Pressure, Purpose, and a First-Weekend Breakthrough

I still remember the moment I heard it.

We were deep into the Penguin Classic, and I hadn't touched a bowling ball all weekend. As a freshman at my first competition, I felt like I was there to support and to learn what college bowling feels like from the inside.

Then on Sunday, heading into our baker set (best four-out-of-seven), our coach read the lineup. 

"Abby, you're in."

My stomach dropped. My first thought wasn't confidence. It was pure what-if panic: Oh my God. I'm about to throw my first college shot. I could feel the nerves shaking through me. I wanted to be the teammate who looked calm. But the truth is, I was scared.

Then my team closed in around me. Everywhere I looked, there were girls telling me I had this—girls who believed in me enough to put their own match in my hands. That was wild, because I'd never bowled with a full group of girls before.

My old team was two guys, me, and another girl. This was different. This was truly a wall behind me. The coaches kept it simple:

“Remember who you are. You're here for a reason. You've done this before.”

And once I finally stepped onto the approach and let the first ball go, I stopped living in the what-ifs. I started throwing every shot with purpose. Somewhere in the middle of that baker run, I found a rhythm. I started striking, and once it started, it felt like it didn't stop.

I wasn't thinking about being a freshman anymore. I wasn't thinking about Nebraska stitched across my chest. I was just competing.

Later, when they started announcing awards, I drifted toward the back with my mom. No chance, I thought. We won the tournament—awesome—but I'm not winning anything individually. All-tournament team came, then tournament MVP. And then I heard my name.

"Abby Starkey."

My first-ever college tournament and I'm tournament MVP? I just turned into my mom and started crying in her arms. It was one of those moments you never plan for; something that hits so hard because it's bigger than the stat line. 

It was proof that I belonged here.

 

 

 

 

 

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A Natural from the Start

Bowling wasn't even my first sport. 

Growing up, I was a softball pitcher. Then one Saturday morning, my mom took my brother and me to the bowling alley for a family outing of bumpers and fun. A league coach walked over and told my mom I looked like a natural.

Maybe it was the underhand motion from pitching. Maybe it was the way my body understood timing. What I do know is that the first hard part wasn't power, but rather learning how to make the ball do what I wanted. Once I figured out rotation, I was good.

And the more I learned, the more I fell in love with it.

For a while I tried to do both sports, but pitching and bowling don't play nice together. Eventually it became a choice, and I chose the sport where I felt like I could go the farthest.

I started league when I was 8. At 12, I made the TV finals at Junior Gold—one of the biggest national championships in the country. That moment sealed it. It was like bowling looked back and told me: You can actually do this.

After that, I kept getting better and kept chasing tougher competition. Junior Team USA in 2024, 2025, and 2026. National championships. Even a professional tournament in Sweden. I wanted my game to travel. I wanted my confidence to travel.

My family made all of it possible. My parents sacrificed time and money constantly, my grandparents traveled with me everywhere, helping cover what bowling actually costs: the entry fees, the travel, the hotels. If you want to be seen, you have to put yourself out there. That's something I believe deeply.

 

 

 

 

 

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This is Home

When Nebraska reached out, it didn't feel like just another call. Coach Klempa contacted me my junior year of high school, and Nebraska was the first recruitment visit I went on. When I got there, the campus blew my mind. The facility blew my mind.

But more than that, the people blew me away. The coaches made me feel like I mattered as a person, not just a score. They talked about belonging. About being part of something.

My mom looked at me and said, basically: This is home. And that word is hard to explain when you're talking about a place eight hours away. But I felt it.

Since arriving in Lincoln this past fall, college has still been an adjustment. I think people assume the hardest part is the competition, but for me, the first challenge was routine.

My junior and senior years were online school. I never had to juggle school and bowling the way I do now. As a college freshman, you get a different kind of tired. There's not much downtime. And in the middle of the season, when we're competing Friday, Saturday, Sunday and traveling Wednesday or Thursday, the calendar doesn't care how you feel. I've learned I have to start early and that getting up early helps me stay ahead of the day.

When we're home, I prioritize dorm time. Self-time. I love my teammates, but being around people nonstop can drain you. I need a little space to reset so I can show up again fully.

Bowling Through It

There's another part of my reality—one I'm still learning how to manage.

I deal with a wrist injury that can make bowling painful: a triangular fibrocartilage complex injury, TFCC, tied to a birth defect where my ulna is too long. When I bowl, that long bone causes pressure in the cartilage area. Over time, it tears more. I've been doing PT, laser work, and shockwave treatments. I tape my wrist. I wear a wrist guard while I sleep. In season, I’ve learned how to baby it while still competing.

The hardest part is mental. There are moments in my backswing where I can feel it deteriorating. And in that exact moment, the pressure of the moment hits differently. It's more than me, it's seven other girls behind me, relying on me to make a shot.

Surgery is on the table eventually, but my plan is to push it until after my four years here are up and manage it as smartly as possible in the meantime.

When it gets heavy, I go back to what keeps me grounded. Growing up, I talked to a sports psychologist almost every week. In an individual sport, it's easy to blame yourself for everything, even things you can't control. Having someone outside your parents to help you process pressure and disappointment is a life-changing piece of advice.

I want to be that person for other young athletes, because I know what it feels like to lose on a big stage and think it's the end. And I know what it feels like, five years later, to be living a life you couldn't even picture back then.

If I could talk to 12-year-old Abby—the girl who lost on TV and thought her heart would never recover—I'd tell her that better things are coming. Keep working, especially when nobody notices the work you're doing on the side. One day you're going to end up somewhere you never thought you'd be.

I'm here now. And after that first baker call, those first strikes, and that first MVP, I don't wonder if I belong anymore. I'm just focused on what comes next.