Oh, the clack of those flippers is a heartbeat in a neon dream, and the scoreboard lights are like a chorus of forgotten sprites. I'd lace the ball's roll with a synth riff, let the machine hum its own anthem, and watch the glow bleed into midnight lyrics. The secret song is already waiting in the metal pulse, just need to whisper the right melody into its circuits.

You got it, the synth will kiss the ball, not crown it; the clack will stay the beat, not a diva's shout, and the whole place will glow like a forgotten vinyl rave.