My Buddy, Billy Johnson, Gone

We were kids together, Billy Johnson and me. We drank beer, chased girls, laughed and joked, sported around town - we had fun.

We grew up, but we stayed in touch. We fished, we bowled, we shot a little bar pool up at Hunky Hall.

One time we were out in a boat up in Lake Hopatcong, drifting with live bait, herring, when I hooked into a good one. It was one of those fish that you don't realize you have on the line until you start reeling in. When it got close to the boat, we both saw that it was a huge rainbow trout. Billy grabbed the landing net and got ready to net the fish, but as soon as it saw the boat it turned and ran and snapped my line. Over the years, whenever I recalled that day, I would tell Billy it was his fault I lost the fish. He'd swear at me, but I'd claim that he had deliberately sabotaged my attempt at making angling history. Of course, eventually, I'd reluctantly admit that it was my fault the line had snapped because I had the drag set too tight. A fact I'd conveniently forget the next time I brought the subject up. I like to kid him like that and make him laugh.

But, seriously, when it came to being a friend, he was one in a million. Whenever I moved, I called Billy. Yeah, he used to work for a mover but that didn't obligate him to supervise all my moves. Still, he never said no, never complained that his back was sore, never made any excuses, he just showed up.

One time, we were in pretty desperate straits without a place to live. Billy took us in. He didn't have a lot of room, not with him, his wife and kids already sharing a small apartment, but that didn't matter. He gave us shelter.

Billy left us last week. Cancer. It was much too soon. He deserved more time on earth. More time with his family, his friends, with me.

I miss him.

I set up a Giving Page with the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in his Memory. 

The Best One-Piece House Cues

I'm often asked about house cues. People think that just because I grew up and learned how to play using a house cue that I might be some kind of expert on the subject. I'm not. But, I can tell you one thing - you can play just as well with a good house cue as you can with a couple thousand dollars of exotic wood and inlays. What you need is a cue that's straight, one that's relatively well-balanced, and one with a good tip on it. A Le Pro is a good choice of tip for a house cue. From consulting with those more knowledgeable, I've determined that the following two are the top choices among those who pride themselves with supplying their regulars with quality equipment.

1. Dufferin Hi-Run 57 One Piece Pool Cue Stick Dufferin one piece 57 inch house cue available in 18-21 ounces. made with hard rock maple and comes with fibre ferrules and 12.5mm Le Pro tips

2. Valley Supreme One Piece Pool Cue Stick - Wax Finish The Valley Supreme One Piece pool stick is made with a hardrock maple shaft and a butt crafted from a variety of hard woods. This 57-inch house cue utilizes a fibre ferrule and a 13mm elk master tip and is available in 16-21 weight options.

For those interested in acquiring in bulk, the PoolDog 4-cue bundle has proved a highly rated popular choice.

Pooldawg Logo One Piece Cue Bundle (4 Pool Cues) Buy a bundle, save a bundle! The Pooldawg One Piece 57-inch house pool cue is made with Russian maple. This cue utilizes a fiber ferrule, a 13mm tip and pro taper. This bundle includes 1 18oz, 1 19oz, 1 20oz and 1 21oz cue. Perfect for any game room.

If they weren't so awkward to travel with, I think I'd be using a one-piece cue to this day.

Reaching Out: A Stroker Smith Adventure by Ace Toscano

This place was a huge step up from Dirty Harry's. As a procession of young women, full-flowering beauties, crossed his path, it occurred to Stroker that the joint was aptly named. The Beer Garden. One barmaid carrying three frosted mugs of lager, a fishbowl sized margarita and a basket of wings brushed against him and smiled as she made her way to an opening that led outside. It was a cool night, perfect for sitting in the open air. The bar buzzed with joy and good times and he was immediately happy for Peggy O'Neil. She deserved to work in a place like this.

She had tweeted that she'd be working, tonight, inviting her friends to come on by to "partay," and, although he realized her tweets were meant for a younger crowd, he wanted to check things out as well. He'd gone from seeing her three or four times a week to not at all. He missed talking to her. He missed seeing her. He missed her. He wanted to know how she was doing. Besides, there were a couple things he had to ask her. Like, why had she left her job at Dirty Harry's so abruptly, without notice? And why, after five sessions as his teammate, had she felt it necessary to drop out of pool league, too?

