Ace's Pool Blog

Reaching Out: A Stroker Smith Adventure by Ace Toscano

2012-01-27T08:34:00.000-08:00

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 of 2011

2011-12-06T05:21:00.000-08:00

Without further adieu, here they are:

Best Selling Pool/Billiards Books of 2011

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

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

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

4. Play Your Best Pool by Philip B. Capelle

5. Pool and Billiards For Dummies by Nicholas Leider

6. The Illustrated Principles of Pool and Billiards by David G. "Dr. Dave" Alciatore

7. Running the Table: The Legend of Kid Delicious, the Last Great American Pool Hustler by L. Jon Wertheim

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

9. Precision Pool, 2nd Edition by Gerry Kanov

10. A Mind for Pool: How to Master the Mental Game by Philip B. Capelle

The Pendulum Stroke: No Can Do

2011-09-15T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-09T12:09:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-20T11:37:00.000-07:00

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

Ten Poolroom Things That Make Me Grumble

2011-08-15T07:00:00.000-07:00

Once again, I’ve had the good fortune to be invited to participate in Pool Synergy by Samm (Diep) Vidal. Not only is Samm one of the foremost ambassadors for the game of pool, she’s a beautiful person inside and out, and, more importantly, she’s kind to old people, like yours truly. This month's theme is “10 Things.” My offering is below.

To check out all of this month’s contributions, visit Samm’s site The Tip Jar.

Now, honestly speaking, I’m not one of those “give me lemons, I’ll give you lemonade” kind of guys. Give me lemon and I’ll probably throw up on your shoes. Here are ten of the many things that make me grumble:

1. Duck Hunters. These guys are all about the bling. Though they never open their mouths, it’s obvious by the careful way they put together their exquisite Wal-Mart cues and tiptoe around the table that they are working very hard to create the impression that they know what they’re doing. They scatter balls around the table making sure that most of them are within two or three inches of a pocket. Then, they proceed to whack them in with authority – bang, bang, bang. They never shoot up or down the table, only across it, limiting the length of their shots to three or four feet. If, through misfortune, they are left with a long shot, they shoot it very softly so that, after they miss, it will be close enough to the hole to bang in. Their biggest fear is missing. I call these nits duck hunters.

2. The Overcut Justification. I have a hard time holding my tongue when a player responds to a missed shot by observing, “Can you believe it? I overcut it!” Please! Do you really think overcutting is somehow more honorable than undercutting? You missed the shot. It doesn’t matter if you missed to one side of the pocket or the other. A miss is a miss.

3. The Position Excuse. Another lame reaction to a miss. “I was too worried about getting position.” Duh. That’s a great excuse for missing. Of course, if you don’t worry about getting position and, consequently, are left with a difficult shot that you also miss, then you have a different excuse. Then you can say, “I should have worried about position.” Don’t be a nit. Controlling the cue ball is a necessary component of every shot. Using it as an excuse is like a golfer saying, “I drove into the lake because I was too worried about my second shot.” It makes no sense. Don’t be a wussy.

4. Past Glory Imagined. When I was young blah blah blah… I used to blah blah blah… You’d think that, back in the day, pool rooms were lined with top-notch players. Sorry to break this to you, but they were not. Listen up, you guys. You. Make. Me. Laugh! You were never a great pool player. The way you trounce around the table, poking holes in the cloth with your stick and bumping your head against the lights attests to that fact. Even if, over the years, you lost your eye or your stroke, you couldn’t have lost all feel for the game. If you want to impress me, quit telling me fairytales about games you played or shots you used to make and start shooting.

5. Philosophical Opposition to Gambling. “Want to play a couple cheap sets? Twenty dollars a set?” I ask. “Oh, no,” says the man. “I don’t believe in gambling.” Por favor. Let’s be honest, here. You aren’t opposed to gambling; you’re opposed to losing. Take up croquet… or shuffleboard. Scratch that – even the old fogies around here play shuffleboard for money. Pool is like poker; it’s supposed to be played for money. Where do you think the term “money ball” came from?

6. Measle Cue Balls. I’m guessing they make watching pool more interesting for spectators. However, practically speaking, one of the main advantages I have over younger players is my knowledge of the game which includes what I know about english. If someone takes me aside and asks me a question about how to do this or that with the cue ball, I’ll give them an honest answer. But that’s a lot different than letting everyone in the house see what you’re putting on the cue ball. I’m nobody’s coach. I’m nobody’s teacher. If you want to learn something from me, it’s going to cost you.

7. Excuse for Missing #99. “The damn english threw that ball off line.” No, Melvin, you threw the ball off line. If you apply english to the cue ball, it’s going to throw the object ball one way or the other. That means you have to make allowance for this throw when you aim. If you miss, don’t blame the english – blame yourself. What’s so hard about saying these two words straight out, “I missed.”

8. Aiming Systems. You can tell when someone’s been spending too much time reading online spiels when they come up to you and ask “What aiming system do you use?” That’s like asking someone in the diner, “What kind of eating system do you use?” "Well, I put the food in my mouth. I chew it. Then, I swallow it.” In regards to aiming, forgetting about english and throw, there’s only one point on the object ball that directs it along your desired target line. And, considering the roundness of the cue ball, there’s only one corresponding point on it that, when delivered to the object ball’s contact point, will send it along that desired path. All other theories about aiming, with their half-ball and quarter-ball hits and ghost images, are at best, confounding, at worse, baloney.

