In the heart of Ocelot, Iowa — population 612 and a half (counting old man Dugan’s lazy eye), there lived a young man named Roy Munson. Roy wasn’t your average Midwestern kid. While other boys were out tipping cows or trying to impress girls with their dad’s pickup truck, Roy was inside the local bowling alley, sweating destiny onto the polished lanes of “Big Earl’s Bowl-A-Rama.”
Every Friday night, Roy would sling that ball like it owed him money. The locals would gather around, eating nachos that could probably survive a nuclear blast, whispering things like, “That boy’s got wrist action straight from God himself.” Roy’s father, a humble man, would just nod and polish the family bowling ball — a hand-me-down they treated like the Holy Grail.
By 1979, Roy had become a legend. Word spread faster than a church gossip line that the kid from Ocelot was heading to the Iowa State Amateur Bowling Championship. The town held a send-off parade. There was a banner that said, “Good Luck, Roy!” which was immediately misspelled as “Good Lick, Roy!” because Mrs. Perkins was in charge of the lettering, and she’d had one too many diet sodas that morning.
Roy arrived at the tournament wearing his lucky polyester shirt — the one that clung to him like a desperate prom date — and those high-waisted pants that could cut off circulation to a man’s dreams. His ball bag was scuffed, his confidence unshakable, and his hair… oh, that magnificent 70s feathered glory looked like it could block out the sun.
The crowd was electric. The announcer’s voice cracked through the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the pride of Ocelot — Mr. Roy Munson!” Roy strutted onto the lane like a man born in a bowling alley and raised by pins. His opponents fell one by one, like dominoes with bad posture. Strike after strike, Roy’s arm became a blur, his hips swayed with the rhythm of a disco god, and the smell of victory (and cheap shoe spray) filled the air.
By the final frame, the crowd was on its feet. Roy stared down the lane as if the pins had personally insulted his mother. He released the ball — smooth, silent, deadly. It curved like divine intervention and exploded into a perfect strike. The crowd erupted. Someone fainted. A man named Carl wept openly into his nachos. Roy raised his arms in triumph, a champion, a hero, a god among polyester.
When he returned home, the town lost its collective mind. There were banners, fireworks, and at least three separate casseroles baked in his honor. From that day forward, every time a local picked up a bowling ball, they’d whisper, “Do it for Munson.”
Little did anyone know, that perfect 1979 strike would mark both the peak and the beginning of Roy’s wild rollercoaster life. But for one shining moment, in that sweaty bowling alley under the flickering fluorescent lights, Roy Munson was king — and every pin in Iowa bowed before him.
HOODIE INFO
• 100% cotton face • 65% ring-spun cotton, 35% polyester • Front pouch pocket • Self-fabric patch on the back • Matching flat drawstrings • 3-panel hood • Blank product sourced from Pakistan
Disclaimer: This hoodie runs small. For the perfect fit, we recommend ordering one size larger than your usual size.