She had glossed over her reasons, on facebook, in sketchy terms, but he needed some specifics. Mostly, he wanted to know if Hughie was involved. Hughie, the terminally useless son of Dirty Harry, liked to refer to himself as the day manager, since it gave him an excuse to hang out at the poolroom in the afternoon and lust after the barmaids who worked days. Stroker was a regular at Dirty Harry's and it was his habit to relax at the bar for a couple hours following his practice session, reading a book while he nursed a beer or two. From this vantage point, he had come to know all he ever wanted to know about Hughie and his lecherous ways. But, he had allowed himself to believe that Hughie's depraved longings were manifested in drool alone and that the useless twit was basically harmless. Now, he had reason to suspect he had been mistaken.

They had been book buddies, Stroker and Peggy O'Neil. He being an avid reader, and she being a dedicated Dean Koontz fan, they always had something to talk about on days she was working. Right now, in fact, he was delivering for her perusal Koontz's latest graphic novel, Odd Is On Our Side. It would be his way of telling her that, though she had moved on, their book exchanges did not have to end.

He stopped short of the bar and watched as she chatted it up with a couple young guys while she drew their beers from the tap. She must have sensed him staring at her because she glanced left and spotted him. She seemed happy to see him. He was relieved. He had worried about invading her privacy, but that, evidently, was not the case because out she scooted from behind the bar with outstretched arms and enveloped him with a rib crushing hug.

That was Peggy. She'd always been an outgoing, openly affectionate kind of girl. Unlike, for instance, Donna, another one of Harry's girls who worked Tuesdays and Sundays. A quiet girl, working two jobs to support herself and her three kids, she had once confided to him that she didn't believe in hugging customers, even if it might lead to bigger tips, because she wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong idea.

Donna, also a reader, was into the Kay Scarpetta novels which was why Stroker was constantly on the lookout for them, he had a checklist in his wallet, when he toured the local used book outlets. Just the other day, he had found a signed copy of The Last Precinct at a church rummage sale down in Hudson. He had presented it to her earlier this day. She had thanked him, politely, of course, but without the enthusiasm he had expected. Something was bothering her. From her body language, it occurred to him that her despondence might be connected to Hughie's looming presence. Then, he noticed the bruising around her wrists. When he had asked her about it, she just shook her head and said it was nothing.

"It's gotta be something," he had said.

"She said it's nothing," barked Hughie. "Donna give him a picture so he can go home and whack off. You're a pervert, you old fuck."

Though a rather large young fellow, mammoth by most scales, Hughie's brain was about the size of a pea. Accordingly, he thought the only possible interest one person might have in another was carnal.

"It must be frustrating, Hughie, hitting on all these beautiful girls and always getting turned down. I can't understand it. Harry's a good-looking guy. How come you're so ugly?"

"Go fuck yourself."

"No, thanks," replied Stroker. "But, if I was you, that, probably, would be the way to go."

Hughie just glared. He would have liked to throw Stroker out on his ass, but he couldn't. The dim-witted "day manager" had tried once to give Stroker the boot rather than pay up on a super bowl bet. But he had been overruled by Harry, thereby establishing to everyone that Harry's idiot son was the manager of nothing and his only true functions were to look stupid and bother the girls.

Peggy guided him to a seat at the bar and they caught up while she worked. It was like old times. When he finally got around to asking her if Hughie might be the reason she had left the poolroom so abruptly, she said she really couldn't say since it had been Harry who helped her land this job at Donte's and she had promised him not to talk about her prior employment. Of course, that was all the answer Stroker needed.

Now, he was beginning to see the recent string of sudden departures, all attributed to extreme unreliability - Linda, Kim, Sharon, Carol, Dawn - in a different light, a light blackened by Hughie's hulking shadow.