9. Sharking. Nothing irks me more than sharking. Whether you do it out of nervousness or by design, sharking reduces you to the rank of sleaze ball. I’ve read some extensive online articles on the subject which go into minute detail. My definition is somewhat simpler: If you are not sitting perfectly still, and completely quiet, you are, to a greater or lesser degree, sharking.

10. Chum. No, I’m not referring to a buddy or a pal. I’m referring to the chopped up fish that fishermen throw overboard to attract game fish. We all know locals who enter pro tournaments when they come to their house because it gives them the opportunity to play with the likes of Johnny, Earl or Rodney. God bless them, I say. When watching one of these matches, I wish the local good luck and hope someone hangs up a nine ball for him or her so they get to win at least one game. When the tournament’s over and the pros go on their way, everything should return to normal, everyone should reassume their normal role, but, unfortunately, that’s not always the case. Some of these local entrants forget the reality, that they were in the tournament just for kicks, and start strutting around like bona fide pool stars. Like, by entering the tournament, they’re deserving of our utmost respect. Sorry, boys, you aren’t pros, you aren’t near-pros, you aren’t even semi-pros. You are chum – just food for the big fish.

Ace's Pool Rap II - Thinks He Knows It

2011-06-30T19:28:00.000-07:00

Thinks he knows it.

Doesn't know shit.

Cuz his yap's
Fulla crap,

Oughta close it.

Thought he knew all there was about pool,
Like the dean of some whack billiards school.
But his shit was all wrong,
The stench was too strong -
The dim-witted hillbilly fool.

Then, bang, he's on the next table,
Working on preserving the fable.
He gave me no cherce,
Calling natural reverse.
When I told him, the bitch got unstable.

Thinks he knows it.
Doesn't know shit.
Cuz his yap's

Fulla crap,

Oughta close it.

Worked his dumb ass into a sweat.
Then he wanted to make me a bet.
Found he was wrong
Sang a new song.
And the asshole ain't paid me yet.

He figured I'd just let him slide.
Couldn't find any places to hide.
Verbal abuses,
Half-assed excuses,
I'm not givin' the dude a free ride.

Thinks he knows it.
Doesn't know shit.
Cuz his yap's
Fulla crap.
Oughta close it.

Copyright © 2011 by Ace Toscano. All rights reserved.

Art sometimes imitates life. Not to say that my writings are art, just that many of them are based on true life experiences, the emphasis here being on "true."

Pool Room Psycho: A Short Story by Ace Toscano

2011-06-27T06:30:00.000-07:00

If a guy studied culinary arts, would every one he ran into later in life embody a collapsed soufflé or some other cooking catastrophe? Stroker wondered because he had studied psychology back when he was in college and, ever since, his world had been invaded by one wacko after another. A reap what you sew kind of thing, he figured.

Golfers drove him crazy with their ritualistic behaviors, time-consuming pre-shot routines and idiotic superstitions which was why he had tossed out his clubs a dozen years ago in favor of the more serene game of pocket billiards.

Not to say the pool room was exempt from the intrusion of a variety of mental cases. It wasn’t. But, with a little luck you could avoid them most of the time. Of course, there were exceptions who would not be ignored, who insisted on getting in your face, nitwits who forced you to deal with their lunacy. Like Chris “O.C.” Delaney. O.C.D. had a compulsion that required everything in the pool room to be in its proper place – chalk, cues, stools, bridges, racks, ashtrays, TVs, everything. One day, not too long ago, he claimed that, while he had been circling the room noting the placement of various objects within his purview, Stroker had appropriated a bridge from his table transferring it to the table where he was playing. Stroker, who had been playing by himself, and who never used a bridge anyway when playing by himself, just looked at O.C. Delaney and said, “Are you out of your fucking mind, asshole?” And that was the end of that afternoon’s therapy session. No charge.

Early on in his working life, Stroker had driven cabs and limos, his income relying to a large extent on tips, so he was always conscientious about taking care of the girls who worked the counter at the pool room figuring a tip was one way of making their days brighter. He’d started off giving them a buck a day which seemed reasonable since he never ordered anything to eat and was spending less than two dollars on time. But the more he thought about it, a dollar tip seemed pretty paltry seeing as this was the 21st century and you couldn’t get much of anything for a buck. So, he raised it to two, boosting it to three or four on occasion. He tried not to be predictable, remembering back to psychology studies indicating intermittent schedules of reinforcement produced the best results. Then, at Christmas, he’d hit each girl with a ten. For this attention, he didn’t expect much in return, just a thanks and a smile. That was reward enough.

Whenever he hit Cookie, his favorite of all the girls, with a deuce she’d tell him he made her day. C’mon, he’d say, with two bucks? I wish it was more. Then, she’d say, really that’s the first I got today. Seems like most of the other dudes stiffed her on a daily basis.

