Gentleman Thwarts Robbery

I only see him once a week at The Barn, where we regularly gather for the Friday night eight-ball tournament, occasionally twice if I make the trek down to the bowling alleys and he happens to show up there, and I’ve never known Tommy to lose his temper. Though well past his prime, there’s a bigness about him across the shoulders and through the chest that hints that once upon a time he was a monster. Still, he’s an even tempered, mild mannered guy. And you might not be able to detect it from his appearance – he has a long scraggily yellowish beard that is often parted by his cue when he takes his stance over the balls, though bald on top the hair on the sides and back of his head is usually gathered into a ponytail, and he has a belly that a scrawny department store Santa would die for – but, he can play a pretty decent game of pool. If I had my druthers, I, personally, would prefer not to draw him.

Other regulars at The Barn include Sue and her husband Bob. Dee, who plays and runs the tournament, and her husband Russ who no longer gets in because of his eyes but who provides moral support and manages the break pot which requires his constant vigilance. Steve, Tony and Bogie, my pool league teammates, also show up more often than not, as do several others who hang out at The Barn and have nothing better to do on Friday nights.

We can usually count on some entrants from the local pool rooms. These folks come because their common sense tells them that they should beat the crap out of us and steal the pot. Eddie Galagher came all the way up from Tampa a couple weeks in a row last fall but never got into the money. Funny thing about that was I know him from the pool rooms, so, when I saw him I said, “Jeez, Eddie, it’s kind of a long ride out here for you, isn’t it?” “No,” he snapped back, “I live just down the road.” Guess he didn’t want anyone to know he was going out of his way to rob us. He could have skipped the subterfuge – folks at The Barn don’t generally care where you come from or how good you play. Hell, Johnny Ravellis comes all the time and he’s won a couple tournaments on the Florida Pro Tour. Him and his girlfriend, Candy, are well-liked by all the regulars and we couldn’t care less if he wins or loses. Thing is Johnny R. and Candy are sociable people. Eddie Galagher isn’t. So, if the locals didn’t warm up to him, it’s probably his fault.

Paul Wiseman’s been coming the last couple of months. He tries to be sociable, but, like Eddie, he spends too much time crying about the bar’s rules which run counter to what he’s used to in the poolroom. Basically, there’s no safety play and with every turn you’re expected to make an “honest effort” to pocket a ball. Admittedly, it’s a crazy rule, yet it’s this very rule that makes it possible for average players to rise up and beat the likes of Eddie Galagher and Paul Wiseman.

Well, it just so happened, last Friday night, that Tommy and Paul Wiseman locked horns in the hot-seat match. Now, playing Tommy as often as I have over the years, I can tell you that he is not a cheat. At times, however, when the situation warrants, he can be extremely careful. And, as you might have guessed, a situation calling for extreme care did present itself in the match between him and Wiseman. Having been left in a tight spot, Tommy played a shot and missed, leaving the cue ball in a spot that was not advantageous to the prospects of his opponent. “Well, hell,” I often say at moments like that, “you can’t expect me to play position for your ball!”

Paul Wiseman saw things differently. After trying an extremely hard kick shot and missing, thereby selling out to Tommy who ran out, he approached Dee and lit into her about the rules and telling her we should play ball-in-hand since everybody plays safe anyway. All she said was “Those are our rules.” I could’ve told him my interpretation of “honest effort,” but at that particular moment I didn’t think he’d be receptive.

While Wiseman was continuing to smolder, yours truly was working his way through the loser’s bracket and, as fate would have it, Dee finally called the match for second place, “Ace & Paul.”

I have a reputation for making the eight on the break – a couple weeks ago I made it two games in a row – and I would’ve loved to get a crack at it now, but, unfortunately, I lost the flip. Paul broke and sent the cue ball flying off the table. I took ball in hand behind the head string and proceeded to work my way through the stripes. Try as I might, I couldn’t manage to get a shot at the nine or thirteen and, thereby, relinquished my turn. Paul came to the table with his balls all broken out. A run-out seemed a sure thing. He pocketed his seven solids in quick order, but missed position on the eight when the cue ball came to rest right up against it heading straight at the rail. He gave it an honest effort trying a bank but missed. Unluckily, for him, the eight then came to rest right up against my thirteen ball, which meant, if he got another turn, he most likely would not have a shot.

