From Soho to Brighton to Bellevue Bowl

Growing up in a small town may sound romantic and idyllic, but to a kid, it can be pretty dull. Looking back now, it was safe, simple, and I had some great friends. But once you hop on your banana bike, where are you going? Up the street from my house there were open fields, an elementary school, a Methodist church and more open fields. Food choices were limited, to say the least. A 7-11 opened down the street when I was twelve. Yay for slushies, but no cash flow.

The Mecca, by proximity and virtue of their air conditioning, was the bowling alley, 24 lanes of fun. As a kid, I bowled regularly in leagues–three games and a free Pepsi every Saturday. When not bowling, I kept score for adults. Scorekeeping is all automated now, but if you filled the need for another league, you’d get two free passes and maybe a tip. Leagues always needed scorekeepers. Wax pencils on a glorified overhead projector.

The big attraction at the Bellevue Bowl was the pinball machines scattered throughout the setting. For those too young to understand, pinball was the precursor to the rampant wasteland of online games, XBox, and PlayStations. Pinball in any amusement hall featured some theme, the gleaming light beckoning you to take a chance. Unlike Vegas which holds out the dream of free cash, pinball machines offer only more free games. No denaro.

The machines were theme-based, typically sports, like baseball, billiards, or poker. Some were steeped in entertainment–Charlie’s Angels or KISS or Playboy. A few were dedicated to individuals like Elton John’s Captain Fantastic or Evel Knievel’s stars and stripes. Even 007 had several versions, from Dr. No to You Only Live Twice. No matter the theme, they all featured gleaming lights, noisy bumpers, and images of buxom women, all beckoning you to play.

Around age eight, my brother JP introduced me to pinball at Cap’s Lighthouse in Catheys Valley. My parents would stop for a cold one at the waystation there, and JP would play Tradewinds, the screen filled with palm trees and bikinis. He was pinball Yoda for me. Munching on a Hershey Bar (no almonds), I stood motionless, mesmerized at the frenzy. Throbbing bumpers and bells, gleaming ball rescued by powerful flippers always playing clean, making miracle saves on the brink of elimination. The sights and sounds intoxicated my young psyche.

The keys to pinball are simple. Control the silver ball and know where the points are. Figure out how to light up the Specials (free games) and make it rain! Lights and sounds are there to distract you. I’m no deaf, dumb, and blind kid, but I played a mean pinball. Avoid any table with feeble flippers; it’s a rigged system you can’t beat. And never two flippers at once. We called it “flipper dipper,” the mark of a rank amateur.

My training complete, I played a ton of pinball with my best friend, Alan. We’d head to Bellevue Bowl to escape the heat and chat about life. Over time, we mastered two machines, Aztec and Buccaneer. We learned every nuance of both machines, every angle, how to turn luck and faint hope into the POP of a free game.

(If you like a good tale, read this about how and why The Who guitarist Pete Townsend wrote the lyrics for Pinball Wizard from the rock opera, Tommy. It’s the story behind the song.)

We weren’t wizards, at least not in the Harry Potter sense, but we won. We won a lot. Domination. In pinball culture, someone can call next game by laying a quarter on the glass. It announces to the current player, “Win or get off the court.” No problem. Alan and I didn’t lose. We’d rack up six or eight free games and then sell them to the next player. Or play for an hour or two on a single quarter and walk away.

The thrill wasn’t in making a buck or two in exchange for a twenty-five cent investment. We beat the system, stuck it to the man, exploited the loophole, cheated the Reaper, all performed with crazy flipper fingers. When you’re young, broke, and relatively powerless, especially in a small town, it’ll get you through the day.