He never went to grad school which was probably a mistake inasmuch as he might have learned there how best to handle the various mental deviants he had later been confronted with. Like that day when he was returning the balls and Cloey whispered to him through clenched teeth, a look of mortal terror on her face, instructing him to look down the bar to the guy playing the video game. He’s the devil, she said. Giving you a hard time? Stroker asked. No, I mean it. I looked into his eyes and I could see it. He is the devil. What should I do? Jeez, I don’t know, said Stroker. Look in my eyes. What do you see? She leaned forward and peered into his orbs for a long couple of seconds. Finally, after considerable consideration, she said, Green. Thank God, he said, bidding her a swift adieu. That was the last time he saw Cloey. She was canned. He didn’t ask why, but he suspected the devil had a hand in it.

Tina was one of those gals who called everybody Sweetie, Sweetheart or Honey, something he got used to in time. Most days he’d counter with a Darling or Sweetie Pie of his own and they got along pretty good. But, sometimes, when he hit her with a deuce she’d make a big thing about it and wrap her arms around him and give him a big squeeze which made him feel a little uncomfortable since it was just the smile and thanks he was shooting for. You don’t have to do that, he said one day. I’m not paying for your services. Well, this must have pissed her off because she wouldn’t take his money for a couple weeks forcing him to leave his tip laying on the counter while she lit out for the far end of the bar. Eventually, things returned to normal and when she started squeezing him again, he knew better than to open his mouth.

Regrettably, Tina moved on and was replaced by Jill who was so proud of her bosom she exposed as much of it as she could on a regular basis. She, too, was a Sweetie, Honey, Sweetheart kind of girl, but not in a friendly way, in a way that made Stroker a wee bit uncomfortable, like she was hitting on him and his sixty-four year old frame. Same with her hugs and squeezes. In particular, he didn’t like the way she ran her fingers up and down his arms. He thought of telling her but he realized she was just trying to be sexy and he didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t working. One day, he walks up to the counter and she looks like someone ran a hot poker up her hoo-hah. Something the matter? he asked. I’m having a panic attack, she announced. He had a vague idea of what she was going through having experienced, once upon a time, something similar behind pot and pcp. It seemed that blabbing was closely linked to her panic because she was carrying on non-stop, talking about medication and prescriptions she couldn’t get refilled because enough time hadn’t passed since her last refill and that the only reason she ran out in the first place being that she had loaned some pills to her girlfriend who, apparently, also benefited from their effects. I don’t know what to do, she cried. Call the doctor’s office again, Stroker suggested. Tell him you really need the pills. Worst he can do is say no. But she wasn’t listening. Now, she was saying how her roommate brought a couple guys home to the apartment in the middle of the night and she woke up and saw one of them standing over her and I started thinking maybe she wasn’t having a panic attack after all. Maybe, it was justifiable panic. Anyway, Stroker zigged while she zagged, and left her to her own devices. That was the last time he saw Jill.

Jill was replaced by Heather “The Sharpshooter” Remington, a young lady with pro tour aspirations as her nickname, premature as it might have been, indicated. It took a week or so before her name popped up on his facebook wall and he realized that she was already one of his facebook friends. This was added incentive for him to be nice to her, so when he found out she was selling sculptures of poolplayers like Johnny Archer and Earl Strickland on the internet, he critiqued her website since web sites, especially, pool web sites, were his business.

He saw a couple problems right off, the main one being that not once in the text, in the code or in the meta tag description or key words was the word “billiards” used. There were references to pool sculpture and pool art and pool prints made from the preliminary sketches, but, unfortunately, that wasn’t going to cut it. Search engines, in general, associated the word "pool" with those pits Jethro Beaudine used to refer to as cement ponds, and not with the game of pocket billiards. Next day, Stroker mentioned this to Heather figuring he’d give her the benefit of his expertise. Just google “pool art” he told her and you’ll come up with a bunch of stuff about swimming pools. You have to use the word "billiards." Unfortunately, she was not at all receptive to his input. Her friend who was working on the site was an expert, blah blah blah. And, he knew all there was to know, blah blah blah. Some expert, thought Stroker, whose site drew more traffic in a day than hers would in six months. But, he didn’t say another word on the subject. He just went home, got on facebook and unfriended her.

It must have taken her a couple weeks to realize he had unfriended her. It seems another of his fb friends mentioned a link he had posted which she soon discovered wasn’t available to her. Tough. Up until then, things had been going as smooth as always – Stroker leaving her a couple bucks, her responding with thanks and a smile. But, suddenly, she had developed a nasty attitude and was giving him the cold shoulder, and showing no gratitude whatsoever, which was okay with him since he had made up his mind to stiff her hence forth. Then, he noticed that others were paying a lot of attention to their interactions, like they were making sure he didn’t do or say something improper. It didn’t take him long to realize what that was about – hell knows no fury. Of course, there was no basis for these suspicions, but the fact that anyone could even momentarily give credence to anything this whacked-out broad would say was beyond reason.

In the three weeks he had known her, she had moved on from the pool art website, to eBay auctions, to Texas Hold’em, to betting on the dogs, to hemp fashions, all with the same intense enthusiasm and lack of results. It finally dawned on him that she just might be bi-polar and, surprise, off her meds. Just his luck.

Meanwhile, ads kept popping up on his facebook page inviting him to pursue a graduate degree in psychology online. No thanks. He wasn’t interested, but he was considering taking a cooking course, maybe Soufflé 101.

