Pin Action: Small-Time Gangsters, High-Stakes Gambling, and the Teenage Hustler Who Became a Bowling Champion by Gianmarc Manzione
Authors: Gianmarc Manzione
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first he tried to warn Masarro.
“Wait a minute! John, I brought these guys here! I gotta get a piece of the action,” Schlegel said. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Masarro wasn’t having it, so Schlegel turned to Lemon.
“Hey, can I bet on you?” Schlegel asked him.
Lemon looked at him like he was nuts.
“Bet on me?” Lemon said. “Why? I can’t find a shot at this place.”
“Hey, this is action. I bet on whoever I think has a chance to win,” Schlegel said. “I brought you here. They just cut me out, and I’m pissed. So now I’m betting on you. Now listen, you’re playing the lanes too far inside. Why don’t you move outside a little bit, closer to the second arrow, around the ten board, and play the lanes there. See what happens.”
Schlegel knew damned well what would happen—he was coaching Lemon to play that trusty “track” he himself manipulated against Bill Daley. The part of the lane that made Lemon money at bowling alleys in his native Long Island might not work as well at bowling alleys in New York City, but Lemon’s talent enabled him to play the track as expertly as anyone in all of New York. Once he got Lemon lined up, Masarro, good as he was, had no chance against a guy with the kind of talent Lemon possessed. Schlegel also knew that Lemon possessed the very intangibles that made him great himself; Lemon had those things people call “it factors.” He had the drive, the determination, the work ethic, the obsession, the streak of vengeance in his cool and calculated resolve when circumstances demanded that he either make a great shot or lose everything. One man’s talent is another’s killer instinct; Lemon, like Schlegel, had enough of both to spare some. If he found himself bowlinga guy who was as talented, or a guy who had him nailed on a particularly difficult pair of lanes, Lemon was the kind of competitor who willed his way to victory somehow. For guys like Schlegel and Lemon, competition was a matter of pride and self-respect. It was a matter of believing that no one was better than they were. It was a matter of knowing that as surely as they knew their own names.
Lemon moved outside as Schlegel advised and proceeded to crush Masarro. Game after game, bet after bet, Masarro had no answer. The real winner, as always, was Schlegel. Schlegel had made lots of money betting on Masarro earlier; now he was making money betting the other way and advising Masarro’s opponent. Masarro knew it, and he let his fists show Schlegel how he felt about it. He took a swing at him.
Schlegel ducked. Then he pulled a knife.
“You do that again and I’ll have to fuckin’ stab you,” Schlegel said.
Masarro shut his mouth.
“Yeah,” Schlegel said. “What do you think, I come here with fuckin’ nothing?”
That knife Schlegel pulled when circumstances called for it would eventually land him in more trouble than he cared to manage. For now, though, it was one way to make sure he kept his money in the same place where Fish Face preferred to keep his—in his pocket. After that night, Schlegel took Lemon all over New York City, bowling as his doubles partner everywhere they went, and winning at every turn. Lemon was Schlegel’s secret weapon precisely because he was a weapon few had seen before. To New York City kids, bowling out on Long Island was like bowling out on Mars. It took time for people in New York City to figure out what Lemon was all about. And when they did, as was the case with Ralph Engan and would be the case with Schlegel himself, they ran out offish. Nobody was willing to take them on. The gig was up, but the $3,000 they made in the meantime easily was enough to make their time as a duo worthwhile, brief as it may have been. In 1965, $3,000 was an embarrassment of riches to anybody (roughly $22,000 today), no less a couple of street kids barely out of their teens.
The status Gun Post Lanes enjoyed as the gathering place for gamblers and gangsters from far and
“Wait a minute! John, I brought these guys here! I gotta get a piece of the action,” Schlegel said. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Masarro wasn’t having it, so Schlegel turned to Lemon.
“Hey, can I bet on you?” Schlegel asked him.
Lemon looked at him like he was nuts.
“Bet on me?” Lemon said. “Why? I can’t find a shot at this place.”
“Hey, this is action. I bet on whoever I think has a chance to win,” Schlegel said. “I brought you here. They just cut me out, and I’m pissed. So now I’m betting on you. Now listen, you’re playing the lanes too far inside. Why don’t you move outside a little bit, closer to the second arrow, around the ten board, and play the lanes there. See what happens.”
Schlegel knew damned well what would happen—he was coaching Lemon to play that trusty “track” he himself manipulated against Bill Daley. The part of the lane that made Lemon money at bowling alleys in his native Long Island might not work as well at bowling alleys in New York City, but Lemon’s talent enabled him to play the track as expertly as anyone in all of New York. Once he got Lemon lined up, Masarro, good as he was, had no chance against a guy with the kind of talent Lemon possessed. Schlegel also knew that Lemon possessed the very intangibles that made him great himself; Lemon had those things people call “it factors.” He had the drive, the determination, the work ethic, the obsession, the streak of vengeance in his cool and calculated resolve when circumstances demanded that he either make a great shot or lose everything. One man’s talent is another’s killer instinct; Lemon, like Schlegel, had enough of both to spare some. If he found himself bowlinga guy who was as talented, or a guy who had him nailed on a particularly difficult pair of lanes, Lemon was the kind of competitor who willed his way to victory somehow. For guys like Schlegel and Lemon, competition was a matter of pride and self-respect. It was a matter of believing that no one was better than they were. It was a matter of knowing that as surely as they knew their own names.
Lemon moved outside as Schlegel advised and proceeded to crush Masarro. Game after game, bet after bet, Masarro had no answer. The real winner, as always, was Schlegel. Schlegel had made lots of money betting on Masarro earlier; now he was making money betting the other way and advising Masarro’s opponent. Masarro knew it, and he let his fists show Schlegel how he felt about it. He took a swing at him.
Schlegel ducked. Then he pulled a knife.
“You do that again and I’ll have to fuckin’ stab you,” Schlegel said.
Masarro shut his mouth.
“Yeah,” Schlegel said. “What do you think, I come here with fuckin’ nothing?”
That knife Schlegel pulled when circumstances called for it would eventually land him in more trouble than he cared to manage. For now, though, it was one way to make sure he kept his money in the same place where Fish Face preferred to keep his—in his pocket. After that night, Schlegel took Lemon all over New York City, bowling as his doubles partner everywhere they went, and winning at every turn. Lemon was Schlegel’s secret weapon precisely because he was a weapon few had seen before. To New York City kids, bowling out on Long Island was like bowling out on Mars. It took time for people in New York City to figure out what Lemon was all about. And when they did, as was the case with Ralph Engan and would be the case with Schlegel himself, they ran out offish. Nobody was willing to take them on. The gig was up, but the $3,000 they made in the meantime easily was enough to make their time as a duo worthwhile, brief as it may have been. In 1965, $3,000 was an embarrassment of riches to anybody (roughly $22,000 today), no less a couple of street kids barely out of their teens.
The status Gun Post Lanes enjoyed as the gathering place for gamblers and gangsters from far and
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