Diary of a Pin Monkey

By Pat Ronan
feedback@barstoolsports.com

The last thing I expected to be doing as I clocked into my job last Wednesday night was searching for a $15,000 chain owned by a Boston Celtic. But I guess that's life as a pinsetter.

I work at Lucky Strike Lanes, located on the third floor of Jillians near Fenway Park. My official position at the popular late-night spot is known as a bowling Class III mechanic. But the other mechanics and I are commonly referred to by such nicknames as "pin techs", "pin setters", "pin monkeys" and my favorite: "the guy who gets paid to sit on his ass for seven hours".

People tend to make light of my cozy position at Lucky Strike, saying it's not a real job. But as a wise man once told me, "those who hate, can kiss my ass".

My responsibility at Lucky Strike Lanes is admittedly tame, but still important. When you and your buddies are in the middle of an exciting string of bowling, and the rake is stuck down, do you think that puppy fixes itself?

And sure, 99-percent of the time, the remedy to a problem can be solved by pressing a reset button (hence the pin "monkey" nickname). But on rare occasion there is a major malfunction that requires special attention. We, in the industry, call it a blackout. Those not in the know would refer to it as a "hey, what the fuck is wrong with my lane?"

A blackout is when a pin is jammed into the pin-setting turret, which causes the machine to shut down. This problem requires me to go inside the beast, climbing into the machine to un-jam the pin. The blackout is a risky endeavor and I consider myself something of a demigod for dealing with it on a weekly basis.

And I wouldn't recommend touching these machines after a few drinks. Trust me. It's a miracle I still have all my fingers. You hear that kids? You booze, you loose your hand. Although I bet a mechanical, Terminator-like hand would attract some ladies. Hmm...

Last Wednesday I was hard at work watching the baseball playoffs on the big-screen projector at the bar, when I couldn't help but notice some commotion coming from lane number eight. After a couple glances, I noticed three of the guys bowling were unusually tall. Within minutes, it was confirmed. The Celtics were in the house.

It wasn't shocking to have pro athletes in my presence. After a year and a half working at Jillians, I've watched Nomar and Mia shoot pool, walked by Mark Bellhorn after he had just dropped a menacing deuce in the bathroom, and heard Kevin Youkillis call my boss a "douchebag".

And I've pissed next to a Backstreet Boy. But that's an uncomfortable story for a different day.

Seeing the Celtics in person was new to me. I was pretty amped. So I quickly grabbed my throwback Celtics sweatshirt I coincidentally wore to work that night and grabbed a green sharpie.

My opening line: "Hey Marcus, will you sign my sweatshirt?"

The man I was speaking to, rookie Ryan Gomes politely directed me to Marcus Banks, who was sitting to his right. Ouch! I had never felt more like an idiot in my life.

So I quickly tried to save myself: "Oh Ryan, I'm sorry. I knew I recognized you. My brother goes to Providence College. I used to visit him all the time and we'd always see you on campus."

Just smooth. I transitioned from an ignorant basketball fan to a creepy stalker. Gomes just nodded his head, holding back a smirk.

And it's time for this week's your momma joke: "Your momma sucks more than a pinsetter talking to the Celtics."

Gomes signed the sweatshirt. Banks signed it. Then I handed it to the third tall guy, hoping desperately he was on the team and not just a friend of theirs who happened to be 6'8.

Thankfully, he was a Celtic; a pretty notable one at that. It was 19-year old, 1st-round pick Gerald Green.

I had obviously heard his name before but I couldn't put a face to the name. The whole experience should teach me to pay a little more attention to what's going on with my basketball team. It's sad, but I probably would've recognized third base coach Dale Sveum before I could spot Green, one of the more promising rookies in the NBA.

An hour or so after the autograph debacle, the Celtics and their lady friends were about to leave. Green started frantically looking around for something. He had misplaced his chain, which happened to be worth about $15,000. Green was asking around to see if anybody had found it or if anybody had seen someone steal it. Within ten minutes, half the Jillians employees were tearing up the bowling alley to look for this chain. And for good reason. Fifteen grand? That's three or four years salary as a pinsetter.

We couldn't find the chain. Gomes and Banks were less than sympathetic. And I can’t blame them. Why someone would put a chain worth more than a car out of his sight is mind boggling. Anyway, before I knew it, they were gone. Green left without his chain.

But the search continued. For the rest of the shift, I was no longer a pinsetter. I was an archeologist searching for a lost treasure. I had visions of courtside season tickets as an appropriate reward for the missing chain.

But no dice. I went home with a few signatures, but no bling. The chain remains. It's somewhere located in the depths of Jillians, waiting to be claimed by a drunken bystander. If that doesn't get you out to bowl, I don't know what will.

A different story every night. That's what I've come to expect in my experience as a Class III bowling mechanic. Treat us well if you want to bowl. Treat us real well if you want your chain back.