Bowling Isn’t a Game of Perfect

There’s a phrase I come back to often: bowling isn’t a game of perfect.

It sounds simple, but it holds a quiet truth that took me years to understand. You don’t have to be perfect to be successful. You don’t have to throw the perfect shot, or have the same form as the next person, or throw it the same way every time. There are a lot of ways to succeed in this game — a lot of different choices that can get the job done.

It’s not black and white. And whether people want to admit it or not — luck plays a part. Sometimes the pins fall your way; sometimes they don’t. The sooner you can accept that, the sooner you can stop fighting it and start embracing the game for what it really is: unpredictable, humbling, and beautifully imperfect.

When I was in college, I went through a stretch where I became obsessed with mastering every detail. I wanted to learn everything — the physics, the patterns, the ball motion, the mental game. I studied it, lived it, and thought that if I could just perfect it all, I could somehow eliminate the variables. I could take control.

But the harder I chased perfection, the further I drifted from myself. I was doing all the right things — technically sound, mentally prepared — yet bowling started to feel heavy. Mechanical. Forced. In trying to remove every flaw, I had stripped away the instinct and joy that made me love the game in the first place.

That was my first real lesson in the illusion of control.

There are moments in this sport where you execute everything exactly as you’re supposed to — the perfect approach, the clean release, the right line — and still, you watch a stubborn corner pin stand tall. It’s humbling. Sometimes it makes you want to laugh, other times to scream. But the truth is, that’s the essence of bowling. It’s a game of guesses, of micro-adjustments, of trusting what you see and sometimes being wrong anyway.

The longer you play, the more you realize that perfection is an illusion. You can do everything right and still not get the result. Or you can miss a little, get a break, and somehow strike. The game keeps you honest that way. It keeps you humble.

Over time, I learned that the real mastery isn’t about control — it’s about trust. You submerge yourself in the details, yes. You learn, study, and prepare as deeply as you can. But when the moment comes, you have to let go. You have to “just be.” You trust that the work is in you, that the muscle memory will take over, that your instincts know what to do.

That’s where freedom lives — not in perfection, but in surrender.

I find peace in knowing that bowling is supposed to be difficult. There are so many moving parts: the lanes, the oil pattern, the ball choice, your physical game, your mental state. It’s not meant to be simple. The challenge is what makes it worth doing.

And that lesson extends far beyond the lanes.

In life, just like in bowling, I’ve learned to prepare with everything I have — to control what I can, to give my best effort — but to release what’s beyond me. That doesn’t mean lowering the standard. It means understanding the difference between striving and gripping too tightly. Between caring deeply and needing to control everything.

When I finally started to let go of the need to be perfect, I didn’t lose my edge — I found it. I bowled more freely. I trusted my reads. I had more fun. And ironically, that’s when the results started to come more consistently.

Because that’s the paradox of it all:
You can only play free once you stop trying to play perfect.

Bowling isn’t a game of perfect — and neither is life. It’s a game of learning, of trusting, of doing your best and then letting the pins fall where they may. Some days they fall your way, and some days they don’t. Either way, you show up, make your best move, and keep throwing.

That’s the game. That’s the beauty of it.