My father never took me to Disneyland. It was new then, and reasonably priced, but it was south, deep in the middle of the LA basin — not a place where my father was comfortable. I understood that, and really didn’t expect it.

My best friend’s father once took his family to Yosemite National Park and came back with a small tabletop clock featuring a black bear and a brass plaque with the word Yosemite on it. I had never heard of the place, and I read it as “Yose-might.”

We never went there either. It was still sort of southeast, and too crowded. My father liked open space.

Not all families are structured the same way, but I think there has been a general shift over time. In one style, the adults do what they want, and the children are invited along. At the other extreme, the family revolves around the children’s activities, while the parents watch from the sidelines.

I was raised mostly in the former, and raised my own kids mostly in the latter.

When I think about my father, I remember a man who had once been a standout athlete — boxing, football, baseball. A college ticket that never got punched because of the Depression.

By the time I came along, the last born in the family, he was older. He had become a fisherman, a car camper, and a bowler. And as a child, I was invited into all of those worlds.

From age four to twelve, my father bowled in leagues at different local bowling alleys. For many of those years, it was three different leagues: Wednesday night, Friday night, and Saturday night. At four years old, I took naps to the sound of bowling pins crashing.

As I got older, I explored the alleys themselves, each one vastly different, built in different decades. The oldest had a pool hall on the second floor. The newest had a game room dedicated to pinball machines, and an actual restaurant. The middle-aged ones carried that familiar 1950s look — automatic pinsetters beneath classic overhead transparencies.

The Richmond Bowl was my favorite, and the oldest of them all. It still had a half-dozen teenagers at the back of the alley manually setting pins, my older brother among them.

I still remember the smoke, the talk, and the crack of billiard balls.

Sometimes I would forget where my mother was sitting. I learned not to look for her. It was easier to look for my father.

There could be thirty lanes, all full, with two to four bowlers on each lane, but I only watched for one man.

A six-foot-tall man standing at the ready line, the ball held at his chest. As he stepped forward, the ball would rise above his head in both hands. No other bowler did that.

Another step, and the ball dropped into a full three-quarter backswing. Another step into a forward swing an inch above the floor. A slight twist and release sent the ball in a left-arching curve toward the pocket behind the first pin.

Then chaos.

That was my father.

And my mother watching nearby.

He rolled more than a few 300 games during his years in the leagues. But he was especially proud of the “Eleven in a Row” plaque he kept on the wall.

It was a small silver plaque, about the size of a credit card, engraved with his name, the date, and a scoring graphic showing eleven strikes and a spare.

The odd thing was that the first frame had been the spare. The next eleven shots were all strikes.

He never could be perfect at the game, but he could finish perfectly, without choking.

I have that plaque now, along with the 1947–48 championship bowling ring that I wear every day.

I rarely bowl.

I don’t need to.