Donna was a much better person than he was. Stroker couldn't imagine needing a job so badly that he would put up with one second of Hughie's bullshit. No fucking way. But, he didn't have kids to feed. Remembering the red rings around her wrists, his brain raced through a dozen murderous scenarios.

Huey didn't show on Sunday - he was probably too hung over from Saturday night, so, he and Stroker didn't cross paths till the following Tuesday. The encounter proceeded normally with Donna and Stroker discussing the books they were reading, Hughie becoming jealous because she was ignoring him and, consequently, spewing off some unflattering comments regarding his rival, the 65-year-old Stroker.

"Stay home and dial up a 900 number, then you won't have to drive all the way up here to bother Donna."

Stroker just stared back at the imbecile.

"He's not bothering me," offered Donna. Stroker appreciated it because it was so against her nature to speak up.

"Well, he's bothering me," said Hughie.

"Don't fret, Hughie," said Stroker. "Sooner or later some skank will wander in here who's so drunk and so desperate that she won't care how ugly and stupid you are."

That comment brought laughter from a few of the old timers who were sitting at the railing watching a heated one-pocket match between Charley Shantz and that young kid from Hawaii whose name no one could pronounce.

"Go fuck yourself," sneered Hughie.

"Like I said, that's the way I would go if I was ugly as you. Reduce your frustration."

Hughie had had enough. He came storming around the bar, vicious intentions smeared across his face. Stroker hopped off his stool and was ready for him.

"Get out," he commanded, punctuating his words by poking Stroker's chest with his index finger.

"Now, it's my turn - go fuck yourself."

"I said, 'Get out of here'." Again, he did his thing with the finger.

"I'm warning you, Hughie, do not touch me a-fucking-gain."

But, Hughie couldn't stop himself, now. He drove his point home one more time.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here!"

It was a practiced move that Stroker had used back in the day - dropping down, practically freefalling to one knee and then, before Hughie had the slightest inkling of what was about to happen, throwing a vicious uppercut to Hughie's scrotum, driving his nuts up to his throat.

Now, the plan had been to hop to his feet then whip around 360 catching Hughie on the side of his head with his elbow. But, Hughie foiled those plans by freezing in the doubled over position. As Stroker sprung to his feet, the back of his head, with considerable torque, caught Hughie flush in the face. There was an unmistakable cracking of bones and Stroker feared the worse for Hughie's poor nose. The momentum threw Hughie back on his ass and he remained on his ass as he frantically slid backwards in full retreat.

"Now, I'm only going to tell you this once. Get the fuck out of here, Hughie. I don't want to see you here again."

Hughie, his hand holding his nose, made a series of noises.

"What?" Stroker spat.

"He said 'he works here,'" one of the onlookers translated.

"No fucking more."

More grunts.

"He said something about his father."

"Your father can manage without you. Now, get the fuck out before I finish what I started."

With that, Hughie scrambled to his feet and fled through the back door.

It took a few minutes for things to quiet down. When they had, Stroker climbed back onto his stool, sipped his beer, and then asked Donna, "Have you ever read any Lee Child?"

"I don't think so," she answered.

"I'll bring you some. I think you'd like him."

THE END

Best Selling Pool/Billiards Books

Without further adieu, here they are:

Best Selling Pool/Billiards Books as of 3/17/2012


1. The 99 Critical Shots in Pool: Everything You Need to Know... by Ray Martin




2. Byrne's Complete Book of Pool Shots: 350 Moves Every Player Should Know by Robert Byrne




3. Byrne's New Standard Book of Pool and Billiards by Robert Byrne




4. Pool and Billiards For Dummies by Nicholas Leider




5. Play Your Best Pool by Philip B. Capelle




6. The Secret Art Of Pool by Mr Lee Brett




7. Pool Player's Edge - 2nd Edition by Gerry Kanov and Shari Stauch




8. Capelle's Practicing Pool by Philip B. Capelle




9. Pleasures of Small Motions: Mastering the Mental Game of Pocket Billiards by Robert T. Fancher




10. Precision Pool, 2nd Edition by Gerry Kanov

The Pendulum Stroke: No Can Do

Once again, in exchange for polishing his shoes, the warden has given me access to his computer so that I can contribute to this month's edition of PoolSynergy. You can find links to all this month's posts here on the Pool Student's Blog. Now, let's get on with it.

