Remembering my days in the pit...
It was the mid-1950s. I was just a kid, working as a pin boy — the human reset button for a game that never stopped. My job was simple: scramble into the pit, reset the pins, return the ball, and get the hell out of the way before the next bowler launched a twelve-pound rocket down the lane. There was no warning, no buzzer, no mercy. Just speed, timing, and a little bit of luck.
The pay? Low. The hours? Long. The danger? Constant. Flying pins had a mind of their own, and I had the bruises to prove it. The pit itself? Hot, grimy, and loud — no air conditioning, no breeze, just stale air and the smell of machine oil and worn-out shoes. It felt more like a boiler room than a part-time job.
Resetting pins wasn’t just about speed — it took strength. Each one stood 15 inches tall, almost 5 inches wide, and weighed in at over 3½ pounds. Gathering three in each hand with still-growing fingers was a challenge, especially when your grip slipped on the glossy lacquered wood. You’d hustle to scoop up six, crouch into place, and balance them just right before diving back to safety. It was part ballet, part battlefield.
Most nights, I kept my head down and my legs up — literally — sitting on the back of the pit with my knees tucked and head turned away, minimizing my target profile. It was part survival instinct, part street smarts.
Sometimes, under just the right conditions, I could nudge a bowler’s score a little higher — a discreet kick of a lingering pin at just the right moment. Not exactly legal. Not exactly wrong. Let’s call it… value-added service.
Turns out, value-added service came in more forms than one.
When the last frame was done and the pins stopped flying, I’d climb out of the pit, brush myself off, and hustle up front to catch the bowler before they left. A well-timed, “Nice game!” or “You were on fire tonight!” often turned a lukewarm tip into a generous one. It wasn’t flattery — it was recognition. People like to feel seen. And I learned, even back then, that timing, effort, and a little charm could turn hard work into real reward.
And just to keep things interesting, I sometimes reset two adjacent alleys at the same time. Twice the pins. Twice the pressure. Twice the chances of getting smacked by a rogue bowling ball. But if you could pull it off — if you could keep pace and stay safe — you doubled your earning potential. It was risky, sure. But it also made the job fun. And more importantly, it gave me my first taste of scaling under pressure — the art of doing more, faster, with the same tools and the same 10 fingers.
Those nights in the pit were loud, gritty, and unpredictable. But looking back, they were a masterclass in customer service, hustle, and entrepreneurial instinct — long before I had those words to describe it.
I didn’t know it then, but I was already learning how to run a business: show up early, work hard, stay alert, treat people well, and never be afraid to find a creative edge — even if it meant kicking a pin once in a while.
