I’d rolled a wrong-side strike - a “Brooklyn” - for my third strike in the 10th frame, a turkey. At the last second, it slid to the left and struck hard between the 1 and 2 pin, sending the whole set crashing end over end. The spinning orb skipped and rolled, on a beeline for the headpin. I shuffled my white, red and black rented bowling shoes across the polished hardwood and let fly a 14-pound blue sphere toward a formation of 10 white pins. Now I took aim, hoping for another true roll and not the ignominy of a ball sent fluttering into the gutter. In the 10th frame of an otherwise mediocre bowling game I had rolled a strike, then another.
My kind of XXX was at the South Point bowling center. No, not the kind of XXX you’ll see advertised on top of Vegas taxicabs and handouts on The Strip. I was in Las Vegas, looking for a little XXX action, so I prowled the alley, my mind in the gutter.