It makes so much sense, the modern pendulum stroke - back and through, back and through - that it, no doubt, should be the foundation of every serious pool player's game.

It's rather simple, in theory. As you take your stance, with the tip of the cue just shy of the cue ball, your forearm should be straight up and down. From here, you draw the cue back then propel it (or, in pendulum language, "swing it") forward and through the cue ball. No unnecessary movements, just a simple, repeatable pendulum motion.

I've had this method explained to me by veteran players in the pool room. I've read about it in books. And, I've come across it on countless internet sites. Here's a blurb from a section on the stance at billiards.com:

The back arm or more specifically the back hand placement on the cue is critical to your success. The correct place to grip your cue is the place where a line drawn from your elbow to your wrist points straight down to the floor. This is the hand position you want when the tip of your cue is within an inch of the cue ball. This pendulum thus created (elbow to wrist) can move freely forward and backwards. It also allows your bicep and triceps to be completely relaxed, until you take your stroke. It helps to practice this by getting in a shooting stance without a cue. Swing your elbow forward and backwards without dropping your shoulder. Relax your elbow while holding your shoulder firm. Gravity will show you the natural point straight down. You have created the pendulum.

Here are some pictures I found of players who have adopted this same form of address. Note the perpendicular position of their forearms.

Oh, if only this method would work for me. I'm telling you, I'd be one hell of a player. I mean, in theory, nothing is more important to your game than a straight and dependable stroke. And don't think I haven't tried it. I have - in countless practice sessions and at home leaning over the kitchen table with cue in hand. But, try as I may, I can never get the desired pendulum action to manifest itself in a straight and true stroke.

I guess the problem is I'm just not comfortable with it. Back when I learned to play, back in the 1960's, no one was espousing the pendulum method. Sure, people were using it - my Uncle Nicky, the best player in the town of Dover, NJ, was a stellar proponent of the pendulum stroke though he probably didn't know it by name - but it wasn't the prescribed way of stroking. In fact, the only guidance I ever received on the subject was from Mosconi's little red book, "Willie Mosconi on Pocket Billiards." Though Willie did speak of a pendulum action, meaning, I assume, straight back and straight through, he also included this dictum in the section on Follow-through:

... the player is in the same relative position at the backward and forward points of his stroke. At the backward point of the stroke the hand points down to the floor at approximately a right angle. At the forward point in the stroke, the shoulder is in about the same position: the elbow has dropped slightly, and the wrist moves forward. The cue is held as level as possible.

My friends and I read Mosconi's book so many times we could recite certain sections verbatim. And we studied the pictures in fine detail. As for me, when I stood at the table, I felt exactly like Willie looked in figure 7, if you know what I mean.

Here'a a picture of Willie addressing the cue ball. Note the position of his arm.

Obviously, to follow through from this position requires coordinated movements of the elbow, wrist and hand, much more complicated than those connected with your basic pendulum stroke. Still, somehow, back in the day, I managed to harness this piston like motion producing a stroke that was uncompromisingly straight in all situations. Unfortunately, after a 38 year hiatus from the game, the movements involved proved too intricate to recreate from memory. Hence, my current systematic lack of a coherent stroking philosophy.

Finishing up, I must note that, while Willie's method seems contrary to those currently espoused, you have to remember that he was primarily a straight pool player who sailed through racks with an economy of movement of the cue ball. Understandably, that required more finesse and touch than nine-ball, a game that often necessitates a more open and free-stroking approach. Now that I think of it, maybe that's my problem - I'm trying to survive in a nine ball world with an outmoded straight pool stroke.

Dumber Than Dirt and Twice as Grimy

Inside and Outside English

It started out innocent enough – me and this guy, one of those poolroom bull shitters who never shuts up, were standing around the pool table discussing methods of shooting balls down the rail at an angle. Sometimes he aimed the forward edge of the reflection of the table light on the cue ball toward the trailing edge of the reflection on the object ball. Sometimes he went for the half-ball hit, blah blah blah. I, myself, prefer to aim at the point of contact and shoot. To each his own.

