‘He’s a Slammer, a Killer’ at Shuffleboard : At the Midway, George Is in a Class of His Own

The shuffleboard tournament at the Midway Bar had just started when it became evident why the man with cigarette packs in both shirt pockets was the favorite.

With his large left hand, George Schindler slid a silver disk hard over the long varnished length of rosin-peppered wood. With a startling crack, an opponent’s disk that had rested in the 3-point area was knocked off the board.

“Nobody can beat George; he’s a slammer, a killer,” said Kathleen Zeinaty, a young woman whose vantage point while waiting to shoot was a bar stool.

Asked how long he has played shuffleboard, Schindler, 61, replied above the din of a jukebox song that had Texas in it: “Quite a number of years, I would say. I’ve been frequenting the Midway for 30 years. There was a fire here in the ‘60s.”

Between shots, he drank dark beer, mentioned that he was a quality-control engineer and revealed the secrets of shuffleboard success: “Coordination gained through practice. You try to get speed, contact and direct control.”

The tournament was one in a series that the Midway holds, offering as first prize a crystal beer stein engraved with “Shuffleboard Champion.” Although the place was not packed--only eight people (four teams) had signed up to play--the neighborhood regulars looked at the occasion as a reason to make their own holiday out of a mundane Saturday afternoon.

In the smoky, fan-stirred air, shouts of “Nice shot!” and “Bob got 5!” mixed with the conversation between two young men at the bar:

Social Report

“I danced last night.”

“Where?”

“Oscar’s in Anaheim; got home at 3 in the morning. Shawn got drunk as a skunk.”

Thought to be Bellflower’s second-oldest bar, the Midway is narrow and cramped. The shuffleboard--a long, low, narrow table--and the bar itself take most of the room. Beer signs and American flags almost cover the dull yellow walls. Behind the bar, goldfish cruise in an aquarium, and knickknacks vie for attention with artificial flowers, a world globe, a jar of pickled eggs, displays of gum and snacks, and a sign asking, “Would you give credit to a drunk?”

Marianne Adrian, a former owner of the Midway, said it has been operating for more than 40 years, “an old town in a modern world; one of the little places left.”

Not all the shuffleboard players are as accomplished as Schindler.

“I’m the worst player in the house, kid,” Jorja Brady said.

“Naaa,” argued Zeinaty, her partner.

“That’s the truth; I’m not kidding,” Brady insisted. “But I have fun playing.”

Brady, 70, lives a block from the Midway and has a personal brown beer mug that is kept above the bar. “It’s chipped a little, but it says, ‘Jorja,’ ” she said, holding it up after taking a drink.

Brady shot, not nearly as hard as Schindler, but her disk knocked aside an opponent’s with a crisp click.

“Atta girl!” cheered Zeinaty.

“An accident,” maintained Brady, who beamed nonetheless.

On the unwatched TV set in the corner, a bowler took out the 7 pin.

Kay Mundy also professed no shuffleboard expertise, although she admitted to playing the game many years ago in New Jersey. Her eyes intently traced down the board before she shot with her left hand, holding a cigarette in her right.

Skill and Strength

The games were a combination of finesse and power. Often, a player’s red- or blue-topped disk would spin slowly down the board, but instead of stopping near the end for 3 points, would agonizingly disappear over the edge, thudding into the trough. Even if it did stop in the 3-, 2- or 1-point areas, it would be vulnerable to Schindler’s deadly slam shots.

The front door of the Midway was open, letting out Brook Benton’s “Boll Weevil Song” and letting in a view of traffic on Bellflower Boulevard. The sun was not yet low enough to get in the eyes of Bob Brice, the tall man with slicked-back hair standing at the shuffleboard’s far end.

Brice, who wore a belt with a big silver and turquoise buckle, was Schindler’s partner and a pretty fair player himself. He has owned the Midway for more than a year with his wife, Babs, the bartender.

Brice and Schindler won their last game 21-15, to win the tournament.

“George is the master,” Brice said. “I’m kind of in-between. That first game, I couldn’t stay on the end of the board at all.”

Handshakes were exchanged and the crystal steins presented.

“The game was rigged; the owner won,” Mundy kidded.

She and the rest of the shuffleboard players laughed and sat down at the bar. More beer was ordered. The jukebox kept playing. An ordinary Saturday afternoon had returned, but no one went home.