PIN ACTION
SMALL-TIME GANGSTERS,
HIGH-STAKES GAMBLING,
AND THE TEENAGE HUSTLER
WHO BECAME A
BOWLING CHAMPION
GIANMARC MANZIONE
PEGASUS BOOKS
NEW YORK LONDON
In memory of John Mazzio and Kenny Barber
CONTENTS
Preface
1 A Fish in Philadelphia
2 The Guns of Avenue M
3 Central
4 The Road to Buffalo
5 The Bicentennial Kid
6 The Gorillas of Vancouver
7 Shrugging off the Monkey
8 The Last Great Action Match
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Notes
Illustrations
About the Author
PREFACE
Some people ask me how a guy with an MFA in poetry ended up writing a book about bowling alleys full of gambling gangsters. I have never found an adequate explanation for that divorce between the two poles of my existence—one, the kid who squandered his childhood in the bowling alleys of Brooklyn; the other, the college student who fell in love with books as his bowling balls gathered dust in his dad’s garage.
No experience heightened that discordancy more than the writing of this book. Particularly toward the end, while I was teaching English and creative writing at College of Central Florida, one night I would be studying spondaic substitution in “Fra Lippo Lippi” and the next I would be banging away at stories about gamblers and gangsters who troubled the bowling alleys of Brooklyn and beyond.
When I was a student at Manhattan College, I used to bowl Monday night leagues in Brooklyn at Maple Lanes on the corner of 60th Street and 16th Ave., a place made famous by legendary action bowlers such as Richie Hornreich long before I came into this world. I used to take a book with me and read between shots, usually new volumes of poems by contemporary poets such as Philip Levine or Denise Levertov. After I bowled a 300 game there on November 13, 2000, some of the guys I bowled with told me maybe they would start reading, too. Look what it was doing for me!
Then they did what guys did for so many action bowlers back in the day—they gave me a moniker. Mine was “Shakespeare”—you know, the Michael Jordan of books. I myself was no action bowler—by 2000, action bowling as it was known in the 1960s had faded into an obscure collection of characters and stories—but this tradition of giving names that represented what made guys tick was one that still held strong in the Brooklyn alleys. “Shakespeare” was not bad, but it also was not nearly as interesting as some of the monikers attributed to those who roamed the underworld that was 1960s action bowling—names like One Finger Benny, Tony Sideweight, Bernie Bananas, and so many more.
Maple Lanes was closed down in 2013 to be replaced by apartment buildings and a synagogue. In 2006, Leemark Lanes on 88th Street between 4th Ave. and 5th Ave. closed down to be replaced by a six-story parking structure for customers of Century 21, one of many retailers on 86th Street whose revolving doors and sales signs distinguish one of the busiest shopping districts in Bay Ridge. Leemark was a place where many wise old men taught me as much about bowling as they taught me about life; to see it vanish was a crushing blow for me and for the many people who also made cherished memories there over the years. The list of bowling alleys that once speckled the five boroughs but are no longer standing easily could fill at least a full page or two of this book. And that is the reason I wanted to write it. Pin Action is an attempt to hold time still, to stop it from turning the way things are into the way things were.
Today, throughout New York City, bowling tends to be a trendy afterthought in night clubs that just happen to have bowling lanes in them, places where 20-somethings are as likely to go for a Cosmo as they are to go for a pair of funny-looking shoes. Establishments like The Gutter or Brooklyn Bowl in Williamsburg, or Bowlmor Lanes inside the old New York Times building in Times Square, are jettisoning bowling into a glittery new era where the sport once ruled by Don Carter and Dick Weber now is ruled by celebrity chefs and craft cocktails. Pin Action memorializes the world where you kept score by hand, an all-night match left you with a bloated and bleeding bowler’s thumb by sunrise, and a combination of tobacco and lane oil smudged your calloused fingertips.
