The man picked up his brightly polished ball from the rack, rubbing off all of the oil that had accumulated from his last approach. Stepping back and to the left a little, he stared down the lane at the ten white soldiers standing between him and victory. He held the ball at eye level, a look of intense concentration on his face. He took three steps forward and swung the ball back, bringing it forward and releasing it with perfect form and balance. It rolled down the polished wood lane, toward the pins at the other end. Contact! Enemy engaged! The enemy fell in near-perfect unison, to be swept away by the metal arm which came down to clear the remains.

"Strike!" yelled Jim Reynolds from his easy chair. His eyes were completely glued to the bowling match on television. With a beer in one hand and a bag of pretzels in the other, he was watching a championship match-up, winner take all. The prize was $50,000.

The bowler on television made a second approach on the adjacent lane, striking with that ball too. Jim let out an excited yelp. "He's gonna do it, Margie! Capshaw's gonna take the prize!"

"Yeah, whatever," called his wife Margaret from the kitchen. He had no idea what that woman was doing in there, but it didn't matter. Kurt Capshaw was his idol, and there was no way he was gonna miss this match.

"I could do that, you know," he continued as if her lukewarm response had been as enthusiastic as his report. "Bowling for bucks, I mean. It's just rolling a ball down a strip of wood and hitting ten juggler's clubs. How hard could that be?"

"Right," she replied with a mocking snort. "You, bowling for a living. I'll believe that when I see it."

He grumbled and stuffed another pretzel into his mouth. On the screen, Capshaw's challenger had just matched the champ's double strike. The game was too close to call here in the 6th frame. With only an 8-point difference -- Capshaw leading, of course -- either man could really take it. Jim hoped that Saul Vinson's next ball would gutter.

"I could," he insisted. "I'll have you know I was a champion bowler in college."

"Yeah, 25 years ago. Admit it, Jimmy. You're too old to get serious again."

Jim harrumphed his displeasure at her attitude as Capshaw picked up the 10 pin, quite difficult for a right-handed bowler.

"I'll tell you what, hot shot," she called. "You wow me tomorrow night and we'll both join a league. Deal?"

"Deal." He was happy to have that over with -- but unhappy with what just happened in the game. "Oh, no! Vinnie got a strike!" He threw a pretzel at the TV. If Vinson didn't open a frame here, he could walk away with it. "Jinx! Jinx!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" his wife said from the doorway behind him. "It's just a stupid game."

"No, dear. Tennis is a stupid game. Bowling is a game of skill and art."

"Art. Right. What was that you always told me? 'No points for style'?"

He scowled at her as Vinson rolled a 7-10 split. His expression quickly changed to a grin. "Ha! He'll never pick that up! It's dang-near impossible!"

His wife rolled her eyes and went back into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Margaret Reynolds was putting the finishing touches on a birthday present. Knowing her husband would be engrossed in that silly television program for at least another twenty minutes, she had plenty of time. All that was left to do was to put the ribbon on the box.

Inside the box was an assortment of "magic" items she had found in a magic shop the week before. Having heard his spiel about "going pro" a thousand times before, she thought it would be amusing to give him this box of useless trinkets and good luck charms, accompanied by a card that said, "A little magic to help your game." With a smile on her lips and a sigh in her chest, she formed the long piece of ribbon into a bow and taped it to the lid of the box. He would find no humor in this gift, but it would make all of his buddies at the bowling alley laugh.

For a wistful moment, she shook her head, hardly believing that tomorrow was her husband's 50th birthday. It seemed like only yesterday that he was the young cocky kid she'd fallen in love with in college. Some of his bowling buddies had planned a party for him at their favorite alley. He was quite excited about it, she knew. (She wouldn't admit it to him, but so was she.)

She pulled the box's lid off for one last look at the contents before finally deciding everything was ready. Inside was a miniature string of garlic cloves to ward off "gutteral spirits", a four-leaf clover, several different colored crystals, a plastic horseshoe, a fake rabbit's foot, a vial of "holy roller" water, and an ugly voodoo doll. The doll had a pair of crumpled white wings and a hideous face with a twisted malignant expression. At first, when she had seen it, she wanted to throw it out -- it was too creepy and didn't fit in with the other things in the box -- but when she touched it, she jerked her hand back immediately. She hated the feel of it. It seemed almost alive. She wasn't about to pick it up. A voodoo doll might be funny, she had rationalized, and left it in there. Even now, the fanged grin and leering eyes made her shudder. She quickly replaced the lid and left the gift next to Jim's bowling ball bag on the counter. Then she went back into the living room to join her husband in his triumph of Capshaw's imminent win.

Once she was gone, the light extinguished, the lid of the box jittered a bit, then lifted itself off the box. The aged wood hit the counter top with a light clack. Something rose up from its position inside the box. It was the ugly voodoo doll, which blinked and looked around a little. Seeing that the coast was clear, it jumped onto the counter. Silently, it sneaked over to the ball, stretching its arms up to unzip the bag. Just enough to peer inside.

As the doll finished its strange poetic chant, it rolled its fingers over the opening in the bag, and a sparkly powder appeared out of nowhere to coat the ball inside.

It re-zipped the bag and took its place back inside the box, careful to pull the lid back to its sealed position, chuckling in amusement the whole time.

The bowling alley had been almost deserted before they got there, but now it was a busy, teeming place. Twenty people had shown up to wish Jimmy a happy fiftieth, which tickled Margaret. She had only been expecting half that many.

Before everyone had arrived, the men had already started bowling, while the women sat at a table and chatted. Everyone looked so happy, that Margaret had a feeling Jimmy was going to quote it as one of his favorite birthdays.

"Wow," Nancy Daniels said, leaning in to be heard over the men's cheering, "Jimmy's doing great tonight. What did you feed him for breakfast?"

With a start, Margaret realized that Jimmy really was playing better than usual. As a matter of fact, he was playing much better than he had in twenty-five years. She knew that he would be glowing with success when they went home that evening. It might even make up for her trick present.

Thinking of the present, Margaret grinned to herself, but the grin froze on her face as she thought of the creepy little doll. Maybe she shouldn't have included it.