Here’s what the table looked like from behind the head rail. On the right, about halfway between the near corner and the side, six inches off the rail were the eight and thirteen in tandem with the eight nearer to the side pocket. My nine ball sat about 4 inches off the head rail, about a half of diamond to the right of center. The cue ball was sitting halfway down the table on the right just out from the side pocket.

Now, my options, as I saw them, was either to try to bank the nine ball into the corner and draw the cue ball into the clustered eight and thirteen, or I could try to cut the nine ball along the rail sending the cue ball off the rail and into the cluster. Admittedly, the second option was a surer way of breaking up the balls, but the odds of me making the shot were very low. So, I took option one. Unfortunately, I missed the bank and, rather than draw back, the heavy bar cue ball stopped dead.

From this position, Paul could still see part of the eight ball so he decided to bank it cross-side, coaxing it along with some right English. Unfortunately, the cue ball did not get out of the way, the eight double-kissed it, and it flew emphatically into the far corner. Game over. Paul slammed his stick down, threw the balls around, and without as much as a fare-thee-well raced out of the premises.

Tommy, who had been waiting to play the winner of the game, sat there shocked. “He didn’t even shake your hand,” he said to me.

“I guess he was pissed at me for not breaking up the balls,” I said.

“Yeah, but still…” said Tommy.

I beat Tommy, who was obviously distracted, in the first game of the finals, then suggested we split first and second. He agreed and that was that. Good sport, that Tommy, and a gentleman.

Resurrection of a Pool Legend

When I was a kid, 15 or 16, the old man took us down to the Jersey shore one summer. This was a time when pool was still the preeminent focus of my life – not girls, not drugs, not work, not any of the things that would later distract me. After checking into a motel, we all went our separate ways. I decided to check out the boardwalk. As I wandered around I came upon an arcade that was located on a pier jutting out over the beach into the ocean. A big fan of pinball machines, I eagerly entered. To my surprise, in the middle of the building stood a couple coin-op pool tables. I couldn’t resist.

I racked the balls up and, being primarily a straight pool player, I placed the head ball where it gave me a break shot. I made the shot and ran the rack. I threw in another couple quarters and repeated the feat. I hadn’t noticed, but while I was playing, a small crowd had gathered around the tables and when I was finished they gave me a round of applause. Much ado about nothing, I was thinking, since at the time I was routinely running 50 and 60 balls. So, I put the stick away and walked out without so much as a word. I wasn't trying to be cool. At this point in my life, I actually was cool. And, I had hair.

As I continued my exploration of the boardwalk, I came across a booth where people were throwing baseballs at kewpie dolls. Four throws, four dolls – win a prize. As I was paying the kid in charge, he suddenly brightened up and said, “Hey, you’re the guy who was playing pool this morning. Man, you’re the best player I’ve ever seen.” We threw baseballs for a while. He taught me that if I hit the base that the dolls were standing on, I could knock three or four dolls over at once. Then, he got someone to cover for him, and proceeded to show me around, introducing me, as we went, to people up and down the boardwalk as the best pool player he’d ever seen. I dug it, to say the least.

My game seldom impresses people, nowadays. Oh, I amaze the bar league players once in a while but we’re talking about people stuck on the bottom rung of the pool ladder – they’re easy to impress. But, last Friday night, at the Hayloft, I had a pretty impressive night.

Helped by a good draw, I moved along thru the winners’ side until it was time to play Chris, a lovely girl and a tenacious competitor. I knew I was going to have to play my best if I wanted to avoid a trip to the losers’ side. I won the flip, gave the tournament director a half a buck for the 8-ball break pot and – BAM – proceeded to make the 8 on the break, thereby garnering the $59 break pot minus $5 which I gave to Chris for giving me such a nice rack.

Next, I had to face Water Softener Jeff for the hot seat. He’d been playing a lot better than me, so far, but I figured my chances were a good 50-50. I won the flip and – BAM – I made the 8 on the break again. As you might expect, my consecutive 8-ball breaks kept the contestants buzzing for the rest of the evening.

