It was Russ, mostly. He'd stopped throwing it like he was mad at it. Somewhere in February, in the Cellar, after a hundred balls on a Wednesday with Wally in the pit calling out what he saw, too high, too high, better, that's it, he'd started to slow down, and to let the ball roll instead of shoving it, and to stand up at the line afterward and watch it go in instead of turning away. He threw a one sixty-eight, his best in three years. Wally rolled a one twenty-nine with two strikes in it, and both times the Knights cheered so loud that a lane attendant came over to ask them to keep it down, and Hank told him about his shins in 1949, and the attendant went away.
After two games, the board by the front desk said:
PREP DOUBLES - HANDICAP
1. ZIMMERMAN / ZIMMERMAN (WEST ALLIS) 788
2. KUBIAK / NOWICKI (PULASKI) 772
3. HERNANDEZ / OKONSKI (SOUTH MILW) 769
"Sixteen pins," Augie said. He was standing at the end of the spectator row with his arms crossed. He had worn a tie. He kept touching it like he didn't know what it was doing there. "Sixteen pins, you two. With handicap. You know how much sixteen pins is?"
"Not a lot?" said Wally.
"It's nothing. It's a spare. It's one good frame." Augie looked at them both. "Don't think about it."
They thought about it.
* * *
Ron Kubiak came in during the fourth frame of the third game.
Wally didn't see him come in. He saw Russ see him. Russ was on the approach, holding the ball up at his chest, and he had looked over toward the doors, the way he'd been doing all morning, and he stopped. Just stopped, with the ball held up. Wally turned around.
Ron was standing by the front desk in his Schmitt's Auto Body jacket. He had a cup of beer from the Starlite Room in one hand, and his face was red and loose, the way it got on Tuesday nights around eight-thirty. He was looking at the board. Then he was looking at lane twenty-nine. Then he was coming down the concourse, walking a little too carefully, and he sat down at the far end of the spectator row, three seats past Busia.