Russ was standing at the foul line with his back to everybody. Wally saw his hands open and close at his sides.
"Ronald," said Busia. She didn't say it loudly. She said it in exactly the voice she used on Wally when he left a wet towel on the bathroom floor.
Ron didn't hear her, or pretended not to. He stood up. He had the beer in his hand. He was not quite steady, and there was something in his face that was not just the beer, something scared and furious and very old, and Wally recognized it, because he had seen it go across Russ's face for half a second on lane nine back in October.
"Come on, Russ," Ron said. "Come on. It's one pin. You can't even hit one—"
Russ turned around.
Everybody waited. The Zimmerman twins had stopped eating their pretzels. Wally saw his mother put a hand on Busia's arm. Russ stood there at the foul line, staring at his father, and his face was white, and Wally saw him look down at his own feet, at the old Bantam shoes with the toes cut open, and for one awful, wonderful second Wally knew exactly what he was thinking about doing.
Wally got up from the bench and walked over to him.
"Hey," he said, low, so nobody else could hear. "Don't. It only works once."
Russ stared at him. Then something cracked in his face, at the corner of his mouth, and a sound came out of him that was almost a laugh.
"Shut up, Nowicki."
"The ten pin," said Wally. He kept his voice low. He was talking fast, the way he never talked, the words just coming. "From the back, remember? From the back it's not a pin in a corner. It's just one guy standing there by himself. Nobody next to him. Nobody's helping him. You don't have to hit him hard. You just have to get there." He swallowed. "Go from the left side. All the way left. Cross the lane. Soft. You told me. Feliks does it every Saturday."
Russ looked down the lane at the ten pin.
"And don't listen to him," Wally said. "Listen to the ball. It's got a sound."
He went back to the bench and sat down. He didn't look at Ron Kubiak. He looked at Russ.