Anyway, at one point, I cut a ball left down the rail while applying right spin to the cue ball. “You put inside english on that,” he said.

“Outside,” I replied, calmly.

“No, no, no,” he insisted. “If you hit that shot with right english, that’s inside English.”

Now, this wasn’t a big deal to me, but I knew what I knew and I wasn’t about to back down even though he was getting downright ugly with his insinuations that I was the dumbest mother f’er that he had ever come across. Several times, in the course of his explanation, he took his stance at the table with his cue tip directed to the right side of the cue ball. “That’s inside english,” he’d say. Then, he would circle the table to where the object ball sat and frantically motion with his hand along the path the ball would take to the corner pocket. "The ball goes inside the rail and inside the pocket - that's why they call it inside english. I've been playing this game my whole life and I ought to know."

He carried on repeating his argument at least a dozen times and elaborating on it by insisting that if you cut a ball to the left with left hand english that was outside english. Of course, I insisted that he had it all ass backwards.

Finally, the guy got worked up to the point – his face was purple and veins were popping out of his head - that he bet me his hundred to my fifty that he was right and I was wrong. I quickly agreed. Then he started looking around the pool room for someone to come settle the matter, but I didn’t want to get anyone else involved. I vetoed that idea and promised to bring a book the following day that would spell out the difference between inside and outside english. “I’ll bring a book,” I said. “If it agrees with you, I’ll give you fifty. If it agrees with me, you give me a hundred.”

“Go on the internet,” he said, still agitated. “See for yourself.” I didn’t bother – I knew I was right and he was wrong. When I got home I found a couple simple straight forward descriptions of inside and outside english, one in Phil Capelle’s Play Your Best Pool, the other in Essential Pool by Arthur “Babe” Cranfield and Laurence S. Moy.

In Capelle’s glossary he defined “outside english” as applying side spin on the opposite side of the cue ball than the object ball is traveling. Conversely, “inside english” was described as applying side spin on the same side of the cue ball as the direction of the cut shot. Essential Pool states basically the same thing, with illustrations. I put the books in the back of my car and carted them to Capone’s the next day.

Well, as I pulled into the parking lot, there was the guy getting out of his car. I gestured to him to “hold it” and stay right there. Books in hand, I joined him at his car. “Let’s get this settled, now,” I said. “No need going inside. Here are the books.”

“Wait, now,” he says, before I even had a chance to open my books “let’s make sure we have this straight.”

“It’s simple,” I offer. “You said if you cut a ball to the left with right hand english that that’s inside English.”

“No, no, no,” he interrupted. “That’s outside english.”

“That’s not what you were saying yesterday,” I countered.

“I’ve known that my whole life,” he claimed.

It was obvious what had happened. Sometime after he made the bet with me, in his ongoing agitation, he had repeated the story along with his ridiculous theory to someone who had straightened his ass out. I later learned that he had cornered Dan, Capone’s resident instructor and expert, and grilled him for a half hour on the subject of inside and outside english. A pretty long discussion on a topic he’s known so thoroughly his whole life. Now, all of a sudden, he was claiming he had been right all along. “What happened,” he was trying to explain, “is you and I were betting on the same thing.”

“You’re backing out of our bet you fucking liar,” I said to him, remembering how ugly he had been the previous day. “You owe me a hundred.”

He continued his lying inside the pool room and I kept to the truth, saying “You owe me a hundred.” I promised him I’d remind him he owes me a hundred every time I run into him from now on till the day I die. But, to be honest, and that’s what this is all about, some days I let him slide and don’t say nothing. Other days, I needle him.

I’ve heard since about a friend who had a similar experience with this same asshole – they made a side bet on a game, but, when the guy our welcher was backing came up a loser, he swore he had been betting on the other player. In other words, he changed the bet around just like he’s done with me. I’m sure, over time, he’s decided that this is the best course to take when backing out of a bet. And, I bet the line of people he’s beat out of money would reach from here to the backwoods of Tennessee where he hales from.

