Philip Rucker / The Washington Post

NBC News' Peter Alexander holds the orange that played the role of bowling ball in an exchange with presidential candidate Mitt Romney.

EN ROUTE TO PORTSMOUTH, N.H. -- It's not something they teach in journalism school, but on Mitt Romney's campaign plane Saturday, I had to bowl a strike.

The tradition, I'm told, dates back decades. Campaign reporters -- relegated to the back of the plane -- try to engage the presidential candidate they're covering -- in the first-class cabin, of course -- by bowling an orange up the aisle to get them to respond. Clinton did it. W did it. Would Romney do it, too?

To make things interesting, Maeve Reston of the Los Angeles Times wrote a question on the orange. (The flight attendants couldn't confirm where it was from, but I'm guessing Florida, a swing state.) It read, in Sharpie black ink:

"Gov, are you going to let Portman play Obama? Come chat!"

(A question about whether his Medicare plan would alienate seniors in Florida wouldn't fit.)

Of course, the challenge is bowling it up there. The traveling press tapped me to be our bowler, but this was no ordinary lane. From my assigned seat in 14D, Romney's plush seat in the second row looked miles away, and the aisle has a bend in it where it meets first class -- a dog leg left, if you will. A nearly impossible shot.

After a little negotiation with campaign aides, trip director Charlie Pearce waved me forward to make it a little easier. No chalk. No air vent to dry my hands. Just me, an orange and two emergency exit floor lighting strips to guide the fruit's way.

Romney had been warned this might happen. As I walked up, he gave me the go-ahead. With a small crowd of reporters and cameras behind me, I leaned over, took a deep breath and rolled that rock right down the middle.

Arguably, Pete Weber -- with his 33 career titles -- couldn't have done much better.

Romney picked up the orange and read its message to himself. Then, after briefly considering his reply, the former college English major started scripting.

He stood smiling, turned to us and, without a word, rolled it right back to his place in a long line of past presidential candidates. This was hardly "Meet the Press," true. But we got our answer -- even if not a chat:

"Shh! Don't tell (former New Hampshire Gov. John) Sununu! But yes ..."

It is the first stop for dozens of Israeli soldiers and civilians wounded by Hezbollah attacks. But even Rambam Medical Center in Haifa, the largest hospital in northern Israel, cannot escape the daily threat of rockets. Built between two popular Hezbollah targets (an Israeli naval base and the port of Haifa), Rambam has narrowly missed becoming a victim of the violence as well. Three Katyusha rockets landed on its coastal campus in a single day this week. No one was seriously hurt.

As we approached the hospital to visit with wounded soldiers, I warned my colleagues, photographer Brad Houston and soundman Michael Huntting, that we needed to keep our wits about us, listening closely for rocket warning sirens. It didn't take long. Just as soon as we parked, the blaring began. Doctors, nurses and staff members rushed through the front doors seeking shelter. Left behind, a dozen stretchers parked in front of the hospital in anticipation of the next round of victims.

Sixty seconds passed. No explosion. Almost immediately, everyone returned to their routine.

Eight minutes later, another interruption, another warning siren.

Again, fortunately, no explosion. It was unclear where the rocket landed. At least in our neighborhood, everyone was safe.

Eighteen wounded Israeli soldiers were flown by helicopter to Rambam after Wednesday's fierce fighting in southern Lebanon. When we visited the intensive care unit, we met 19-year-old Evyatar Cohen. Doctors were treating him for shrapnel wounds he suffered during a Hezbollah grenade attack Wednesday near Bint Jbail, Lebanon. He smiled when we asked to speak with him. Evyatar's English was good, but his speech slurred from medication relieving his pain. After more than a year in the Israeli Army, this week's ground offensive into Lebanon was Evyatar's first time in combat. He described the unforgettable moment when he came face-to-face with a Hezbollah fighter less than two miles across the Israel-Lebanon border.

"We were both in shock when we saw each other," he explained. "Nobody shoot [sic] nobody. I never saw Hezbollah. Never saw an enemy. This was the first time. I didn't know really what to do."

After a brief pause, Evyatar says the guerrilla fighter disappeared.

"I started to think, I have to shoot him. I have to kill him."

Evyatar started firing his weapon. He quickly alerted the other paratroopers that the enemy was near. The soldiers threw a grenade at the Hezbollah fighter's location. The guerrillas retaliated, throwing one back, he says. Evyatar remembers the second explosion. Shrapnel hurled at him. He still has no feeling in most of his right arm and hand.

His story was so compelling. Despite a decades old conflict between the Israelis and Hezbollah fighters, like many of his fellow soldiers, Evyatar had only seen the face of the cross-border enemy on television. Today, even as he recovers in his hospital bed, he was stunned by the experience that nearly cost him his life.

Photo caption: Evyatar in his hospital bed. Photo by NBC's Brad Houston.