My opponent in the finals and I agreed to split the tournament pot as it was after 11 and we both wanted to head home. Let’s face it, he was probably afraid I’d win the flip.

A Night That Will Live On In Infamy

Sure, it was only a little roadside bar, and a relatively insignificant match in our local bar pool league involving me and seven other nits, none of whom will ever be found in the annals of History’s Who’s Who; still, for me, what went on there that night was an offense for the ages, on a par with the infamous Black Sox Scandal, or the Tanya Harding plot to cripple Nancy Kerrigan. It was cheating, plain and simple.

Ironically, the evening began with a rather heated argument over whether or not we would use two tables. They, in a hurry to get done, wanted to play on two. We, usually, preferred to let the match proceed on one table so that we could be more involved with each other’s games. According to the league rules, two tables could be used only if both teams agreed to it. We didn’t, so that was that. They moaned and cried and asserted that we didn’t have to get up in the morning for work, like they did. That, of course, was untrue.

Anyway, we played on one table. It was ironic because when the critical offense occurred, rather than observing the events and being involved in my game, my teammates were rapt in a discussion of a topic totally unrelated to pool, leaving me to fend for myself. Thank you very much.

Cricketers’ team was made up of one chick and three guys, one fat, one skinny, and one tattooed. The transgression occurred while I, representing Boondocks, was playing the chick. I had run out to the eight ball, leaving myself a cross-side bank which I stroked very softly. It hit off the tit and came to rest about an inch above the side pocket, an eighth of an inch off the rail. She had four or five balls left, so I was expecting her to miss, giving me another shot. But, she ran out to the eight, leaving the cue ball just about dead center of the head-end half of the table.

I’m thinking she can try to cut it along the rail into the corner – a hard shot, or she could try to bank it into the side or the corner. The corner bank looked like the safest bet to me because, if she missed, she still had a good chance of leaving me tough.

At this point, she looked across the partition that separated the pool table from the bar area and started conferring with her teammates. One of them, the skinny guy, walked around to the table. He took up position by the side pocket with his left side up against the table and his back toward me. I was immediately suspicious. Obviously, the chick did not care for the obvious options – she didn’t want to cut the eight along the rail, and she didn’t want to bank it. She wanted to play it into the side pocket. Unfortunately, the way the eight was sitting, it wasn’t going to go into the side pocket. No way.

I got up off my stool so I could see exactly what skinny was doing. Some people believe that if you depress the point of the side pocket, it will remain depressed to some extent and give the shooter of a shot like the one the chick wanted to make a little more room. I thought this might be what skinny had in mind. Nope. I was giving him too much credit. As I watched his hands dancing here and there all around the eight ball, it became immediately apparent that he wanted to move the ball. It wouldn’t take much, a quarter of an inch would have done the trick.

I turned to my teammates. “Hey, are you guys watching this?” I called. They weren’t. I didn’t dare take my eyes off skinny for any amount of time, so I moved to the foot of the table to make sure he knew I was watching. He said something to the chick, then turned to the fat guy who was sitting on the bar side of the partition. Then he left, at which time I returned to my stool. Fat boy apparently decided it was time for him to assume control of the situation because, now, he got up off his wide ass and waddled around to the table. He assumed the same position skinny had been in, thereby screening me from the eight ball and his numerous gesticulations. Of course, now, as a result of his ample girth, even more of the table was hidden.

“Are you guys f__king watching this?” I again appealed to my teammates. I think this time I actually diverted their attention, if only for a fleeting second.

Meanwhile, the fat boy was determined to succeed where skinny had failed. Then, bang, his hand contacted the eight ball and sent it across the table. I, immediately, jumped up and swept the balls aside and said to the chick, “Game’s over. You lose.” They were offended. Can you imagine? The freaking cheating bastards were offended.

“You’re a bunch of f__king cheats,” I declared.

