Life in the Slow Lane : Whittier Bowling Alley Caught in Time Warp of ‘50s

In that euphoric instant when all 10 pins fell, applause broke out just as it has for 56 years at the Hadley Bowling Lanes.

“Way to go, George,” someone shouted, and a man with “Whittier Odd Balls” on the back of his shirt shrugged and said, “It’s about time,” and waited with hands on hips for his ball to rumble back.

An X for a strike was scrawled on the score sheet and projected in dim yellow light above the alleys. Beer in long-neck bottles was drunk, although not nearly in the quantity it used to be.

These proceedings rarely vary, and the devoted patrons don’t want them to. For a few precious hours, amid the hollow clatter of pins, George and the others cling happily to this neighborhood place, their Wednesday night refuge.

Hadley Bowling Lanes, at Hadley Street and See Drive here surrounded by homes, is one of the few 10-lane alleys that have survived the bowling boom that spawned shiny “centers,” 30-lane carpeted emporiums with video game rooms and cocktail lounges but no trace of the charm or slightly seedy aroma of small bowling houses in the smoky days of pin boys and quarter beers.

Discovering Hadley Lanes is like finding an ancient baseball park and letting its character wash over you.

“Just a hell of a nice place,” said 62-year-old George Holland, a communications consultant for AT&T;, who set pins at the alley in 1955 and has hung around it ever since. Below a gray mustache, he chewed on a toothpick.

“The smallness lets you have more of a chance to know the others,” Holland said. “There’s more fellowship here. I’ve bowled in this telephone league every Wednesday night for 32 years. Only one time did we have an argument. That was when a guy spit wet crackers into another guy’s thumb hole.”

Holland, whose daughter, Kari, is a pro bowler, said he bowls because “I like to be a participant in a sport. And it’s a mild form of exercise and it’s always a challenge.”

Only one other bowler, Bill Mercer, 60, also an Odd Ball, wore a bowling shirt. “That’s sort of disintegrated over the years,” Holland said. The rest of the men, most of whom were in their 50s and had telephone jobs ranging from installers to sales managers, favored sweaters or plaid shirts.

“If this alley closed, I wouldn’t care about bowling anymore,” said Mercer, a telecommunications worker for CBS. “It’s not a pressure thing here like other leagues, where if you don’t hit your average, 10 guys hate you.”

Gary Larson, 38, a stocky man with a beard, sat at the bar. In front of him a cracked red and white bowling pin--a gift from the owner, Henry Carletello--dwarfed his long-neck Budweiser.

“This is like home here,” said Larson, a teacher. “The feeling here is good people. I feel comfortable here, that’s the main thing.”

He said he’d wax the pin and display it in his living room in Pico Rivera.

Bits of color offset the dinginess. The orange of a beer sign in the snug knotty-pine-paneled bar only a few feet from the alleys. The red and blue of the jukebox, where “Cherokee Fiddle” is played regularly. The faded green felt of a pool table. The blondness of the long shuffleboard.

Balls sat in racks waiting for their time, which may never come again because everyone seems to bring their own. There were black Brunswicks, nicked and gouged from all the bouncing and banging, and balls that look like the earth when viewed from space, swirls of blue and white.

Signs on a wall read “No Smoking on Approaches,” “No Minors Allowed” and “Burrito Dinners $2.50.”

Bob Ogden, a white-haired man of 75 who lives in the neighborhood, is the unofficial keeper of the lanes’ lore.

“I went to work here when I was 19, the day it opened,” he said. “It was called McNee’s Recreation Center then. I worked at the desk.”

Six years later, it became Ogden’s place to bowl, which he did very well. In 1938 he was named the top bowler in California. A year ago he bowled a 275 at Hadley’s.

Unreliable Pin Boys

Ogden became co-owner of the alley with Gene Clayton in 1956 when it was known as Clayton Lanes and had pin boys who weren’t too reliable.

“Winos took the job, then wouldn’t show up,” he said. “Half the time I’d end up setting them myself.”

Ogden and Clayton installed automatic pin spotters and put up a soundproof roof to assuage neighbors who complained about noise. Ogden bought out his partner in 1961 and owned the lanes for 14 years.

The lanes never attracted the really top players, but Ogden pointed out that pro bowler Glenn Allison learned how to play there when he was 12.

“And there have been two 300 games here,” Ogden said.

One of those 300 games was bowled by George Kabelitz, who, like the lanes, is somewhat of a relic. Kabelitz lives across the street.

“Still bowl? Hell, I can’t walk that far anymore,” he said on a recent afternoon. His recliner faced the Hadley Lanes’ neon sign, which hasn’t worked for years, a victim of rock-throwing youngsters. At his side was Ogden, who lives across the street and takes care of him, and a pamphlet titled “Natural Remedies for What Ails You.”

Kabelitz is 94 years old and isn’t betting too heavily on reaching 100.

“Hell, there’s nothin’ to live for,” he said. “I can’t bowl anymore.”

But in his loud, throaty voice there was a playfulness that disguised any sadness over his predicament.

Quit When He Was 80

“I started bowling in 1898,” he said, “but I quit (at age 80) after I had an eye operation and started falling down.”

Hearing aids hung from both of his ears. He wore suspenders and thick glasses. His hands were huge, with thick fingers that he once wedged into two-finger bowling balls.

His perfect night in 1945 is still a fresh memory.

“Everybody in the house went crazy and we all drank beer,” said Kabelitz, who was a welder than. “Then I left a 7-10 split on my first ball in the next game.”

Kabelitz laughed.

“How many hours of sleep did we lose over there, Bob? How many times did we go broke bowling pot (money) games till 3 in the morning?

Ogden, who couldn’t remember how many times, mentioned that Kabelitz still has a bowling ball.

“Shoes too!” Kabelitz boomed. “In the back, ready to go. But the old man isn’t ready. Old age does that to you somehow.”

Wednesday night was winding down. The Odd Balls were getting beat by the High Counts.

Holland, who in younger years carried a 190 average, struggled: 157, 148, 135.

“I don’t think I’ll take this sheet home and show it to my wife,” he said.

The alleys were now dark. Off came the shoes, on went the jackets.

“Seven Year Ache” played on the jukebox.

The bartender collected the beer bottles that sat in holes cut in a long, wood table. Not all of them were occupied. Some contained coffee cups. “See ya next week,” the bowlers told one another.

“This is how it all ends,” Holland said. “Everybody splits. Everyone’s gotten old. We used to never get home until 2. There used to be a lot of heavy beer drinkers here, but we all had to give it up for one reason or another. Now I eat Hershey kisses instead. But I don’t miss it too much. I have as much fun as I ever did and now I remember it.”

Holland put two balls, his towel and shoes in a bag and walked out into the chilly night.