That is the world I began to learn about when I spent long afternoons listening to the avuncular and salty-haired regulars at Leemark and Maple talk about the old days. I was 11 years old at the time. The guys would tell me, for instance, about a bowling alley that once existed down a stairway accessible from the Fortway Theatre in Dyker Heights, how that was where Brooklyn’s own Johnny Petraglia, one of the sport’s overarching legends, started turning the heads of sharks and shysters with his talent at age 14. By the time I was growing up near Dyker Heights, that place next to the theatre where Petraglia once made waves was a gun range, its historical significance in sports history completely effaced. The theatre itself, where I had gone to see many movies with my cinephile father over the years, closed down in 2005. A Chinese supermarket took its place in 2007.
Names other than Petraglia’s would find their way into the stories I heard at Leemark and Maple. Names like Richie Hornreich, Mike Limongello, Mark Roth, Ernie Schlegel, Mike Chiuchiolo, Kenny Barber, Ira “The Whale” Katz, Hank Burrough, Dirty Willie, Frank Medici, Psycho Dave, and so many others. It all sounded like some page torn out of a Jimmy Breslin book. But this was real; these were real people, real lives, and they had passed through the very place where I first got acquainted with the sport of bowling in the distant aftermath of so much sordid history.
I could tell from the looks in the eyes of those who told me about these characters and their stories that there was a lot more to those guys than a name. In pro shops around town I gazed in awe at memorabilia like bowling balls with Mark Roth’s signature on them as if I had discovered the signature of God. I still was too young to really understand why I felt that way back then; I only had the impression that something very big had happened there long before I came around. The more time went on the more I wanted to know about it. And the more bowling drifted into the background of my blooming love affair with literature and writing as I got older, the more I realized I was developing an ability to communicate my passion for the subculture into which my childhood immersed me. Pin Action is the culmination of that discovery.
As the stories that had absorbed me back when I was a kid listening to the old guys at Brooklyn bowling alleys lingered with me over the years, I developed an insatiable desire to know more about the New York City my parents and grandparents knew. I wanted to know about what things were like back before the 802 Club on 64th Street and 8th Ave. in Brooklyn—where Saturday Night Fever was filmed—became a medical building. I wanted to know more about the New York where Melody Lanes in Sunset Park was not yet the only place in southwest Brooklyn where you could bring the kids for a few games of bowling on a Sunday afternoon. What was it like when bowling alleys were as plentiful in New York City as the newsstands (remember those?).
I started asking around, beginning with my parents, and, much later, the action bowlers, whose stories I tell in this book. The things they told me gave me a glimpse of the way things were, just as the old guys at Leemark and Maple had back in my childhood, and I was hooked. This book started storming within me, and I felt as though I never would forgive myself if I failed to let it out.
I once ask
ed former action bowler Red Bassett, for instance, about the 802 Club.
“When we were kids hanging out in Bay Ridge, we would sneak into the 802,” he told me. “The owner would see us and scream at us and kick us out. But after Johnny did a lot of good things on tour, oh, now they couldn’t get enough of us! Then we were something, ya know, and I just went along.”
Memories like that one are scraps of an irretrievable past I tried to salvage here in the pages of Pin Action. Bassett and so many others left pieces of themselves somewhere back in the bygone world that colors the pages of this book; I only hope I have done at least some justice to the time and place they knew. And so, reader, welcome back to the past. If it is even remotely as much fun for you to read about as it was for me to write about, then the journey will have been well worth the trip for both of us.
1
A FISH IN PHILADELPHIA
The first time eighteen-year-old Ernie Schlegel and his posse stepped inside Jimmy Dykes Lanes looking for action, the name of the place itself should have been their first clue about the kind of night they were in for. A famed ballplayer-turned-manager for the Philadelphia Athletics, Dykes was a hardscrabble Philly kid whose wrists grew as strong as a bull’s legs from working as a pipe fitter. As a manager, he spewed such venom at umpires over balls and strikes that fans were almost as likely to witness his ejection as they were to witness a ground-out to short.
