Back Page ALLEY OOPS

The kid from New York came to town and he wanted to be impressed. The vicious ice storm upon his arrival the weekend before had already given rise to the 79th Street cynic in him. “Sunbelt,” he jeered. “Heh, heh, heh.” And worse, the barbecue the night before had been a disaster – the waitresses wore cowgirl outfits and the sauce was like old ketchup. “The land of bar-beeeee-cue?” the kid scoffed. “I can get a better chopped beef at Nathan’s, for Chrissake.”

It was Tuesday. “So what are we going to do tonight?” he taunted. “Go window shopping at Neiman-Marcus? Heh, heh, heh. Watch reruns of the Cowboy cheerleaders? Heh, heh.”

I wasn’t panicked. I wasn’t even worried.

“We’re going bowling,” I said.

“Bowling?”

“Bowling.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Bowling.”

About 10 p.m., we climbed into the car and headed up Central Expressway. The kid’s Manhattan bravado was already starting to wilt. “Jeez, I haven’t been bowling since high school.” (Take anyone bowling and nine times out of ten, mark my words, that’s the line you’ll get: “. . . not since high school, man.”) We took a quick sidetrip down Mockingbird for a look at the International Headquarters of Dr Pepper. This was all part of my psychological game plan. A New Yorker will scorn D/FW Airport, he’ll ridicule Texas Stadium, he’ll ask snide questions about the big X’s on the First International Building. But show him the International Headquarters of Dr Pepper and it’s “Really? Right there? Dr Pepper? Amazing.”

I had him where I wanted him. Out to Northwest Highway and as we approached Skillman I could see the massive lights of the parking lot sending up their strange yellow glow.

“What’s that?” New York asked hesitantly.

“That’s it.”

“That’s the bowling alley?”

“Yep. Don Carter’s All Star Lanes.”

“Jesus. Looks like opening night on Broadway.”

He actually said that. Now I knew I had him.

Don Carter’s All Star Lanes is at the vanguard of civilization. Nothing else in Dallas screams so loudly, “This is the future.” The new City Hall will be just another classy building. ReUnion will be just another snazzy complex. Don Carter’s All Star Lanes is a singular vision of techno-Americana.

We walked up the stairs of the bright entryway. Fifty two lanes stretching in either direction; bowlers everywhere; a constant assault of balls. Yet the first impression is how remarkably quiet it is. Carpet. There is carpeting everywhere – on the floors, on the walls, on the pillars. Red, white, and blue carpeting with huge stars.

The leagues were still in full swing, so we took a waiting number and sat down at one of the many tables overlooking the lanes. A leggy waitress in tiny red shorts drove up in a golf cart. “Cold beer?” she offered. New York was incredulous.

The team bowling in front of us had DADS stitched on their shirts and it didn’t take long to realize that it stood for the Dallas Association for the Deaf. The game was a little eerie – every strike or spare set off a bizarre flurry of fingers.

I am by no means a great bowler (on my previous bowling excursion I had followed up a miraculous 168 with an equally miraculous 88). But a show of confidence is half the psychological game, so I swaggered out to choose my ball, New York following behind. There are no black bowling balls at Don Carter’s All Star Lanes. The balls are every color but black, and a shiny swirly pattern as well. Each color represents a weight: blue is 12-pound, green is 13-pound, etc. I picked out a blue 12; New York, in a pitifully obvious intimidation ploy, grabbed a green 13.

This is computerized bowling. You place your scoresheets in the machine, write in your names, and let fly. The machine does all the scoring – and broadcasts it on the lighted Scoreboard above your lane. Which means everybody can see how you’re bowling. Added pressure. If you’re 43 in the sixth, the cocktail waitress snickers when she brings your drink. It seemed the only hedge against possible humiliation was to disguise our names on the Scoreboard. Bowler-type names seemed appropriate: I became Earl, New York became Harv.

Harv was shaky but not hopeless – in Game One he broke a hundred (the magic mark for rank amateurs), but lost to my 132. Before Game Two, I went to the snack bar (they’ve got it all, even nachos) and picked up a grilled cheese and ham sand wich. Never again. My first five frames were greased with gutter balls and I never recovered, salvaging only my honor with a 101. New York, flashing that sophisticated Eastern wisdom, kept his fingers dry and won handily with a 128. “Easy money, Earl,” he chortled. “Heh, heh.”

Rubber match. Tight all the way. Pride and several bucks at stake. It came down to the 10th and I had to have a spare. Got nine on the first ball, leaving that deadly ten pin dangling. I let blue 12 go and cringed – it felt left. It looked left. New York was whooping, “No. Off to the left.” Blue 12 somehow nicked the pin and actually slid it, rather than knocked it, off. New York moaned a grievous death moan, as I nailed down the victory with my bonus ball.

“One more game,” he demanded, eyes wide.

“Not tonight, pal. Not a chance.”

“Okay, then. Tomorrow night. We’re coming back tomorrow night.”

“Maybe,” I said. “After we go toNeiman’s. Heh, heh.”