It was a Saturday afternoon like any other—until Grandpa ended up stuck in Little Maria’s tiny hole.

Little Maria (not to be confused with Big Maria, her aunt), newly obsessed with all things vintage, showed up to the lanes with a dusty pink Brunswick she saw at a yard sale and begged her mama to buy. Said it was “retro-chic,” like Lana Del Rey if she were a spare. The thing looked like it had seen more strikes than a coal miners’ union, but she was in love. Problem was, the tiny finger holes were made for someone with the dainty digits of a Victorian schoolmarm, not her Grandpa Tony’s gnarly-ass sausage-knuckles.

“One quick roll,” he said. Famous last words.

We knew we were in trouble when he tried to pull out and couldn’t. Tried soap. Tried spit. Tried butter. Nothing. The pro shop guy brought out a pair of pliers and a turkey baster full of Windex. Someone suggested calling the fire department. I suggested KY Jelly. (No one laughed.) Meanwhile, Maria’s just scrolling TikTok like her grandfather’s not knuckle-deep in a bowling ball.

After forty-five minutes of tugging, cursing, and one near-stroke, Grandpa Tony was finally freed—though he insists he heard the ball whisper “call me” on the way out.

The moral of the story?

Sometimes a tight hole really is more trouble than it’s worth.

And if you’re gonna stick your finger in something that old and mysterious, maybe ask it to dinner first.

—P.

P.S. — What the fuck did you think this was about you fucking perv?

Phil Italiano

Publisher, Visionary, Provocateur

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