Classic Archive: C is For Chicanery

McCracken 3 (the Fighting Tommy Riley Classic) took place in Santa Monica a couple of years ago. Because of the particularly high turnout it was decided to make this one a Team Classic, and teams of three were formed to battle each other for bowling supremacy. Everyone was left to themselves to form these teams—there was no randomness or attempt toward parity or fairness or anything like that. McCracken and his cronies immediately stacked the deck in their favor and formed an elite squad and predicted victory and pooh-poohed everyone else’s misfortune as they scrambled to form teams in the aftermath. Lintinin claims he wasn’t apart of this All-Star team, so I’m not sure who the third member was. It was McCracken, Sterling, and some other formidable presence.

Your author, Condiment, bowling as The Lord Humongous (I think), formed a squad with Fast Eddie O’Flaherty (aka “The Cobra”) and explosive power-bowler Beefcake. The chicanery started with the seedings and went from there. McCracken, participating both as an event promoter and participant, had trouble juggling this conflict of interest, giving his cabal the prized number one seed and forcing my dark horsey (but feared) squad to bowl in the righthandmost lane, right up against a wall.

We were not to be deterred, however, and in the first game put up record numbers for both team and individual scores. Condiment weighed in with a personal best 211 and Fast Eddie and Beefcake rolled somewhere between 170 and 190 (I forget, I think McCracken has the scores). As a team we averaged 187 or something like that, a record that has never been approached. Say what you will about Condiment; these records speak for themselves and will never be topped.

The next game showed a slight skid, but the scores were still impressive. I believe I bowled a 190 or something in that range, but I cannot be sure. Our team average might have dropped to 170, but it was still dominant and McCracken’s cabal, while talking the usual amount of smack, was clearly worried as they squeaked their way through their frail and arthritic bracket.

We bowled the same lane for the semis and won and then two mysterious things happened: 1) Rock n Bowl commenced, right before the final, and 2) We had to change lanes while McCracken’s squad stayed on their own. Needless to say, this new lane employed lead-based pins and a rocky, unoiled surface. Pins were heavy and difficult to knock over, not to mention there were black lighting effects and seizure-inducing strobes that didn’t seem to bother our rave-attending and E-consuming opponents. The final was anticlimactic and we were crushed, with Condiment leading the meltdown. I may have not even reached 120 in the final.

At the time I petitioned the PBA for an investigation and the ABA for someone’s disbarment, but nothing came of it and they outspent me into compliance. MC3 should have an asterisk by it, but I have never noticed anything conciliatory in that regard. Just the usual gloating. It is a bitter defeat and a bitter memory. Some call it a meltdown, but where I’m from it’s called something else. It’s called chicanery and it will be revenged next Saturday. Condiment will get satisfaction…or his name isn’t Condiment.

I encourage McCracken to find all of the original scores and matchups and attempt to discredit this account by quibbling over slight inconsistencies. It is true: I am not a savant. The exact scores of that emotional evening are foggy. But the nefarious skulduggery and shocking injustice of it all and the supercilious, popinjayish, “who me”-style post-victory posturings and preenings of the McCracken cabal—and my clear memory of them—are brutally accurate. Shocking, really.