Nothing beats a strike from the Brooklyn side

Saturday afternoons with Chris Schenkel, Nelson Burton Jr., and my dad. That's how the bowling thing all got started for me.

A few hours removed from wrestling on Channel 9 (and later Channel 5) and just before "Wide World of Sports," my dad would turn the TV to Channel 7, and we would sit down and listen to Chris and "Bo" talk about guys like Mark Roth, Johnny Petraglia, Earl Anthony, and the always colorfully dressed Guppy Troup. They weren't as flashy as Hulk Hogan and the Junkyard Dog, and they were probably a little doughier around the middle, too, but to my dad, they were just as exciting. It took me a little time to come around, but I made it.

So those two Saturday afternoon hours that I initially found deadly boring soon became something to look forward to. And every difficult split made and flirtation with a 300 game was something to see, even though it wasn't like I could go to school on Monday and sidle up beside someone in the schoolyard and say, "Hey, did you see that game Mike Aulby threw on Saturday?" It was hard enough making friends.

No, the Professional Bowlers Association tour was pretty much just between me and my dad. And those Saturday afternoons I spent with my dad still stay with me (and were briefly memorialized in an article in the New York Times a few years ago--look it up). Which, I guess, explains why I headed out to North Brunswick, NJ, last week to see the PBA U.S. Open Pro-Am. Or, at least, it's as good an explanation as any.

***

Another reason to go also had something to do with those Saturday afternoons. I remember one such day when I was in high school. This was one of those Saturdays where neither me or my dad was able to stay awake for the whole show (surprising, I know). He had headed out off to the bedroom to take a nap and I fell asleep on the couch, probably somewhere around hour 1 of that year's U.S. Open.

But I woke up just as Pete Weber--son of the Babe Ruth of professional bowling, Dick Weber--was completing his run to the championship. I think my eyes creeped open just as Pete was wrapping up his win, so I was still a little groggy during the trophy presentation, which was usually crammed into about 10 seconds so that no time would be taken away from "Wide World of Sports."

As I came to, I saw Pete Weber lift the U.S. Open trophy--a bronze eagle--over his head, relishing a hard-earned victory in one of the tour's major events. And then I watched as that eagle fell off the pedestal and smashed into a thousand pieces. Pete Weber looked down. The announcer looked down. And then it was off to commercial and then onto "Wide World of Sports."

Did I just see that? Am I still asleep? And, if so, why am I dreaming about Pete Weber?

Luckily, I was in fact awake and I was pretty sure that what I had seen was real. I woke my dad up to tell him and try to explain, and I kept hoping that they'd show a replay, maybe break into "Wide World of Sports" or something.

They didn't, but I did actually see it again (probably on George Michael's Sports Machine, which I used to think was the coolest show in the world) and it did really happen. And because of that moment, and his later rebirth as the trash-talking, sunglasses-wearing, crotch-shot-making "PDW," I'd always kind of wanted to meet Pete Weber. I had plans to go to the U.S. Open last year to see him, but his father passed away the week before, so he withdrew from the tournament. I saw no reason to go if he wouldn't be there.

But when I saw that the U.S. Open was headed back to North Brunswick and that Pete would be taking part in the Pro-Am on Monday evening, I had my second chance. And there was a bus route reasonably close to the bowling alley. Game on.

***

Mere seconds after I walked in the door at Carolier Lanes (which was minutes after I finally came to the conclusion that I would not be able to walk across the highway, so I would have to suck it up and take a cab), I started looking around for where Pete Weber might be. But I got distracted on the way by the PBA merchandise area, particularly the shelf holding the bowling pin. Could I buy a bowling pin? Could I get it signed by the bowlers? Could I really justify spending money on that?

Well, to make a long story short, I now have a bowling pin signed by 15 bowlers. And a bowling jersey. And a Pete Weber t-shirt. Raise your hand if you're surprised.



I briefly considered only getting Pete Weber to sign the pin, but that idea was quashed when he signed the pin and immediately smeared the signature. Curses. I actually tried later to get him to sign a U.S. Open brochure, but then he smeared that, too. But I've come to grips with that.

Back to the pin. So, after getting PDW, I thought about just getting the guys whom I remembered watching with my dad. So I got Brian Voss and Johnny Petraglia, and then spotted Parker Bohn III, so I added him to the pin. After scanning through the lanes looking to see who else was around, I didn't see anybody else that I thought was worthy of adding to the pin (all-time money leader Walter Ray Williams Jr. was sadly nowhere to be seen).

But then I looked at the pin, and there was just too much white space. And that's why Tom Baker, Mike DeVaney, Dino Castillo, Steve Jaros, Jack Jurak, Mika Koivuniemi, Chris Loschetter, Mike Machuga, Ryan Shafer, Robert Smith, and Randy Weiss got added to the pin.

I'll pause briefly to allow your jealousy to run its course. But before I do that, here's a picture of me and Pete Weber.



Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

***

I stuck around for a few hours, watching the pros do trick shots whenever tough splits popped up or, in the case of Mike Machuga, whenever he felt like it. And then as the Pro-Am wrapped up (and as I wondered if I should actually take part in the Pro-Am next year instead of just watching), I called in an offer from the Esa Tikkanen Fan Club president's better half, who lived a few minutes away and had indicated a willingness to give me a ride back to the train station in New Brunswick. And soon enough I was back on the train to Newark and on the way back to Disgraceland.

As I was sitting on the train, thinking about the night, I was having a hard time not smiling (which probably frightened the other passengers, but I'm used to that reaction). And I wasn't necessarily smiling at the thought that I'd met Pete Weber or bought a bowling jersey or now owned a pin signed by 15 PBA Tour professionals. No, I soon realized that I was smiling because I was thinking about those Saturday afternoons with my Dad, watching as the ball flirted with the gutter before impossibly curving into the headpin, paying close attention to Nelson Burton Jr.'s tip of the week, tensing up as a bowler's string of strikes continued and hoping he'd make his way to 300. And I was thinking about my dad and me at Ten Pin Lanes in Windham, NY, as he tried to show me where to line up to get a better chance at a strike and me being a typical kid, not wanting any help, but secretly knowing he was right.

I don't have a physical picture of any of those moments, and even though it would make for a pretty lame photo, it's still too bad that I don't. But when I look at that picture of me and Pete Weber and when I stare at the bowling pin that now rests comfortably in Disgraceland, I can see those moments clear as day.

And that's why I like bowling.