Fast Times at Ogdensburg Bowl

Being only about a block away from our house on Hamilton Street, it was less of a destination and more of an extension of my living room. A place where I found cheap entertainment, got some questionable exercise and blew through quarters like a bad football team.

The Ogdensburg Bowl.

It sat there on Paterson Street like some kind of blue Quonset hut relic, a squat, windowless temple of scuffed lanes, draft beer, and the unmistakable scent of rented shoes that had seen more foot traffic than the sidewalk outside Phillips’ Diner. From the outside, it wasn’t much to look at—just a long, curved roof that always made me think of an old airplane hangar, where instead of housing fighter jets, it sheltered chain-smoking bowlers and kids trying to master Donkey Kong.

To get in, you first had to survive the trek up those tall cement steps—steps so steep you could swear they were originally designed for the Rocky training montage. Swing open one of the glass doors, and BAM—every sense you had was immediately put on high alert.

First, the sound.

The crash of a 14-pound Brunswick ball smashing into a freshly racked set of pins—a sound as satisfying as the crack of a bat at a little league game. Then, right there at the entrance, the unmistakable battle cries of teenage boys locked in mortal combat at the foosball table, spinning those rods so fast it’s lucky they didn’t shatter their wrists - or the actual little fooseballs.

To your left are a couple of old phone booths, complete with folding doors and a rotary dial that could withstand a nuclear blast. Behind the counter, a million pairs of bowling shoes in a range of sizes, from premie to Shaquille O’Neal.

There were the off-white and orange plastic seats that looked like they’d been stolen from a 1970s McDonald’s; A ceiling of yellowed tiles, some warped and water-stained from years of roof leaks; overhead gas heaters that either roasted you alive or left you shivering in your lane.

A bar off to the side, with table seating, old pickled eggs, and featuring one of those shuffleboard-style bowling games with sliding pucks.

Depending on the day and time, you might be walking into a working-class unwind session, the ‘Burg’s labor force flinging both bowling balls and beers with equal enthusiasm after a long week at Diamond, Shade Roller, or the State Hospital. But on Saturday mornings, the place belonged to us kids.

The price of admission? A whole $1.50 for three games. I was in a bowling league back then, coached by Mrs. Montroy, who would hover behind us, patiently explaining how to throw the ball "like you're reaching up to shake someone’s hand"—a concept that, when attempted, mostly resulted in wildly flung gutter balls. Finding the right bowling ball was always a crapshoot. Not only did it have to be the right weight, but the finger holes had to fit just so—not too loose, not too tight. You’d scan the racks like a gold prospector, testing each one, hoping to find your perfect match. When you finally did, it became your Excalibur, your secret weapon against the dreaded 7-10 split.

But beyond the bowling, there was something else. Something that called to us kids with flashing lights, electronic beeps, and the promise of pixelated glory.

The video games.

The late ‘70s and early ‘80s were the dawn of the arcade age, and those machines stood like neon-lit gods dispersed here and there, little drug dealers of endorphins, for a quarter. Pong. Pac-Man. Space Invaders. Galaga. These games were the siren song of my generation, and we lined up like churchgoers at communion, clutching our quarters, eagerly waiting to beat that game this time.

Had I saved the money I funneled into those machines, I probably could have financed a small country. But at the time, it seemed like a worthy investment—battling ghosts, blasting aliens, and saving imaginary worlds one quarter at a time - and yeah, trying to impress my friends.

It was a family-run place, too—Ty Smith and his son, Ty Jr (whom we just recently lost), who took over the business years later. They knew everybody, and everybody knew them.

The Ogdensburg Bowl was more than just a place to bowl. It was where kids learned the art of low-stakes gambling over arcade games, where men tried to recapture their youth one strike at a time, and where first dates were fumbled through over shared nachos and wayward bowling balls.

It was one of those places you didn’t think much about as a kid. It was just there, like the river, the bridge, or the Dairy Queen. But looking back, it was a part of what made growing up in the ‘Burg what it was.

And if I close my eyes, I can still hear it—the sound of quarters clinking into a Pac-Man machine, the distant crash of pins, and the laughter of kids who didn’t yet know that places like this don’t last forever.

But the memories do, and have.