The State of Pocket Billiards in Florida in the 21st Century: A Reading by Ace Toscano

2011-05-25T21:16:00.000-07:00

So... I'm not the most agreeable guy in the pool room, or the most patient, or the most tolerant. And, I'm definitely not the nicest. Still, I pride myself in being blunt and honest. That, I hope, will be my legacy.

For more pool and billiards literature, visit my pool and billiards literature page.

Old Sharkie's Deathbed Revelation: A Reading by Ace Toscano

2011-05-25T09:57:00.000-07:00

Here's my second reading. I'm still working on my delivery.

More to follow. You can find all my pool writings on my Pool Literature page.

A Reading: Mickey and the Wild Eight

2011-05-24T16:22:00.000-07:00

Well, I won (bought really) a new notebook on eBay, a Toshiba NB 305, and realized that it had a web camera and, upon further exploration, discovered I could use it to make videos... of myself. As is usually the case with such things, it took me a couple days and umpteen failed attempts to actually produce something viewable. Here's my first project, the recitation of my pool poem Mickey and the Wild Eight. Please note, I'm not quite as feeble as I look and sound in this clip.

Winding Down

2011-04-27T06:34:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of ways to miss a shot: Your alignment can be bad; if you're body is out of whack, the shot you're attempting is doomed from the get-go. You might be lined up okay, while aiming at the wrong spot. Or, your aim could be dead on, while your stroke is off - not parallel with the line of aim. Also, it's possible that your aim and your stroke can be right on, but, when you strike the cue ball, you cue it off center, a little left or a little right, and throw the object ball to the right or left off your intended line.

Right now, I'm battling against all these contingencies.

Not to mention, the shaking.

Pool can be a tough game when you're 64.

It wasn't always that way, but I'm one of those who firmly believes it doesn't really matter how well you once played, the only thing that counts is how you play, now.

I, pretty much, stink.

I mean, most of the old coots I run into who claim they used to be good are full of shit. I can tell by the way they hold their sticks and move around the table. You might get rusty, but not totally dismantled.

I'm the opposite. People see me at the table and they automatically conclude I can play. I don't know what it is, but it's not something I'm purposely trying to generate.

During my practice sessions, I spend a lot of time trying to make shots that I can't make anymore. I don't ever want to be confused with the duck hunters who line up cherries and ceremoniously bang them in, as though this pitiful act actually proves something.

Practicing every day used to be important to me. Not anymore. Now, my daily trips to the poolroom are simply a way for me to break up my day. My wife says sitting at the computer all day could give me blood clots.

I've considered giving the game up completely. But, I'm not ready for that, yet. There's really not much else to do. Besides, I don't like the idea of blood clots.

The Practice Table: A Duck Hunter's Paradise

2011-03-30T04:14:00.000-07:00

Practice is a personal thing. Maybe, you like working through drills. Maybe, you work on shots you've been having trouble with. Or, maybe you prefer chasing the ghost. Maybe, you're painstakingly deliberate and organized. Or, maybe, as I've been lately, you're all over the damn place. Hey! Whatever turns you on.

I remember going up to a guy I wanted to play one time and asking him if he might want to lock horns with me in some cheap-sets of nine ball. "No," he said, "I'm practicing."

"For what?" I couldn't help wondering. I mean, if you're practicing, then it's implied you're practicing for something. Obviously, he wasn't practicing to play me.

BTW, this explains why I haven't really been able to focus during my recent sessions - I'm not practicing for anything. I'm no longer involved with the local bar league scene, so I'm no longer obsessed with finding new ways to torture the barroom brotherhood. I haven't been going to DJ's for their Thursday night open nine-ball tournament - the logistics are just too much of a pain in the ass. And, like-minded individuals who want to hook up for some $20 race-to-seven nine-ball matches are not as plentiful as they once were. Such is life.

But, that being said, there's still some logic to my practice sessions. For one thing, I like to practice those long straight shots. They're good for my alignment and my stroke. I avoid shooting most shots into the side pockets, except for the occasional bank, because I don't see any value in popping hangers. For the same reason, when I leave a ball in the jaws, rather than pop it in, I place it back out in the middle of the table and try the shot again.

I also work on cut shots of varying degrees. Typically, I like to start by placing balls about 10 to 12 inches out from the side pocket and cutting them diagonally into the corner on the opposite side of the table. I want to be able to pocket these shots at will... like I could back when I was a kid. Probably ain't gonna happen, especially with the constant trembling I've developed in my hands, but I haven't given up on the possibility.

I also concentrate on center ball stroking. I miss way too many long shots due to inadvertent english and the consequent inadvertent throw. And, "Stay Down!" I have to remind myself to stay down at least once a shot. Duhhhh.

So, for right now, that's pretty much my practice routine - not terribly organized, but, still, purposeful.

Which brings me to the subjects of this post, the duck hunters, the old dudes who find their way to the poolroom and try to pretend that once upon a time they could actually play. I call them duck hunters because they lay the balls out on the table making sure they're never more than three of four inches from a hole, and, then, proceed to drive them in with authority. This, apparently, makes them feel real good about themselves, this plucking daisies, shooting cheeries, poppin' hangers. On closer observation, you'll notice these guys rarely shoot balls down the length of the table - they specialize in shooting cross-table shots no longer that two or three feet in length. If, on occasion, they do attempt a long shot, they shoot it very softly so that when they miss, and they invariably do, they'll leave the ball close enough to the pocket so they can blast it in next try.