But on this particular night it wasn’t just the streets of Philadelphia and their assorted characters that Schlegel and the boys faced; it was a part of town down on Route 1 in south Jersey that they knew better than to visit again by the time the night was through. They knew better than to do a lot of things by then. They knew to call it quits when they were ahead. They knew not to take small-time bets from gamblers who will mug you at knifepoint if they lose. And they knew you only humiliate a man in his own house if you have enough weapons to make it out alive.
Such were the lessons you learned late at night in the bowling alleys of Philly and south Jersey in 1962, places Schlegel prowled in the back of Toru Nagai’s slick black Cadillac with his enterprising sidekick, Steve Harris, in tow. Nagai, a diminutive Japanese restaurateur who ran a sandwich shop near Columbia University, chauffeured Schlegel to big-money matches out of state on weekends like a horse breeder cashing in on his prized pony. Harris, twenty, was a street-wise Jewish kid with horn-rimmed glasses who grew up on the same tough streets as Schlegel. When he still lived with his parents, his mother threatened to lock him out of the house if he kept coming home in the middle of the night. Harris, who never turned down a chance to bet on Schlegel whenever he hit the lanes, went out anyway. He once came home to find the chain of his mother’s apartment door locked, his mother standing on the other side lambasting him for being a hoodlum and refusing to open the door. Harris went back out into the streets and rode the subway the rest of the night.
Harris made an uninspired attempt at the life of a nine-to-fiver by picking up odd jobs as a mail boy for the Baumritter furniture company, which later became Ethan Allen; working for his father as an exterminator; trying and failing to complete classes at New York University and The City University of New York. Harris had little interest in college. He grew up boarding buses with his buddies and heading off to Newark to see the stripper Tempest Storm perform at Minsky’s Burlesque at age 16. They once caught her bra in the crowd. The Minsky’s in Times Square had been closed down in 1942 by Mayor La Guardia, but no amount of distance was great enough to keep Harris and his friends from doing what had to be done to tell their friends they had gotten their hands on Tempest Storm’s bra. The Minsky’s Harris and his buddies knew in 1956 was a place that mingled comedians with strippers while guys sold candy in the aisles between acts as a band played. Later, when Harris’s parents gave him $250 to register for those classes at CUNY, he took it to the horse track in Yonkers and blew it all. He then put on a farce that lasted for months: He gathered a bundle of books each morning in conspicuous view of his parents and headed out—seemingly to school. They had no idea their money had gone to the ponies, or that the “school” he learned in had little to do with books but everything to do with life. It was a school Harris attended in the poker rooms, horse tracks, bowling alleys and goulash houses of New York City.
Schlegel, for his part, did pick up a job for $48 a week at the Benrus Watch Company store where his mother worked as a clerk. One day, he fell asleep standing up, about eight weeks into the gig, and that was the last time he tried to squeeze a round peg into the square hole of the lives his parents lived. Schlegel knew as well as Harris that the real money was made in the bowling alleys out in Jersey or somewhere in Brooklyn or the Bronx, where he pulled in the cash he would later stuff in his sock drawer at home. He had some explaining to do the day his mother found that stockpile of cash while putting away his clothes. That was the day she realized her son already had a job, and it had nothing to do with selling watches. He persuaded her that you don’t always need to pull a menial paycheck working hours in a factory to get by. The smart ones made their own hours and called nobody “boss.” Schlegel was one of the smart ones, he insisted. The point was not that kids like Schlegel and Harris were making so much more money gambling than they might have made with honest jobs, though that certainly was true on good nights. The point was that gambling afforded them an opportunity to make as much money doing what they wanted to as they would have made doing what they had to. Schlegel and Harris watched their parents do what they had to; when they discovered a way to get paid for doing what they wanted to, they discovered the rest of their lives.
