crowd erupts, but Marco doesn’t flinch. He retrieves Jonas’s ball, wiping it carefully, feeling the extra weight settle in his hands.
He positions himself on the center arrows. Every eye in the arena is on him. He swings back, both hands firm. The ball hums across the hardwood, shooting straight down the center. Pins crash. Strike.
Two down. The arena shakes with cheers, for Marco. He steadys himself with a deep breath. One strike remains.
He picks up the ball once more, sets his footing, and lets it fly. The pins explode violently. Strike.
Marco secures his win at 268. He throws his arms into the air, signaling to the crowd. A raw, victorious roar escapes him, grin stretching wide. His gamble paid off.
The arena erupts in a tidal wave of sound, cheers and whistles. Fans chant his name, leaping to their feet.
“Marco! Marco! Marco!”
The celebration continues even as Jonas rolls his final three balls, each strike muted by the weight of his loss.
Final score: Marco 268, Jonas 252.
Alexander watches from his lane, just smirking. Marco is still pumping his fist jumping in the air. The moment washes over him, he’s done the impossible. Everyone in the stands is a witness to that.
“Ladies and gentlemen… What a spectacle! Incredible skill, nerve and strategy on display tonight. We are witnessing something historic, Marco vs Alexander the fallen prince challenges the new king!”
He pauses, letting the crowd’s cheers wash over the arena, then continues.
“These two will face off again one last time. One lane. One chance. For the ultimate prize. The stage is set for a showdown that will decide everything.”
People in the stands erupt, anticipation crackling through the arena. Lights dim briefly as a single lane is cleared and polished, spotlighted under the center stage. Barricades fall for the crowd to join in closer. Cameras swivel, and the enormous screens flash both competitors’ names.
Back at the lanes, Marco wipes off his sweat with a towel, grin fading into focus. Alexander steps forward, calm and collected, hovering over the challenger.
“Slight improvement since our last match,” Alexander says, voiced edged with condescension. “Though you would have lost to Elias or me with that performance.”
Marco smirks, setting the towel down. “It was all a part of the show Alexander but tonight. Tonight I’ve got something special for you. And it won’t be like last time.”
Alexander tilts his head, amusement plastered on his face. “Oh?” The man looks massive over Marco.
“Stay sharp,” Marco replies, voice low, confident.
Alexander chuckles softly, not arrogantly but bemused. “On this lane.. I won’t lose.” his eyes narrow onto Marco.
Marco grins returning the fire.
People from the stands return to their seats, murmurs rising to claps as the lights shift, spotlighting the new single lane center stage. “Marco Hale and Alexander Wolfe, two legends will face off for the ultimate championship! History is about to be made! Will Marco reclaim his title and become king or will Wolfe repeat for a second year in a row?!”
Cameras adjust onto the new lane, Alexander and Marco sit opposite of each other glaring. The massive screen flashes the new scoresheet. Energy builds up with every reveal.
“Grab your seats! Hold your breath! This is it! The final showdown of the International Bowling Championship!”
Marcos steps up to the lane, challenger goes first. His eyes narrow toward the rack with a grin of terror. You can see the tremors in his hand as he skips over the gold ball and hovers over the matte burgundy ball of Alexander. He grips the ball tight, Alexander looks interested. He moves over to the lane and plants his feet deep left.
Left foot first, then right, shoulder rolling in a symphony of rhythm. Hips twisting and back tenses. His arms swinging smoothly behind him, channeling raw energy into the swing. The ball hovers at the apex of his back swing, while his body angles parallel with the hardwood. Then he burst forward with violent pressure.
The hardwood crashes from the impact, the ball spins carrying every ounce of force, speed and finesse. Marco’s eyes are rolled back in exhilaration, his aura is electric, radiating intensity. Every inch of him exudes a power of controlled chaos.