What's the friggin' sense? I mean, I get it. They're more worried about missing and looking foolish than they are about improving their games. But, isn't that ridiculous? From the moment I saw their first herky-jerky poke at the cue ball, I knew, regardless of what they might want me to believe, that they had never been any good, that they had always been chumps, and that they had never engaged Buddy Hall in thousand dollar sets.

At best, back when they were at the top of their games, they might have come out two beers ahead after an all night session of eight-ball at the local VFW, Moose Club or Fraternity of Eagles. And, that's about it. They have no reputations to protect. And, no one could possibly think any less of them if they missed a shot or two or three. I mean, that's how you get better, people - by challenging yourself. If you're going to take the trouble to drive out to the pool room two or three times a week, why not challenge yourself? Why not work on your game? Why not try to get better? Otherwise, you're just taking up space and distracting the hell out of me.

Requiem for a Lightweight: The Ongoing Saga of Stroker Smith

2011-02-11T11:00:00.000-08:00

Ace Toscano

1

Stroker glanced out the window just in time to see Otis Griswold jog by. Maybe Griswold had it right. Running was a solitary thing. No teammates to worry about. No sponsors to deal with. Nobody sharking you or giving you shit.

As Griswold disappeared behind Russo’s place, Stroker was visualizing himself running... running in races for seniors -- taking the ribbon in 5k, 10k, 20k races, maybe even a marathon. And there he was on the podium, cameras flashing, his picture destined for papers from Florida to California. Soon as he finished the dishes, he thought, he’d have to go online and order himself a good pair of running shoes, top-of-the-line running shoes.

Playing pool was something altogether different from running, especially, when you did your pool playing in bars. Otis Griswold wouldn’t want any part of that. Otis Griswold definitely wouldn't want to fuck up his lungs with secondhand smoke. On a typical evening, Stroker might suck down a couple cubic tons of other peoples cigarette smoke. And, many the morning after, he would wake up feeling like he’d just chain-smoked ten cartons. Please note, he hadn't actually smoked since 1990.

Otis probably wouldn’t like the poolrooms either, not with the nitwits you were forced to deal with, nitwits like that old OCD demented POS Chris McCaskill or, as Stroker liked to call him, “McAsshole.” He was always prowling around the pool room, replacing stools, ashtrays, bridges, racks, pieces of chalk, placing them just where he thought they should be. One day, when Stroker's Instroke cue case, containing his custom made Josey cue, was leaning against a stool McCaskill deemed out-of-place, the asshole threw it to the floor, threw it like you would throw a battering ram through a door. Another time, the wack job had accused Stroker of sneaking over to his table while he was off making his OCD rounds and swapping a plain old blue dot cue ball for his treasured measled orb while the actual perpetrators, three young guys on the table next to his, were laughing their asses off and goofing on him. Chicken shit bastard actually told people Stroker stole from him. McCaskill probably figured his advanced age was insurance against any ass-kicking. He might soon discover it wasn't.

But, maybe, thought Stroker, maybe he was giving Griswold too much credit. Maybe the Grissard would fit right in with those bastions of senility. All he really knew about Gris was that he jogged by his window each morning like clockwork and that the association had warned him umpteen times about playing his radio too loud. Talk radio. If the dumbbell had been playing music, nobody would have given a rat's ass; but Rush Limbaugh? and that network of screwballs? that was much more than resident Democrats could take. Griswold would be better off feeding that load of crap to the boys at the pool room. Hell, he'd probably gain a legion of followers.

The only thing wrong with this thread was that Griswold didn’t play pool - he just jogged.

Such is life.

2

Stroker googled “best running shoes” and came up with Brooks Glycerin 8. They had a 5 star rating on amazon, so he ordered up a pair of size elevens for $129.99. No one could say he wasn’t serious.

3

Pool.

Let’s say you were good at something, once. Something like… ping pong, yeah, ping pong, for instance. Okay, okay, if you insist, “table tennis.” Whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo! Let’s say you grew up with the game, played it in the church basement, at the YMCA, at the boys club, at the CYO, anywhere they had a table and paddles. After high school, you, naturally, chose a college known for its table tennis program, like Imadork U, and earned yourself a full scholarship. I know, this sounds a little “out there” but this is only an analogy, so bear with me... maybe, for a more exciting alternative, I should’ve picked tidily winks. Anyway, you were a hot shot ping pong player and your team not only won the conference title, it went on to win the fuckin’ NC double “A” championship! “Eat It, Eat It, Raw Raw Raw.” Following your appearance on ESPN and the team’s trip to the White House where you were honored by a mildly distracted President Nixon, you, along with a couple teammates, were named to Team USA. More whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo! During the two years leading up to the Olympics, you traveled the globe playing table tennis in China, Korea, Japan, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Russia and in many countries no one ever heard of. You didn’t win any medals -- no one expected you to. Still, you held your own against the best of the best.

