Full at http://cheapmotelsandahotplate.org/2012/10/06/the-year-of-the-strike/
[Note: This story is from my book, In and Out of the Working Class. Counterpunch was kind enough to post it recently.]
With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he began to move toward the line. He took four steps, the last one ending in a slide, and as he did so he swung the ball, first forward and then backward in a razor-straight arc until it reached its peak cupped in his large hands about halfway between his waist and his shoulders. On the third step, his arm swung forward, again in that pure arc, and he released the ball just after his swing reached its lowest point. As he imparted just the right lift and spin with his fingers, the ball hit the lane almost silently, as if it had never touched down at all, the bowling equivalent of the dribbling of Earl Monroe, who was able to make it appear as if the basketball never left his hand as he snaked through and around his defenders toward the hoop. The ball slid effortlessly toward its destination sixty feet away, gripped the wood where the oil ended and, now rotating and spinning, drove relentlessly high into the one-three pocket, pushing the pins straight back into the pit. As he stood motionless, his left leg bent and his right hand stretched out and upward toward the second arrow target, Jimmy Beck grinned as he watched his artistry unfold. Around him, the other bowlers, with their nicknames—sky, smoky, moe, pooch, beaver, butch— sewn above the pockets of their team shirts, stopped to watch perfection.
It was right around the time that Jimmy began to tear up the lanes that I hit upon my money-making plan. November of 1958. The year of the big strike.
I was sixteen and a high school senior. I hated school. Teachers kept telling me that I was smart and had a lot of potential. I just didn’t apply myself. If I did, I could go to college and, though it was never said, get out of this one-stoplight factory town. But I was skeptical. I often hear people talk about a teacher who inspired them. None of my teachers inspired me. I thought then that they were a sorry lot. I liked a couple of them. One science teacher was a kindly old man, although his breath stunk. It was said that he had been in the Bataan death march. He certainly looked the part, all thin and gaunt with bad teeth and a pained expression engraved permanently on his face. The social studies teacher, a phlegmatic old woman who moved at such a slow pace that she was nicknamed “Turtle,” tried mightily to interest us in things like the Indian caste system. Sometimes I’d listen, but mostly I would stare out the window at that one stop light as it slowly changed from red to green to yellow, over and over again. All I could do was to hope the bell would ring soon.