It's All Part of the Plan

The one place I learned not to go in a bowling alley

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I missed a critical catch in the middle of my juggling routine during a corporate performance and the prop bounced behind me.

I literally dropped the ball.

It happens—and as a performer—how you recover from dropping the ball makes a difference.

But I was in an unusual environment.

When I was offered the opportunity to be the keynote presenter at a corporate event that would take place in a bowling alley, my first instinct was to decline. That was also my first thought when I was offered the chance to perform in a dog boarding kennel, a campground, a synagogue, an airport hanger, a jeep assembly factory, on a steamboat, and in a wheelchair showroom (as of yesterday).

There’s something about the challenge of having to adapt to new and unusual environments that’s thrilling—and while sometimes stressful—leads to expansive experiences and learning.

That’s why I eventually said yes to the bowling alley.

So, when the ball bounced behind me, I quickly turned to retrieve it and simply continue—because most of the time in life if you just keep going people won’t even realize that you’ve made a mistake. Proceeding with confidence makes it all look like part of the plan.

Three-hundred employees of a credit union were at this new year kick-off party. It was an annual event for the staff where paper plates, barbecued ribs, pizza, chips, bingo, prize draws, cheap soda, open bowling, and an entertaining speaker (me)—were all lined up for the fun.

But the only spot where I could stand and be visible to the whole crowd all at once was right in front of lane five—the middle lane of the entire alley. The guests were crowded behind the seating areas at the top of each lane to watch while realizing there weren’t enough napkins to mop up the rib sauce that was now all over their hands and mouths.

My powerpoint was being projected on each individual LED screen way at the back of each lane, where you’d usually see ads and scores. The attendees were squinting over my head at the visuals, trying to make them out in the distance. I was using a scratchy cheap microphone and PA system that was one step down from a bus station in terms of acoustics and quality.

Needless to say, it wasn’t ideal.

So, I was trying hard to make this all work, and having barely started the keynote portion of my presentation I could see I was already losing them.

The ideas I was trying to convey about professional development were not landing without clear visuals. My words were muffled, distorted, and only half audible through the static that was causing the mic to cut in and out.

I decided to switch gears and opt for visual entertainment by pulling out my juggling balls. Fortunately, the surprise and novelty of masterfully manipulating them in space instantly translated to some badly needed focus.

But as I said, I dropped one of them. Turning around to retrieve it, I saw that it had bounced into the bowling lane itself and was heading in the direction of the pins. I quickly stepped into the lane to make a grab for it.

That was a big mistake.

My feet became instantly irrelevant.

I was on my back before I had any idea what had hit me, gliding down the middle of the lane. I quickly turned myself over and tried to stand up, but I couldn’t manage the slightest bit of stability. To my great alarm—I discovered that my hands and knees were greased with a thin coat of oil.

Unless you’ve ever set foot over the foul line of a bowling alley, it’s likely you wouldn’t know that bowling lanes are oiled. In fact, what type of oil should be used is a matter of debate and discussion on the professional bowling circuit—while the average recreational bowler may never realize that actually stepping onto a bowling lane is a bad idea.

It would be an even worse idea to quickly run onto the lane to try and catch your bowling ball after you had released it. That’s a comical and absurd plan that no one would consider pursuing. Unless you were a juggler whose juggling ball had bounced in that direction and you naively thought that you could easily retrieve it and carry on.

But the moment I confidently lunged over the thin, blue, fault line I instantly became just another object that was designed to reach the pins. The more I panicked and attempted to use speed and urgency to escape the gravitational maw of the greased lane, the more I drifted into its jaws.

As I clawed at the buttered surface to save my life the crowd went hysterical, spitting popcorn and spilling their drinks with laughter, assuming this was planned and on purpose as part of the entertainment.

I had to cease struggling completely to come to a stop in the lane, and then made a painful, slow recovery, gripping the gutter edge of the lane to return myself to solid ground.

The show must go on as they say.

So, I finished the comedy show as though it was all part of the plan and improvised some concluding remarks, privately feeling as though it was a disaster. I fully expected the organizer to refuse to pay me. Instead, she pressed her way forward through the crowd to shove a check into my oily hands, exclaiming how fantastic the presentation had been.

In truth, what happened was absolutely not part of my plan, but being of actual service and making a contribution in the world requires becoming a part of the plan, not your plan.

The plan—is whatever actually happens in reality.

And you can’t discover what that plan is unless you agree to participate, even when it seems like the set-up or situation isn’t ideal from the beginning.

Our compulsion to make sure things go perfectly can convince us to shy away from circumstances that don’t look like a guaranteed success.

But sometimes life is like bowling.

Everything’s got to fall down to get the highest possible score.