I didn’t know what was going to happen next, and I didn’t care. My teammates, who might have caught the last few seconds of the episode, were, now, offering their opinions on how things should play out. I, who had watched the entire show which must have gone on for five or six minutes, wasn’t allowed any input. Finally, the cheats from Cricketers were mollified when one member of the team, the co-owner of Boondocks, apologized to the chick, explaining that he knew the movement of the eight ball was an accident and assuring her that he knew she and her teammates would never cheat. I couldn’t believe my freakin’ ears.

So what did this make me? A crazy old man? A bullshitter? A liar? I didn’t care. Though we eventually won the league championship, and I finished second in the league in individual points, I informed my teammates that I would not be a part of their team next session. It was a matter of honor. If I tell you someone’s a freakin’ cheat, take my word for it, don’t apologize to them.

In another bit of irony, a friend of mine, who was having a feud with our league operator, decided to start a rival Monday night league. He tried to get the other teams in our league to join him, but only succeeded in wooing two teams, both from Cricketers. Good freakin’ riddance, I say.

Another Milestone

I’ll be 62 end of June which explains why I had to go to the local Social Security office the other day – three months before your birthday is when you’re supposed to sign up for SS benefits. Can you imagine? Whoduhthunkit? Little Ace Toscano, the kid who used to spend most of his time standing in the corner at North Dover Elementary School, in Dover, NJ, is about to go on the public dole.

Basically speaking, what it amounts to is a few more bucks in my pocket. I already have everything a guy could want – six pool cues, two nice Instroke cases, a loving wife, a daughter, friends, six pool cues (oh, I mentioned that), a new HP pc, a new Insignia TV, and a 2003 Hyundai to get around in.

Still, my visit to the SS office marks a milestone. To be honest, back when I was a kid, back in the 50’s and 60’s, I never gave much thought to one day reaching the ripe old age of 62. In fact, I would probably have bet against it. Yet, here I am.

And, I’m still relatively healthy. Getting around pretty good. And playing pretty decent pool. Fact is, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t spread this around, I’m still getting better. No, I’ll never be able to play like I could when I was a kid growing up in the pool room, but I’m a whole lot better than I was when I took the game up a few years back after not playing for some 38 years. And, believe it or not, I’m actually seeing the balls better than ever, especially the cue ball. It’s damn scary.

I don’t have any fantasies about going pro or even about winning our local open nine-ball tournaments. I compete in them every once in a while just for the hell of it. But, I compete pretty well on the bar scene. In the two bar leagues I was in, I battled for top individual point leader most of the year, captured it in one and came in second in the other. And both teams I was on won league championships. And I have to be one of the favorites in any bar tournament I get in.

Hey, I might as well enjoy myself while I can – who knows what’s waiting around the corner?

A Visit from The Dutch Boy

“Dutch Boy Tommy” Nederland, my old road partner, stopped by the other day. Just seeing him brought back memories of hundreds of pool room adventures and misadventures we shared. The day he showed up, we shot the shit till the wee hours.

Generally speaking, Miss Helen isn’t happy when my old pool playing friends stop by. Not so with Tommy. Tommy’s funny, plus he can be very polite when he wants to be. Miss Helen appreciates that. And, he always leaves us with something we can talk and speculate about for years to come. Like last time he showed up, he had a Russian girl with him. In our private conversations, we always refer to her as the “mail-order bride.” Not that she was – we never did find out how he came up with her – but that’s what we called her. Her most telling feature was her obsession with toilet paper. Tommy showed us the backseat of his Lincoln – it was crammed full of toilet tissue, every brand under the sun. Maybe, she was going to file a report with those assholes at the KGB. Who knows?

This time there was no Russian. His little chickadee was a beautiful young gal he found in the wilds of western Montana near Libby. He really hit the jackpot this time. It’s no wonder we haven’t seen him for a while. This girl has no strange obsessions though there does seem to be a mystery surrounding her name. He introduced her to us as Cora Beth, but a couple times we heard him refer to her as Kari. We didn’t question him about it – we just let it slide. Miss Helen formed a quick attachment to Cora Beth and they’ve been swapping emails ever since. I think they’re even planning a get-together up in Libby somewhere down the line. She so much as told Tommy that if he trades her in for another model, Russian, Chinese, whatever, he best not bother stopping by our hacienda next time he’s in the neighborhood. I think she meant it.