Now, fast-forward about 25 years. Though there’s a ping pong table in your rec room, you hardly ever pick up a paddle. In fact, the last time you actually played was at your class reunion weekend where you played so miserably that you were ridiculed by your old teammates who all seemed to have forgotten you were once star of the team. It was embarrassing. Table Tennis had been your life, once, the one thing you had ever been any good at, and, now, you couldn’t play worth a shit.

When you do find time to recreate, rather than cooping yourself up in the rec room, you’d much prefer to run out to the club with your daughter, she plays pretty good golf, and squeeze in 18 holes. One day, while you are in line at the club house, waiting to buy a dozen slightly-used golf balls, you notice a flyer on the wall promoting an upcoming table tennis tournament for club members. First prize is $250. Admittedly, you can no longer compete at the championship level, but against the drunk and overweight club members? That would be a different story. You knew you could handle them. The spinners, the defense-only blockers - they’d be shooting blanks at you. And they could never handle your top spin or your smashes. If you enter, you will surely win. So you do, and you win an easy $250.

After a couple weeks of praise and congratulations from your fellow club members, you find yourself enjoying your elevated status. What had been a severely atrophied self-image has suddenly been reversed. You’re club champion, now. No need to explain to the boys that your skills have eroded - they think you’re a star. To them, you are somebody.

For a time, you sign up for every table tennis competition that comes down the pike. You even become a part of a team that ventures forth and kicks the shit out of other teams comprised of unskilled novices and their brethren, the terminally uncoordinated. Why not? You’re representing. You even build a shelf in the rec room for your new trophies. One question, however, continues to gnaw away at you - “Is there really any value in beating these bums?” In time, the prestige that goes along with being the best ping pong player at the Shady Hollow CC starts to wear thin. You remove the trophies from the shelf, store them in boxes and carry them out to the shed. To hell with ping pong, you say… I mean table tennis, whoop dee fuckin’ doo… you’d rather play lousy golf.

So it was with Stroker Smith and pool to a, somewhat, lesser degree.

4

The hour glass blinked on and off and whirled as the glucose monitor analyzed a droplet of his blood. Wake up, stumble to the bathroom, take a leak, wash his hands, test his sugar - this is how every day started. He often joked to the guys that he was a slave to his prostate. That was partially true, but, to a greater extent, his diabetes was in charge. Not that he complained about it. By now, ten years into the routine, he was used to it.

Seventy-three. He had figured it was low - his lips were tingling.

“What’s for breakfast, sweetheart?”

“Pancakes,” she replied. “And grapefruit. What’s your reading?”

“Seventy-three.”

The lows never bothered Ellie, unless he was driving around and suddenly felt lost, like he had been hurled into strange surroundings. At home, it was different. But, when it came to high numbers, she cracked down like a glucose nazi, accusing him of sneaking too much of this or that forbidden delicacy. Stroker, himself, realized that managing diabetes was not an exact science and, so, he took the daily ups and downs in stride. Only thing was, this was Monday, which meant he would have to play in the pool league tonight, which, in turn, meant that he would have to keep his sugar on an even keel. His reactions to sugar too high and too low ran from uncontrollable shaking to difficulty concentrating. Neither effect was conducive to good pool playing.

Of course, Ellie cared little about the ups and downs of his pool game and knew less. He never bothered her with details of matches that would require numerous f-bombs to describe - she didn’t care for cursing that went beyond the “darn,” “damn” and “shit” threshold. Which also explains why she had no knowledge whatsoever of the war he had recently waged against Lumis Pepper over a, now, infamous hundred dollar bet he had yet to collect on and, unless he wound up going to jail over it, which remained a distinct possibility, she probably wouldn’t. Neither did she know about Lumis’s vow to get even... or the hooker.

5

Lumis Pepper was one of those loudmouth bores with little worthwhile to say and an undying penchant for saying it who pop up in pool rooms from time to time. Stroker had been practicing by himself at one of the back tables at Chalkies, one day, with, unbeknownst to him, Lumis Pepper watching over his shoulder. When he cut the six ball to the left, down the rail into the corner pocket, absently applying right hand english to the cue ball in order, probably, to keep it somewhere in the middle of the table, Lumis chirped from behind him, “You put inside english on that ball.”

“Outside,” said Stroker, calmly, without agitation, just figuring Lumis hadn’t been watching that closely.

“Inside!” Lumis said again.

“No,” repeated Stroker. He set the shot up again. “I gave it a little right, just like that - outside english”

“That’s inside english,” Lumis insisted.

“Nope. Outside.”

“That’s inside english! Lookee here,” said Lumis as he circled the table and set the shot up again. Gesticulating adamantly with his hands, he explained, “The ball goes inside the rail and inside the pocket - it’s inside english.”

Stroker shook his head and sighed. “Outside.”

By now, as Rufus Joiner liked to say, old Lumis was carrying on like he had his tit in a wringer. His face was redder than a rooster’s dick, veins were popping out of his forehead, and his ill-fitting false teeth were flopping around his mouth. “I’ve known the difference between inside and outside english my whole life,” he whined in his native West Virginian drawl. “You can’t tell me any different.”

“Well, Lumis, you been fuckin’ wrong your whole life.”

“I’ll bet you my hundred to your fifty that I’m not wrong!”