The ball rockets into the pocket with surgical accuracy. Pins explode outward, detonating in a crash of wood and force. It’s more than an opening strike, it’s a statement. Marco has arrived, starting the match like a possessed demon, demanding attention and asserting presence.
People in the stands erupt, on their feet clapping and cheering. The hardwood shakes from the violence of the noise. Marco rises from the position and pauses looking at Alexander.
Alexander steps up, composed an unshakable picture of poise. The arena is still buzzing from Marco’s opening strike, pins are still being swept away in the back but Alexander doesn’t flinch. His eyes sweep over the lane, the crowd and finally settle on Marco.
Pride. His eyes are dripping with it.
He grips onto Marcos golden ball and carries it to the lane. The stadium doesn’t sit quiet for a heartbeat. People are still cheering out for Marco. Alexander revels in the sound, it charges him as if he can’t wait to silence it. He radiates a calm authority.
His feet are planted on the center line with both hands on the ball. He has four fingers lodged in with his right hand. Then it begins, each step toward is a perfect distance measured and calculated. With his experience and confidence the rhythm of his approach is perfect, almost hypnotic.
When he arcs the ball into the backswing you can see it. Clenched jaw, veins pulsing. Momentum building. At release Alexander arm claws upward violently propelling his hips up like an uppercut.
The ball rockets down the lane.
0.5 sec.
It slams into the pins with an unreal amount of force. Strike.
If not for the pins stringed to the rack, they would have fallen out of the lane. The crowd gasps, but this time in silent awe and disbelief, Marco’s heroic start fires an opening shot, but Alexander’s response is a sharp dagger to his throat.
The scoreboard flashes bright. One strike for Marco, one for Alexander, this is gonna be a brawl.
Frame Two
Marco strike. This one is still flashy but clearly more reserved. Alexander strike, an absolute cannon pulses down the lane.
Frame Three
Marco strike, he guarantees the turkey with a traditional pocket shot. Alexander doesn’t even wait for him to sit, he’s standing with his ball hovering over the lane.
Alexander starts his motion for his power shot while pins still set. It releases with a thrum on the hardwood. A breath after the machine lifts, his ball tanks the pins back down.
Strike.
“Let’s make this quick Marco get up” he signals with his hand come at me.
Frame Four
Marco rises to the challenge and lines up a powershot of his own. Strike. Alexander waits behind him. “Not enough”
Alexander struts up, snatches his ball angrily off the rack and before Marco sits down he rolls. The ball falls slowly rolling at a wobbly consistent speed. Alexander turns before the ball lands.
“Don’t play conservative!” He yells at Marco. “GIVE IT YOUR ALL!”
The ball smashes into the pins slowly knocking each one down. Strike.
Frame Five
Marcos anger is plastered in his face as he watches Alexander stand behind him glaring. He reaches his hand over the golden ball and snatches Alexanders. His feet plant on the left arrow bold and tall.
One, he’s stepping in deep.
Two, his arm pulls back and twists.
Three. He releases violently, uncoiling his wrist like a snake. The ball booms on the hardwood and jets towards the pins.
Strike, pins scatter around.
Alexander has stepped onto hard wood behind him, framing himself in the same spot. Marco doesn’t even get a chance to enjoy the moment when he looks back.
Alexander is already glaring towards the pins focused. He doesn’t even see Marco in front of him.
Like a trigger. When Marco walks past him, Alexander pulses forward and builds momentum. His right arm flies deep across his face like he just smacked someone.
The ball spins aggressively fast, it’s a typhoon as it starts at the right most dot and arcs all the way to the front pocket of pins.
Strike. Alexander is in the zone.
Frame six.
Marco matches the energy, this time standing behind Alexander. His golden ball reflecting.
Marco is centered in the lane with his arms pulsing. He takes a step clearly intended for power, the hardwood thumps from it. Next his arm arcs back like a pendulum and his head is ducked low.
His final step he twists and launches the ball with four fingers clawing up in the air. It shoots from his hand.
