Not many people can watch a bowling match. About 250 were sitting last week in the little L-shaped stand extemporized behind and down one side of Dwyer's Broadway alleys in Manhattan, watching Joe Falcaro and Joe Scribner shoot for the world's championship. An exciting moment had arrived, a climax that had been nine days brewing, half the time in Detroit, where the match started, but Scribner paid no attention to the shouts that followed each little wooden thunderstorm as his strikes took the pins. A tall, tightlipped, plainly dressed fellow, looking more like...
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