“Okay,” said Stroker, “that’s a bet.”

Rather that survey the other players who were in the pool room, Stroker decided it would be best to bring in definitive proof. He had a shelf full of pool books, any one of which would support his position. He would bring in a book, next day, and they could settle the bet. What the hell - a hundred was a hundred.

Lumis must have developed doubts, because, as Stroker learned later, he started asking around, quizzing people about their knowledge of inside and outside english. By the time the next day and the moment of reckoning came around, Lumis had been re-educated on the subject.

“Now, let’s make sure we know what we’re betting on,” he said as Stroker held up one of Phil Capelle’s books.

“You said,” began Stroker, “that, if you cut a ball to the left with right-hand english, that that’s inside english. I said...”

“No, no, no,” said Lumis. “That’s not what I said. I know the difference between inside and outside english. I’ve known it my whole life. You misunderstood me. We actually were both betting on the same thing.”

This wasn't Stroker’s first time around the block. He knew right off that what Lumis was doing. “Listen to me, fuck head. You’re the one who wanted to bet. You're the one who was flapping his gums about how smart you were and how dumb I was. Now, you want to back out. Fuck you. And, if you don’t pay me, every time I see you from now on, I’m going to ask you where my hundred dollars is. And every time someone mentions your name when I’m around, I’m going to tell them what a worthless piece of hillbilly shit you are.” And, he pretty much lived up to that, calling Lumis out on a daily basis often showering him with the most unpleasant and unflattering epithets from as far as ten tables away. He knew he wasn’t ever going to get his hundred, but he didn’t really care - it was worth more than that to spread the word that Lumis was a scum sucking deadbeat who didn’t pay his gambling debts, and that’s all he cared about.

6

Stroker had been introduced to the pool room when he was 12. The movie The Hustler had spawned, back then, a renewal of interest in the game of pocket billiards and friends of his had started hanging out at Teasdale’s Billiard Academy on Main Street in Grover, New Jersey, forty miles west of NYC. It was a time when he was spending more and more time away from home and the prevailing tension that lurked there. Teasdale’s became his refuge. Because his Uncle Nicky had long been known as the best pool player in town, he immediately had standing among the regular patrons and with the owner, Moulton Tizzy Teasdale, as well. One day Tizzy made him a proposition: if he would help Tizzy remove and fold the table covers each day at opening, he would be granted one half hour of free practice time. Stroker, always pinched for cash, accepted eagerly.

He put those 30 minute sessions to good use. Applying himself to the game of pocket billiards like he had never applied himself to anything, guided only by his own powers of reasoning and Mosconi’s little red book, Stroker quickly worked his way through the local talent and, by age 16, he was easily separating guys ten years his senior, guys who worked for a living, from their hard-earned money. Spotting them 15 to 25 in fifty point straight pool, they never had a chance - running 40 to 50 balls had been nothing. He remembered fondly the many times when, zoned out at the table, pocketing ball after ball, an opponent would have to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention and let him know that he had run out and the game was over. Otherwise, who knows, he might have gone on forever.

Then, one fateful day, he had a falling out with Teasdale. The previous afternoon, he had been half-way through his free practice session when Danny Orbus came through the door wanting to play. Next day, figuring he still had fifteen minutes coming, he extended his free practice session to 45 minutes. When he brought the balls up to Tizzy, Tizzy jumped all over his ass saying, “Don’t think I’m not keeping track of the fuckin’ time, you ungrateful cock sucker.”

“I had time coming from yesterday,” the young Stroker had said in his own defense.

“Who the fuck said you could carry time over from one day to the next, you motherless prick?” he sneered.

Truth was in all the years he had been opening up for Tizzy and taking his free time, this issue had never come up. Stroker had just taken for granted it would be okay. Obviously, judging by Tizzy’s outrage, it hadn’t been. Still, the old fuck might have approached him in a kinder, gentler manner. He hadn’t deserved to be talked to like he was a fucking thief. “Fuck you,” he had said to the old bastard. Then, he walked out.

Tizzy had probably missed him the next day at opening. And, the day after that. About a week later, Tizzy had managed to relay word to Stroker through a friend that he wanted him to come back so they could straighten out their little “misunderstanding.” “Misunderstanding my ass,” Stroker had said. “You can tell that cheap fuck I’m never going back there.”

And he didn’t, not until a few years later, anyway, after he heard Tizzy had sold out and moved to Florida. Stroker, married by then, hadn’t played pool in years. Still, he assumed he could play. But, when he stopped by the pool room one day and actually tried playing, he discovered he couldn’t hit a fuckin’ rail. Plainly speaking, he was a bum, a goddamned chump. He tried to make a come back, but after a couple weeks of dedicated practice it was obvious he just didn’t have it any more. Guys who would have ducked him a few years before could, now, beat him easily. That humiliation proved too much for his fragile ego - after all, he had been widely known as Stroker Smith, hot shot pool player. Now, he was just a joke. So, he quit playing pool, once and for all.

