If the shoes fits ...

Losing Kona Lanes brings bittersweet feelings to many who have

considered the local bowling alley as one of the time-honored

treasures which has been shared over the years.

When I arrived at the Pilot in January of 1964 as a “stringer,”

perhaps best described as a “part-timer,” one of the hot topics of

the day was Kona’s general manager, Dick Stoeffler, who had recently

bowled back-to-back 300s competitively on Kona’s lanes.

The feat, coupled with Stoeffler’s accommodating personality, gave

the bowling alley a magical aura.

The magic faded over the years and Kona’s fate is sealed. Now just

dust and memories.

For myself, however, Stoeffler and his 300s take a backseat to

recollections of victory over my ex-boss, Bill Lobdell.

It was truly a Mutt and Jeff deal with my editor, who learned of

my experience as a bowler during a casual conversation.

I had averaged 179 with a high series of 679 (three games) in the

summer of ’57 with my pop in a mixed league in Pasadena, and claimed

a high series trophy in Riverside on the final night of league in the

summer of ’62 with a 646 when our Graybar Electric of San Bernardino

team swept to win the team title by one game.

For a once-a-week bowler it was better than most, but, of course,

far from the big boys. After that, priorities sent the ball, bag and

shoes to the garage and various trophies went about the business of

gathering dust.

Not long after that I found myself at the Daily Pilot and in due

course (about three decades), Lobdell entered the scene.

Lobdell, the boy wonder at the Pilot, an All-CIF caliber water

polo player when at Long Beach Wilson High School, some 25 years my

junior, tall, trim and very confident in all endeavors, was truly an

imposing adversary. Besides, he was my boss.

And, I would find to my dismay, knowledge of the game and

experience will do little to offset 35 years of rust.

“I’ve never bowled and you don’t get any practice for this,”

insisted Lobdell.

“Of course,” I responded.

It was around 1997 or so and with the big match coming up in about

two weeks, I dug my bag out of the garage only to find the ball

bulging out of it, the seams in the bag wasted by time. The shoes,

still very pliable, looked OK, but the ball felt like it had added

some pounds over the years, about at the same ratio as myself.

“No problem,” I told myself. “He won’t see the bag, anyway.”

And my shoes, which were my pop’s, had that same great feel. They

were black, totally perforated, a very old-fashioned soft style. I

loved those old shoes, although they were old-fashioned even when I

was wearing them in Pasadena.

Off to Kona I went for a three-game set in the early afternoon to

reacquaint myself with a passion I had as a youth.

The shoes were a perfect fit, but the soles were extremely glazed

and hard. After scrubbing the soles extensively with steel wool, and

a few test approaches, I was ready.

I still remember that first delivery. That natural lift wasn’t

there as the ball thudded on the lane and my heels went skyward. I

fell flat on my butt as the ball rumbled into the gutter.

The only consolation was that there couldn’t have been three

people in the entire place that would have seen it. At least I kept

telling myself that.

Looking straight ahead, I found my way back to the desk, rented a

pair of shoes and woefully struggled through three games before

heading for the sporting goods store for a new bag and shoes.

For Pete’s sake, I reasoned, I can’t appear beaten before we even

start!

A few days later I tried again, and I wasn’t much better. The ball

was still too heavy, my lift wasn’t much and my thumb was sore. My

delivery was consistently erratic. My left leg was sore, too,

bouncing too much off the delivery. At least I wasn’t falling like a

lead weight.

A third try and I actually bowled 185 in one of the three-game set

and I told myself I was ready for the showdown. Twice I felt like I

had seen my ball react as I wanted, a hard hook in the last 12 feet,

deep into the pocket with perfect results, producing such a false

sense of security.

...

Lobbing with Lobdell was a one-on-one, three-game series with a

gallery of none, again in the early afternoon.

Lobdell, Mr. Confident and presently a member of The Times Orange

County editorial staff, claimed he had never bowled and after

watching his first couple of deliveries, I believed him. He, too, had

brought no one with him, for good reason.

Frame after frame ensued and by sheer luck I won, bowling in the

140s every time, winning by a narrow margin in each case. In one of

the games a double in the 10th frame saved me.

It was so ugly and bragging rights were hardly an issue.

Nevertheless, I had avoided the agony of defeat. And, Lobdell was

silenced, which was priceless.

I claimed a fourth win by virtue of the overall series score,

which Lobdell couldn’t figure out, put it on a blackboard in “The

Bunker” and retired, to my delight, unbeaten with a 4-0 record.

Alas, there were probably about three people in the entire place

again that may have been aware of our presence, which tends to bear

out the decision to close the place down. Too bad.

The ball, bag and shoes are in the garage gathering dust again,

but the memories remain very clear. And now, with the demise of Kona,

the specter of myself splattered on those lanes with shiny soles

again, has been put to rest.

Bittersweet, for sure.

Hey, see you next Sunday!

* ROGER CARLSON is the former sports editor for the Daily Pilot.

His column appears on Sundays. He can be reached by e-mail at

rogeranddorothea@msn.com