This is an ongoing saga. To put it succinctly, this guy made a hundred dollar bet with me, lost, then refused to pay. At first, he swore that I had misunderstood him and that he and I were actually betting on the same thing. After a couple weeks, he reversed that and started to put us on opposite sides of the original bet. Oh, yeah, and now he says I owe him money.

I saw him today up at Capone’s and immediately started chanting “Where’s my hundred?” He doesn’t like that. I could tell. That’s why I’ll keep it up. Anyway, when I was done playing and went outside he was waiting for me. “What are we going to do, Ace?” he asks. “You could pay me the hundred you owe me,” I said. Then he went off on a tangent about how long he’s been playing pool, blah blah blah. There were only him and I there, no bystanders, so I kept saying “What’s the sense of this? I know you’re a liar and you know you’re a liar.” We went back and forth like that, me calling him a piece of shit, him calling me this, that and the other. He was speechless for a second when I mentioned that I'd been talking to other guys he fucked out of money, but only for a second. He was committed to the lie, now. That’s why he was compounding lie upon lie. A consummate pathological liar – he’s been doing this so long he has it down to a science -- he’s deliberately trying to behave as if his lies were true and he truly was the offended party. For show. Once in a while my degree in psychology comes in handy. Take it from me, this friggin’ guy is nuts.

As for the hundred dollars, I don’t even want it any more. If he gave it to me, today, I’d tear it up and flush it down the toilet. Then, I’d wash my hands real well.

There’s a lesson to be learned here -- don’t ever bet with this no good lying sack of shit.

DJ's Hosts Second Annual Memorial Tournament

August 18, 2011 - Once again DJ's Family Billiards remembered those of it's extended pool family who had passed away by hosting the second annual Memorial 9-Ball Tournament. Attendance of the event was once again high and people came from far and wide to honor their brethren.

Honored this year were Tommy Moses, Albert Ossana, New York Jimmy, Bob May, Cathy Gaynor, Greek Charlie, John Hall and Tommy Hill, all special to their friends and family and to all in attendance because they were so much a part of the DJ's scene.

Pros were encouraged to stay away this year, not because we don't enjoy their company, but because the idea of people with no knowledge of the honorees swooping in for a crack at the $200-added seemed contrary to the spirit of the occasion. Consensus is that things worked out better this way.

Taking first place was Billy Moses. Also, finishing in the top 3 were locals Phil and Monty. A total of eight places were paid out.

To fatten up this post I'll relate one somewhat amusing and controversial incident that was reported to me. It occurred during a match between Jim Oddy and Bobby Jones. After scratching, it seems Jim commented to Bobby, "That's the second time in a row I scratched in that very same pocket." Bobby then proceeded to 3-foul Oddy for the game and match with Jim complaining, "You were supposed to tell me I had two on me." Bobby's rebuttal, "You told yourself." Though, technically, Jim might have had a point. This wasn't combat, it was friends getting together to remember other friends. So, Bobby prevailed. I must interject here that Mr. Oddy, known intimately by legions of friends and fans on the gulf coast as "The Jazz Man," disputes the version of events I reported and called into question my journalistic acumen and integrity, which is somewhat astounding considering my stellar reputation in the world of journalism. He was only slightly miffed that I had misspelled his name and eagerly supplied me with the correct version. He also requested that I not mention him in my pool blog anymore which I take to mean any more than the once every six or seven years that is my current rate of mentioning him. Damn! And I was just getting ready to publish "The Case of the Purloined Magnetic Chalk Holder." Now, what will I write about?

The following pictures were taken by Charley Kutz who, by the way, finished one out of the money.

That's me on the right chatting with Bill Jones, Sr.

Adrian!

David

Jeff Miller with Billy Moses

Jordan (L), Bryan (R)

Kari & Rachel

One of many spectators

Toni Moles and Billy Moses

Billy Jones (f) with Dirty Bob (b)

Williams wrassle-ing with the computer

More eye candy

The tournament was cosponsored by AcesWebWorld.com