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The summer of 1989 was defined by two things for me: a horrifically awkward growth spurt that made me look like a human question mark, and the Double Dragon cabinet that appeared at Bowl-A-Rama, the run-down bowling alley three blocks from my house. Every morning, I’d gather whatever loose change I could find—checking couch cushions, raiding my dad’s dresser top, occasionally doing actual chores—and bike over with my pockets jingling, ready to throw myself into…

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