Pinball Craze Brooklyn

Hey everyone, welcome back to *Brooklyn Echoes*, the podcast that keeps the borough’s legends and memories alive. I’m your host, Robert Henriksen.

Ah, man, let me take you back to Brooklyn in the late ’70s and early ’80s. I was just a kid then, maybe 10 or 11 when it all really kicked off for me. Born in ’68, right in the heart of Bensonhurst, where the streets smelled like fresh cannoli from the bakeries and garlic from the pizzerias. My folks had this tiny apartment above a Laundromat on 18th Avenue, and life was simple—stickball in the alleys, riding bikes down to the bay, and dodging the old nonnas yelling at us from their stoops. But nothing, and I mean nothing, lit up my world like pinball. It was more than a game; it was a craze, a rebellion, a whole universe crammed into those flashing cabinets.

You gotta understand the backstory first. Pinball wasn’t always legal in New York City. Yeah, you heard that right—banned! From way back in the ’40s, thanks to Mayor LaGuardia, who thought it was some kinda gambling racket sucking the nickels out of kids’ pockets. Cops would raid places, smash the machines with sledgehammers, and dump ’em in the river. I remember my Uncle Vinny telling stories about sneaking into backrooms in the ’60s, where they’d have hidden machines in Greenpoint or Bushwick. “Like Prohibition for fun,” he’d say, laughing over Sunday gravy. But in ’76, everything changed. Some guy named Roger Sharpe went to court and proved it was skill, not luck. Flipped the ball right where he said he would. Boom—the ban lifted. And just like that, pinball exploded in Brooklyn.

By ’77, those machines were everywhere. Not big fancy arcades at first—nah, it started small. The corner candy store on 86th Street, run by old man Rossi, snuck in a couple right next to the comic racks and egg creams. I’d save my allowance, maybe 50 cents a week from helping Ma with groceries, and head there after school. The bell would jingle as I pushed open the door, and there it was: “Eight Ball” by Bally, with its pool theme and that satisfying clack-clack of the bumpers. I’d drop a quarter in—quarters were gold back then—and pull the plunger. The ball shot out like a rocket, pinging off the targets, lights flashing red and yellow, bells ringing like a fire alarm. Tilt! You’d nudge the machine just right, not too hard, or it’d shut down on you. My buddies—Joey, Mikey, and little Sal—we’d crowd around, taking turns, trash-talking each other. “You tilt like a drunk on the D train!” I’d yell. Hours would vanish, and Ma would drag me home by the ear for dinner.

Brooklyn was alive with it. In Bay Ridge, down by the Verrazzano Bridge, there was this pizza joint called Lenny’s where they’d have “Captain Fantastic” based on that Elton John movie. The place reeked of pepperoni and cigarette smoke—adults played too, you know, truck drivers and cops off duty. As kids, we’d beg for extra quarters from our dads. “Just one more game, Pop!” And he’d grumble but hand it over. The ’70s machines were mechanical beasts—flippers that slapped hard, score reels clicking up like odometers. No digital stuff yet. I’d dream about high scores, lying in bed hearing the subway rumble under our building.

Then the ’80s hit, and pinball went electric. Man, that was the golden age. Video games were creeping in—Pac-Man, Space Invaders—but pinball held its own with solid-state tech. Sounds got wild: beeps, boops, voices even! In ’80, “Black Knight” came out—talk about intense. It had this multi-ball mode where three balls flew at once, and a drawbridge that dropped. I’d ride the N train to Coney Island on weekends, where the boardwalk arcades were legends. Nathan’s hot dogs in one hand, quarters in the other. The Adventurers Inn was nearby in Queens, but we’d hit the spots right on Surf Avenue—vintage machines mixed with new ones. The ocean breeze mixing with the ozone smell from the games, seagulls squawking, and the Cyclone rattling in the background. Pure magic.

One summer in ’82, I think it was, a real arcade opened up in Sheepshead Bay called Flippers or something like that—wait, no, maybe it was just “The Arcade” on Emmons Avenue. Dim lights, carpet sticky from spilled sodas, air thick with excitement. They’d have rows of pinballs: “Firepower” with its laser sounds, “Xenon” with that sexy robot voice saying “Xenonnnn.” We’d pool our money—me and the gang collecting bottles for deposit refunds, mowing lawns for the old folks on the block. Five cents a bottle added up quick. Saturday mornings, we’d be there from open to close, challenging older kids to matches. High score got bragging rights for the week. I once hit 500,000 on “Gorgar”—the first talking pinball. “Gorgar speaks!” it’d growl. Gave me chills.

But it wasn’t all fun and games. There was an edge to it. Some places still had that old gambling vibe—bars in Williamsburg or Red Hook where machines paid out if you won big, under the table. Cops would still poke around, especially in the early ’80s. I remember one raid in ’79 at a spot in Borough Park; papers said they confiscated machines from a candy store. Us kids steered clear of the shady joints, but the thrill was there. Pinball felt rebellious, like we were part of something bigger. And Brooklyn? It was tough back then—graffiti on the trains, Son of Sam scares in the late ’70s, the blackout in ’77 that had everyone looting. But pinball was our escape. No matter if you were Italian like me, Irish from Sunset Park, or Puerto Rican from Bushwick, everyone bonded over the flippers.

As I got older, say ’85 or so, video games started taking over. Donkey Kong, Galaga—they were faster, but pinball had soul. The physicality: shaking the machine, feeling the ball roll, the risk of tilt. I’d still hit the spots, like Barcade precursors in Dumbo warehouses, underground scenes with ’70s relics. By then, machines like “High Speed” with cop chases and “Pinbot” with its robot theme were kings. I’d skip homework, tell Ma I was at the library, and lose myself in the glow.

Looking back, pinball shaped me. Taught patience, skill, how to lose gracefully—and win big. Brooklyn in those days was raw, real, and pinball was its heartbeat. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the ding-ding-ding, smell the wax on the playfield. Man, what a time to be a kid.

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