***Bowling Alone In America?- For The NQHS Girls’ and Boys’ Bowling Teams, Circa 1964 and For “Chrissie M.,” Class Of 1964

This sketch is based on a true situation related to me by a fellow classmate a while back who wished to remain nameless so I will use the name Joseph Bowdoin here. And, no, Chrissie M. is not the real name of the young woman from the Class of 1964 that he asked me to dedicate this sketch to because, well, because her husband, her very real husband, is some kind of ex-college linebacker and as a rule, a very firm rule, I do not mess with giants who might take umbrage even fifty years later. Hey, I am just the messenger here. If she reads this she will know who it is about. That said, transport yourself back to 1962 …    

 

Chrissie, Christine Anne McNamara, bowls. Chrissie McNamara, the “hottest” sweet sixteen quail in the sophomore class at North Quincy High School bowls, bowls candlepins that take some skill to perfect. Oh sure Chrissie does other things, things like cheer-leading for the raider red gridiron goliaths in the brisk, bright, leave-filled fall, and doesn’t cheer-lead the basketball team because winter time is primo bowling time, participates in the school play, writes for the school newspaper, has a sweet what-you-see-is-what-you get personality, and is off-handedly beautiful. Not your drop-dead-remote-ice-queen-who- will- need-plenty-of-cosmetic-help-as-she-frightens-away-the-age-lines beautiful but whole package beautiful, looks, personality, intellect, that would have you, hell, has me scratching my head. Scratching and figuring as I watch her reading something just this minute about two rows over from where I sitting in this dead-ass last period Miss Shields’ study class.

Best of all, even if all my scratching and figuring don't work out today, in less than an hour I will get to go past her house, after I have made sure she is walking in front of me, on the way to my own house, and will probably get a big Chrissie smile as I do so. And maybe a “Hi Joey-Bowey” from her as well. That’s me, Joseph Bowdoin, and the “Joey-Bowey” is from the kids back in middle school, and I don’t like it, don’t like it at all. Except from Chrissie it is okay, just fine. Yeah, it’s like that.

Yes, but here is the problem in a nutshell, Chrissie bowls, and if you want to get anywhere with Chrissie, as everybody knows, and has known since about fourth grade, way before I got here, you had better bowl too. You can be Paul Newman’s “Fast Eddie,” and “shoot pools” and have done all kinds of adventurous stuff but if you don’t bowl go slump-shouldered to the back of the Chrissie line. You could be the greatest running back in the history of football, breaking every record and every linebacker’s mean-spirited heart but no bowl-no go. Get, heart-broken, in back of Paul in that just-mentioned line. If you are a nerdy guy, as I am, somewhat, but you bowl, well, theoretically you have a chance, but let’s face it plenty of talented, good-looking guys, who under ordinary circumstances would give bowling the gaff, are, even as I speak, thinking about sharpening up their games to get a crack at those ruby-red lips. Damn.

Oh, did I mention that I have been in love, or half in love, or some percentage in love with Chrissie ever since she gave me an innocent kiss from those ruby-red lips at her thirteenth birthday party back when I first came to North Quincy. Really, the kiss was nothing but a good wishes peck on the lips that wouldn’t count for anything for older guys, or girls either, but for a shy thirteen-year old new boy I was in very heaven. Call me crazy, call me a nutcase ready for the funny farm, but every once in a while when Chrissie calls me “Joey-Bowey” from her front door I swear she says it in such a way that maybe that kiss wasn’t so innocent after all. In any case I have been plotting, maybe not every day, but plotting ever since to get a second, real kiss from her ruby-red lips. And to hold that slender hour- glass figure, to dance close to those well-formed legs, and to tussle with that flaming mass of red hair that goes with those ruby-red lips. And, and… well you get the idea.

But see Chrissie bowls and I don’t, although I have, lately anyway, spent a fair amount of time at the North Quincy Bowling Alleys, the bowling place located downstairs across from my real hang-out, my corner boy hang-out, Balducci’s Pizza Parlor up the Downs. Now those lanes are  not the kind of bowling alley that Chrissie or any other foxy girl would hang out in at night because, honestly, it’s a creepy place where young junior high school wannabe hoods, real high school drop-outs, rejected no-go corner boys, and beer-swilling adults hang out and make noise. But, see, it is the perfect place for a non-bowling guy to hang out and “learn” bowls, learn bowls on the quiet.

Oh, did I mention the other problem that I just recently found out about, the problem beyond my not bowling, my not yet being worthy of that second ruby-red lipped Chrissie kiss. I see that I haven’t now that I think back. Well, here it is if you can believe this. I can’t get to bowl with Chrissie, can’t get to bowl with her that is unless I ask her for a date which is way ahead of where my current plans for her have unfolded, because at school, at foolish North, the boys and girls have separate bowling teams that don’t even bowl at the same places.

Yes, I thought you would see my dilemma. See the idea was that I would start bowling with one of the mixed teams, Chrissie would notice me and notice that I could use a few pointers, would come over and give me those few pointers, and then when I walked by her house not only would she give me that big warm smile but probably want to talk about this or that, bowling this or that, and that would be my opening to ask her to go bowling, bowling alone with me. Foolproof, right? Except for that stupid school rule thing.

Now here is how I heard the story why there are two separate teams and why they bowl at different places, although I might be off on a few points, maybe more than a few and maybe the guys were kidding me along about it,. A few years back the North Quincy alleys used to be the place where everybody, boys and girls, bowled after school for practice a couple of days a week and for competitions between the teams.  And that made sense because it only takes about ten minutes to get there from school. Now, like I explained to you already, this joint is nothing but a run-down place with about ten lanes, an ice cooler filled with tonic, that’s soda for you foreigners, a couple of food- vending machines, a few pinball wizard machines, a rest room I avoid using, if possible, and that’s about it. Small time stuff. Everything kind of dusty and seedy from the minute you head down the darkened stairs right on through. Good enough though, like I also said before for hoods, corner boys, and rookie bowlers. 

But then, back in the mixed bowling team days, it was kept up better and was a magnet for kids, boys and girls alike, to come and bowl…and other things. Those other things being listening to the big oversized jukebox filled with a ton of records, rock and roll records to cry for, and three for only a quarter too. Dancing, close dancing, on the small dance floor that was set up then, and that you can still see all scuffed up and scummy now. And some off-hand hanky-panky, kid’s stuff really, from what I heard, the usual boys copping a “feel” and the girls letting them like has been going on since they invented teenagers, in a couple of small back rooms that Jake, sweet brother Jake, let the kids use. 

You can see where this after school jukebox rock and roll, close dancing, and backroom thing is going, just like I could when I heard it. Murder and mayhem. No, not from the kids gone wild under the influence of communistic rock and roll, or libertine close dancing, or hell-bent backrooms but when the parent police heard about it. That part is foggy but it, as usual, involved a snitch by someone to his parents, or something overheard on the telephone by a parent, or something. And from there to the Principal police, and from there to the real cops. Nothing ever came of it from the real cops, which tells you automatically that the parent and Principal cops overreacted, as usual.

But now you can see what a fix I am in. So Chrissie tomorrow after school will probably be chalking up spares over at those same North Quincy alleys and the guys are over the other side of town at the Wollaston Boulevard Bowl-a-Drome and never the twain shall meet. And you wonder why kids, including this kid, are ready to jump off the rails, and none too soon either. But I still hold on to my dream of bowling alone with those ruby-red lips. I’ll let you know if I work out another fool-proof plan, okay.