Of course, we did play some pool. He was dead set on playing me some one-hole. That’s why we wound up playing a couple cheap $50 sets of nineball. I beat him for a quick hundred and he moaned about not getting a chance to get square but the girls called us on the cell saying they were ready to get picked up at the mall. So, that was that.

Before they left, we took Cora Beth and Tommy out to the Outback Steak House in Port Richey for dinner. It was the perfect ending to a nice day. Especially since I paid for the whole thing with my winnings and still had twenty bucks left. Life is good.

Here are some pics we took that day:


(L to R) That's Miss Helen, Cora Beth and Tommy


Tommy, Kari and Me at Hudson Beach


The Girls and Tommy on the Gulf


Shooting One-handed at the Outback


Kari and Tom


Look at that pair, the three of us.

Wednesday Night SharpShooters

Last night, our Wednesday night pool league had it’s end-of-season party for the winter session. Since our team, The Hayloft, again came in first place, The Hayloft hosted the party serving up the usual complement of wings, pork, beans, hushpuppies, potato salad, cream puffs, etc. Many, of course, complemented the victuals with alcoholic beverages. Once again, we’d like to thank our team sponsors, Sheila and Rick, for supporting us throughout the season, and throwing a swinging party. Modesty almost prevents me from mentioning that in addition to the team first place trophy, I also received the SharpShooter Trophy for being the league's high individual point leader. Here are some of the pics I took:


The 1st Place Hayloft
Boogie, Rick, Ace, J.C.


Sheila: Our Lovely Host, Sponsor, Groupie


Kay, Gene, Guy in Green Shirt


Champs Boogie & Rick


Ace with Team & Individual 1st Place Trophies


You Can't Get Enough of These Guys


Boondocks: Dreamers & One Sore Sport


Carla: Cotie River's Perennial Top Female Point Leader


Sail In


April's DD (Double D) Saloon


More Sail Inners


Happy Fellas: Boog & J.C.


Our Sponsor

A grand time was had by all, and we're already looking forward to the next session.

Pool?

I haven’t been thinking about pool much for the last few days. I’ve been busy taking care of my cat – she’s dieing.

My wife named her Katie, after Katharine Hepburn, more than 19 years ago when we adopted her from an animal shelter up in Kalispell, Montana. According to the adoption papers, her former owners had been calling her Zippy, a name, we were to learn later, that was quite appropriate. They also had noted that “she bites” which was also true, though, over the years, her biting most often made me laugh rather than cry out in pain. And, they claimed, six month old Zippy ate too much.

We originally acquired Kate in hopes that she would be a companion to our male cat, Jimmy. Helen had done some research on the matter of cat compatibility and she believed it would be more advisable to get a female than another male. Advisable or not, it didn’t work out – Jimmy just didn’t take to the competition. At best, he learned to tolerate her. I wrote more about those times in my short story The Story of Jimmy, A Native Montanan Cat.


Anyway, Jimmy passed away in 1997, and we’ve been a one-cat family ever since. Some time later this year, Katie was due to turn 20. In cat years, that would be 92 – quite an admirable achievement. As is, looks like we’ll have to settle for 90.

Up until just recently, she’s been her old zippy self, racing around the house, taking flying leaps from the stove to the top of the refrigerator to the top of the kitchen cabinets. Reminiscent of the times long ago when she and Jimmy used to wander into the garage late at night and leap from the cab of my pickup up into the rafters where they would sleep on a plywood platform I had built for them until they heard us stir in the morning. Then we would hear them thud, one at a time, back down onto the pickup. Oh, where has the time gone.

I’m not ashamed to say I love my Katie. I cherish all the times she sought me out for the warm comfort of my lap. I know there are those who might say she’s only a cat, but that school of thought doesn’t register with me. She’s my cat and I won’t soon get over losing her.

Note, Feb. 12, 2009: Katie (1989 – 2009)
With a last burst of energy, Katie joined me on the couch last night and, at 10:55 PM, lying beside me, she passed from this world. Having lived a full and happy life, for almost 20 years she was part of our home, our family, and our lives. We’re just going through the motions, today, remembering better days.


R.I.P. Little Girl