A second. Then pins erupt, smashing out. Strike.
Alexander replies. Smashing the pins. Strike.
Frame seven.
Marco and Alexander trade again, both refusing to give up an inch. Each shot a special move.
Frame eight.
Both of them are sweating now but neither showing any weakness, another strike.
Frame nine.
The last three frames have been mere minutes, both holding onto their knees for breathers.
Marco lifts and bangs in strike.
Alexander follows and powers one through for a strike.
Final frame.
Chest are heaving up and down, the energy in the air is palpable. The strain from the last few frames takes a toll but both of them refuse to sit.
“Take a seat little prince.” Alexander breathes out heavily. “We won’t think you’re soft.”
“Once I have ten million in my lap” Marco chuckles.
His golden curls elongated from the sweat drip onto the hard wood. He’s at his limit.
Marco steps up to the hardwood and snatches his ball. He’s done with the flashy tricks, power and precision is all that will win now. And so he props his leg forward much slower and weaker than a moment ago but enough.
Then the rest of his body follows the instinctive motion. Like clockwork the man lands the ball right in the pocket knocking all pins down. Strike.
The man lands back on his knees, exhausted. Dripping sweat hard. Then he’s back, ball in hand, two more shots possible. He takes a step pulsing forward but this one much more unbalanced, his form is unstable. The release mimics his normal precision but the angle of his hips is wide.
The ball rolls forward but slowly barely noticeable a degree wide left. Marco closes his eyes not wanting to see the outcome.
Pins start to crumble one by one. Five. Seven, then eight. Nine.
Then the final pin sticks its landing in the deep right corner, resisting the current.
Marco hangs his head but finishes the spare in the corner, a slow dreadful motion of defeat.
Alexander smiles. He knows. His encouragement and pestering created this opportunity. If Marco played safe, the game would last long and grueling until someone gave out.
He’s won.
Alexander ignores the somber Marco, struts to the rack. He grabs the golden ball and feels a new found surge of power.
Four fingers hook into the ball and burst. The man’s legs propel him forward and within three steps. His body twists and arcs the ball back, shooting it forward into the wood.
Thrumm. The ball rolls down the lane.
Half a second.
Pins erupt. None of them stood a chance.
Alexander bellows a laugh. Victorious and confident.
He grabs his spare ball and lands a poised traditional strike. His smile is ear to ear.
He struts over to the rack grabbing the ball Marco missed with. “The fallen prince indeed” he gestures to Marco.
Marco just winces at the words.
Alexander lines up confidence oozing off his shoulders. He gathers himself on the left side, eyes glowing with intensity. He doesn’t just want to win, he wants to crush his opponent.
One step.
He drives his left leg and dives in low.
Second step.
His right leg gathers his balance for him to rotate and pull his arm back.
Third step.
His eyes are rolled back and uncoiling his hip. Wrist snap.
The ball is about to fly out of hand.
It slips.
His eyes fly back up front and are wide, surprised. The ball launches with ferocious velocity but it angles it leans far to the left side of the gutter. Alexander gasps.
It tilts kissing the gutter.
Marcos’ head lifts up.
People are silent in the crowd.
The announcer is quiet.
The ball arcs and shoots back into the pockets.
Pins smash around.
Strike.
“STRIKEEEE!” Alexander roars!
The scoreboard locks.
No arguments to be made, no math left to do.
Alexander Wolfe is the winner of the IBF Final.
The lights flicker on in the arena and the music dies down to a low hum. Officials step onto the lane, a check raised for the cameras. Ten million dollars, printed in bold numbers.
Alexander accepts with cool poise.
Cameras are flashing, the crowd cheers but in a simple acknowledgement of the champion. Years from now they will talk of this, the slip, the gutter kiss. All of it.
Alexander Wolfe turns and walks down the exit tunnel. He’s holding something above his head. It’s not the money, instead it’s his fist, a pump of pride towards the crowd. An acknowledgement of his legacy.