Even when they did take on day jobs, as Harris did for a few years when he became an assistant in his father’s exterminating business, they still found ways of squeezing more money out of a day’s work than most. Shop owners would see Harris walking up the block with the case that identified him as an exterminator—a black case with brass handles and three compartments, one that held his spray gun, another with the concentrated chemical he mixed with water to spray, and another with D.D.T. If any shop owner asked Harris to spray his store on the way to his destination, he always happily obliged for a fee of $5. He only had to spray a minuscule amount of mist to do the job, so his father never noticed and Harris was a little richer for it. One day, Harris’s father, who had been saving up his son’s income for him because he knew it would be squandered otherwise, told him he had $1,500 saved. Harris quit on the spot and opened a pro shop, where he would drill bowling balls during the day and gamble through the night for the next five years.
As for Schlegel, bowling had always been a way for him to prove he was every bit as wily as any other street kid. The only reason he originally set foot in a bowling alley was to defy high school administrators at Bronx Vocational High School who told him he could not graduate because he did not have a required gym credit. So he joined the bowling team. The swimming team also was an option, but he preferred not to freeze out in the elements of New York’s unforgiving fall and winter days. Bowling was an indoor sport that promised to protect him from the elements while also providing that needed gym credit.
Schlegel had gotten his first taste of the sport of bowling as a pinboy up in a small town in New York called Palenville, a hamlet on the outskirts of the Catskills where his parents took him during the summer to keep him out of trouble. Schlegel got his summertime gig as a pinboy at the town’s four-lane bowling alley at age 14. He loved the bowling as much as he loved the soda fountain there.
There were many things for kids to love about a Palenville summer in the 1950s: the swimming holes where they could catch fish in the falls that gushed off the mountainsides; the dances at J.C. Johnny’s; the gardens pregnant with blackberries, raspberries, huckleberries, and vegetables kids loaded into crates and took back home. Schlegel entered the garden with a cigarette smoking out of each side of his mouth because he believed it kept the mosquitos away. Bugs were a problem; the leaves of potato plants crawled with them, and
it took as much work to flick them all away as it took to uproot and bag the produce.
Schlegel’s father made sure his son understood that the berries were for his family, not for his mouth.
“One for you and then two for the basket, not two and then one!” he would yell at his son.
Schlegel brought garbage cans loaded with fresh-picked fruit and vegetables back home to New York City. His mother gathered her friends to squash the berries and make jam, which his Aunt Lee used to fill her renowned crepes.
A couple years later Schlegel discovered this bowling thing was something he could do. By the end of his first season bowling for school, he was the team’s best player. He began his senior year as captain of the bowling team. By the start of the bowling season in the fall of 1962, he was bowling four leagues a week. He bowled Mondays at Ridgewood Lanes in Brooklyn, Tuesdays at Pinewood Lanes on 125th and Broadway in Manhattan, Wednesdays at Whitestone Lanes in Queens, and Thursdays at Manhattan Lanes just around the corner from the apartment where he lived with his parents at 42 Sickles Street in the Inwood section of Upper Manhattan. He soon heard about something called “pot games,” a form of bowling in which all participants tossed a quarter into a pot and bowled a game. The man who bowled the highest score pocketed all the quarters. At a time when people might have brought home between $50-$60 a week in pay, a kid making four or five bucks a day bowling pot games had a viable, full-time job on his hands. Schlegel soon heard about guys in the neighborhood who thought they were better than he was. He went to the places where they bowled and challenged them to head-to-head matches for any amount they cared to wager—action matches, they were called—and he found himself eminently capable of proving them wrong. Those quarters he won bowling pot games soon turned into dollars he won bowling action matches. Then those dollars soon turned into C-notes, and he knew he had found the thing he would do for the rest of his life.
Pin Action: Small-Time Gangsters, High-Stakes Gambling, and the Teenage Hustler Who Became a Bowling Champion Page 1