CINCINNATI — Under the glow of warehouse string lights, with the scent of Skyline Chili in the air and Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September” pulsing from overhead speakers, a football thudded into a set of bowling pins — one clattered, then another, then silence. The crowd roared. This wasn’t just a party. This was sport. This was the 2025 American Fowling Association National Championship. 

Yes, you read that right: Fowling — a head-scratching, delight-inducing blend of football and bowling born, as legend has it, from a tailgate mishap at the 2001 Indianapolis 500. “One minute we were tossing a football, the next we’d invented a sport,” laughed Chris Hutt, the game’s founder, whose beard and gravelly Michigan drawl have taken on minor celebrity status among Fowling diehards. 

Hutt never imagined his hybrid creation — which he calls “industrial-strength fun” — would grow into a network of franchised “Fowling Warehouses” stretching across the Midwest. But last weekend in Cincinnati, with six franchise teams from Dallas to Hamtramck strutting to their own walk-up songs and the city’s best breweries offering unlimited pours, Fowling officially entered its varsity era. 

A Championship With a Side of Coneys 

The night opened with a tribute to last year’s champions, Cincinnati locals Kevin Gleason and Andre Seoldo, who hoisted the 2024 trophy with modest flair. Joe Frank, the Cincinnati franchisee and event host, welcomed the crowd with the proud-but-chill demeanor of a dad who just renovated his basement into a man cave. 

“We’ve always said Fowling is about community,” Frank said between bites of Montgomery Inn ribs. “But seeing all these teams here — Detroit, Dallas, Indy, Grand Rapids, KC — it’s bigger now. It’s legit.” 

Legit indeed. The competition was fierce, capped by a nail-biting final between the Jesse Bros (Cincinnati’s raucous hometown duo) and the Fluttering Ducks from Indianapolis, who took home the 2025 trophy after a final pin-drop that had the crowd both stunned and ecstatic. 

Cultural kitsch wasn’t an afterthought — it was baked into the evening. Local legend John Fout belted the national anthem. Graeter’s ice cream soothed the beer-happy crowd. The playlist moved from The Monkees to Gordon Lightfoot like a Spotify shuffle curated by your dad and your coolest cousin. It was earnest, ridiculous, and completely charming. 

A Sport for Our Times 

There’s something remarkably zeitgeisty about Fowling’s rise. In an age of algorithmic everything and curated cool, it feels refreshingly unpolished. The rules are simple. The dress code? Hoodies and team tees. The vibe? Frat party meets community league meets startup energy — but no knuckleheads allowed (yes, that’s a real rule). 

Hutt sees Fowling as more than just a sport. “We’re solving for community,” he says, echoing Robert Putnam’s Bowling Alone, the 2000 cultural touchstone that chronicled America’s growing social isolation. “Church attendance is down. Family dinners are rare. But people still want to gather — they just need a reason. Fowling gives them one.” 

The game is deeply democratic. “You don’t need to be a quarterback or a keg-bowling champ,” says league player and Indianapolis team captain Darrell “Duck” Sanders. “You just need decent aim and a sense of humor.” 

It’s that inclusiveness that keeps the lanes packed — not just during league play, but for birthday parties, corporate events, and even Tinder dates gone right (or wrong). It’s no wonder franchise interest is picking up steam, with new warehouses popping up in Minneapolis, Omaha, and beyond. 

Fowling Forward 

As the Fluttering Ducks lifted their trophy —an over the top large silver stanley cup like trophy— you could almost hear a new chapter of American recreation being written. 

Backstage, Chris Hutt grinned. “Twenty-five years ago, this was just a happy accident,” he said. “Now look at us — we’ve got trophies, sponsors, walk-up songs. Hell, we’ve got strategy.” 

And perhaps that’s the real magic of Fowling. It started as a joke. It stayed fun. But somewhere along the way, it became something more: a new American pastime for people who want to compete without taking themselves too seriously, who want to belong without buying in to the country club, and who aren’t afraid to throw a football at a few pins to prove it. 

As the crowd dispersed into their Ubers on a crisp Ohio night, buzzed on beer and camaraderie, someone shouted what’s become a kind of rallying cry across the growing Fowling nation: 

“FōwlOn!”