Photo by Michael J. GallegosTribune

Tribune

Jimmy Schroeder gets a hug from Special Olympian Colleen O'Hare of Houston after awarding her a gold medal at the Albuquerque Convention Center. When the United States Bowling Congress kicks off its four-month championships today, it will mark Schroeder's 60th year at the tournament. He was also instrumental in including the national Special Olympics tournament, which ended Friday, with the USBC competition. Sarah Langley (left) helps him present awards to the Special Olympians.

Photo by Michael J. GallegosTribune

Tribune

Bowlers compete in the Special Olympics National Unified Tournament at the Albuquerque Convention Center. Sixty lanes have been installed in the center's East complex for the United States Bowling Congress Open Championships, which start today and run through July 7.

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It was the winter of 1949 when Jimmy Schroeder competed at his first United States Bowling Congress championships.

Back then, the tournament was known as "the ABC" — the American Bowling Congress — and, because there was no professional league, it was the biggest thing going in bowling. So, if you were 19 and a rube from Buffalo, N.Y., the chance to lay a few balls down next to Joe Norris or Bill Lillard was a heady experience indeed.

Schroeder made the harrowing trip to Atlantic City over icy roads with his teammates, all a good 15 years older and far more savvy (and not just about bowling). In his pocket was the $10 bill his Uncle Fred — a lousy bowler who loved the game nevertheless — had slipped him before he left home.

Later — after he'd done "no good" and was tempted to send one of his balls down a joke chute that emptied directly into the ocean — Schroeder took part of the $10 and had a pin engraved for his uncle: 1949. Fred. ABC.

When his uncle passed away, his aunt gave the pin back to him, and now, at 78, he keeps it in his basement rec room in Tonawanda, N.Y., which is a bowling museum of sorts. Every once in a while, he takes it out and buffs it up and remembers that first event, so long ago.

And what he remembers is this: The national anthem playing. The choking feeling in his throat and the swell of pride in his chest.

And the words that kept running through his head.

This is what I love. I swear, I'm going to this thing every year.

• • •

When Jimmy Schroeder — he is still Jimmy, though his hair is white, his hips both replaced (one twice) and his only daughter long grown — makes his appearance at the 2008 USBC Open Championship in Albuquerque on March 15, he will be one of three bowlers this year making their 60th tournament appearance.

"Right there and then I pledged it," he says, remembering that vow he made in 1949. "And I've gone out of my way to do it every year."

This year he will join the bowlers from 12,615 teams with names like the Pin Busters and the High Rollers, who will come to town for an average of three or four days over the course of the 143-day event.

Others have competed longer — the late Joe Norris, the USBC's all-time pinfall leader, made history with his 71st appearance at the age of 92 when the championships were last held in Albuquerque, in 2000. But none have been more devoted than Schroeder.

"I do everything for the sport of bowling," he says, the sounds of balls dropping and pins falling echoing from the 60 lanes that have been created in the Albuquerque Convention Center's East Complex. "Besides, in 60 years, I've never gotten to where I want to get yet."

He has been besotted with the game since he was a young boy, reading tips from top bowlers in the comics' section of the paper and dragging his dad out of bed Saturday mornings so they could go play.

Back then the venues were called bowling alleys — these days, the politically correct term is bowling center — and they were dark, slightly seedy places kids and females weren't encouraged to enter. But that didn't deter Schroeder who bet "nickels, dimes and (soda) pops" with anyone who would take him up, and often won.

Early and hard, he was hooked. It didn't take much; that gleaming embroidered bird on the back of the Royal Pheasant teams' shirts was but the first of many lures.

A lucky break — a bowler getting sick — earned him the invitation to Atlantic City. There he met other standouts from the "Bowling Belt," cities where hard winters were conducive to long hours spent on a bowling lane. It wasn't long before he became known as one of the Whiz Kids.

When a gorgeous young girl he'd seen around town showed up at one of his tournaments with his brother's girlfriend, he "nearly dropped the ball" — but not before deciding he'd like to marry her.

Joyce, his wife of 53 years, might be said to have married the game as well. She never put up a fight, even when he insisted they leave their 1954 honeymoon in Niagara Falls so he could play at a tournament in Detroit.

Though he now calls himself a "journeyman," Schroeder was often much more than that. He took the USBC singles title in 1976, was runner-up in several team events and had plenty of top 10 finishes in both. His left hand sports a ring that marks a 300 game on the professional tour.

But competition wasn't his only angle. He designed balls, taught clinics, operated a pro shop, appeared on TV shows like "Make that Spare" and traveled all around the world as an exhibition player and a representative for AMF, the world's largest owner and operator of bowling centers.

"So many stories," says Schroeder, stopping only for a breath before launching into a few more. "You could be here a long time."

In the Õ70s, he got involved with the Special Olympics bowling program, eventually becoming its international director. It was Schroeder, in fact, who first broached the idea of holding the Special Olympics' annual national tournament at the USBC championships site prior to the main event.

For two days before today's opening — at which Schroeder was to send out the first ball — he could be found with his arms around the Special Olympians, his face red with laughter and emotion and not a little pride.

That's but one of the changes he's seen in a competition that began in 1901 with just 41 teams and $5 entry fees. This year there are more than 60,000 bowlers and nearly $5 million in prize money; it's touted as the largest participatory sporting event in the world.

Women, who broke down the no-females USBC barrier in 1994, now make up between 12 and 15 percent of the competitors.

Brunswick, the lane and equipment manufacturer, now uses synthetics instead of wood for its chutes and builds everything from scratch and with brand new materials every year.

And at the souvenir shops, instead of a simple pin for less than $2, you can easily spend $40 for a bowling shirt with an embroidered pin-up girl on one lapel that says "Spare Me" or "Nice Frame" or "Striking Form."

But some traditions remain: The spotlighted walk down the "center aisle" as each team makes its first appearance. The anonymous "Joe Bowler" who is crowned and caped on opening day. The sound of the pins dropping and the hands slapping and the anticipation of another rack and another chance.

One thing has not changed that Jimmy Schroeder dearly wishes would.

"Bowling is really at the bottom rung in terms of respect," he says. "I get a little demoralized at times that we don't get any attention."

His face begins to redden with upset as he thinks about the affront to the game he so loves.

"There's only a few people watching here," he says testily. "Where is the mayor? The governor? They should be here. It's embarrassing."

Gradually he relaxes, shrugs and adjusts his glasses with a thumb that is calloused and crooked from years of sending a heavy ball down a smooth lane, waiting for the crash that signals success.

"I'm not an uppity man," he says. "But I want the game to get a little respect."