Then, some thirty five years later, after he discovered that Florida golf courses were hopelessly overpopulated with senile old farts who couldn’t get around a ladies’ course in under six hours, and that the clubhouse of the old fogy’s trailer park he had moved into had a couple 8 foot pool tables on which he could play for free, he decided to take up the game of pool again. He quickly discovered that he still couldn’t play a lick. But, at this stage of his life, with no one around to remember his former brilliance and more patience than his younger self had ever had, he wasn’t discouraged. He decided to take advantage of the opportunity and dedicated himself to getting better. And he did get better. But, it was a painfully slow process. He ran 50 balls at the clubhouse one day and decided it was time to take his show on the road. Banging the balls around by himself was no substitute for action - if he was going to get better, he would have to start playing for something.

7

Playing bad in the clubhouse with no one around was one thing. Playing bad in the pool room in front of others was another. Still, Stroker managed to lessen the potential embarrassment with the thought that he “didn’t know these fuckin’ people, anyway.” Even if he turned out to be the bum who dropped a quick fifty bucks to the resident douche bag, it wasn’t like it was going to make national headlines. So, finally, after three weeks of stalling, he took his show on the road.

Now, what he expected, based on his prior experience, was that as soon as walked into Chalkies pool room, before the door swung shut, resident players eager to separate him from his wallet would be racing over to him en masse with all kinds of shady propositions. And, though he wasn’t about to let himself get suckered, he was resigned to dropping a few bucks.

Wasn’t going to happen. He learned quickly that the afternoon crowd at Chalkies not only did not gamble, they were afraid to death of the prospect. He asked one old guy if he wanted to play a game of straight pool to fifty points for ten dollars.

“No,” the guy said. “I don’t gamble,” which meant, thought Stroker, he was afraid of losing his money.

On top of that, the clown didn’t shoot straight pool. He played nine-ball, for funsies, of course, and eight-ball, but straight pool was as foreign to him as downtown Shanghai. Stroker had a hard time accepting that - a pool player who didn’t play straight pool. It boggled his friggin’ mind.

Stroker declined invitations to participate in games that were strictly social, including a never-ending non-betting ring game that occupied four or five of the regulars daily. He couldn’t see how playing with nothing at stake would improve his game, so he developed the habit of practicing by himself.

8

Tuesday nights Chalkies hosted an open nine-ball tournament which Stroker entered once, played like the chump in, embarrassing himself like he’d shit in his communion suit, but continued to attend, anyway, as a spectator rather than a participant. What he discovered was that there were some pretty good players on the gulf side of Florida, much better, in fact, than he had ever been, even as a hot-shot teen. Sure, he would’ve made a respectable showing back then, back when his stroke was straight and his eyes were sharp, but these guys were veteran 9-ball players. Not only could they make all the shots, they could move the rock with precision. They were way out of Stroker’s league. Hell, the way he played now, everyone still pumpin’ blood was out of his league.

9

It was also on Tuesday nights that Stroker got to know Rufus Joiner. A good ol’ boy from Tennessee, Rufus wasn’t much of a threat to the crowd at Chalkies, but he, reportedly, was doing pretty well on the local barroom circuit. On Thursday nights, he’d hit a bar down in Tarpon Springs that hosted a weekly 8-ball tournament. At his urging, Stroker joined him one night and, without losing a single game, sailed through the winner’s side, winning a hundred dollar prize in the process. Next week, he repeated and, as quickly as that, he was a member of the local bar pool scene. Tuesday nights found the boys at another bar tournament, this one at the bowling alley’s on old 54 down in New Port Richey. First time out, he won there, too.

Stroker wasn’t kidding himself - he didn’t have an inflated idea of who he was in the grand theme of things or of how he ranked among area pool players. He knew it was only a bunch of bar players he was beating, a bunch of guys who thought they could shoot pool but who actually weren’t all that. Still, it felt good winning for a change and hanging with guys who, deluded as they might be, actually thought he could play.

Not long after he joined the bar tour, one of his new bar buddies asked if Stroker would sub on his bar league team because they wanted to make a run at first place and one of their regular players was screwing up the works. Stroker complied, lost only one game in the last five weeks of the season and propelled his friends to the league championship. Accepting an invitation to become a permanent part of the team, Stroker was the ringer who’s role it was to seal the deal. He started playing in leagues on Mondays and Wednesdays and accumulated trophies at an incredible rate.

While all this was going on, he continued to hit Chalkies every afternoon to work on his game. He had, by now, improved to the point that he wasn’t half bad, even on the big tables. On the bar boxes, he was deadly. He had finished as individual point leader for the last four sessions and his teammates, talking about a five-peat, were comparing him to Jimmie Johnson. Not bad, you might say, for an old timer of 64.

But, Stroker wasn’t all that pleased with himself. Tom Cruise among the pygmies is how he saw himself. Yeah, maybe he had a room full of trophies but, when you got right down to it, what did they signify? Nothing, except that he was getting his jollies by beating a bunch of bar players who, technically, didn’t know shit about pool. Hell, you’d be hard pressed to find three guys in the league who knew how to hold a stick. Whoopee! C’mon, Freddie, let’s hear another chorus of We Are The Champions.

Sure, he’d become a legend in the local bars, but all that really mattered to him was that in the pool room he was still a bum. You wouldn’t catch him bragging to his acquaintances there about his bar league success because anyone with half a melon would know exactly what he was doing - gettin’ his jollies by beating up on a bunch of nits. That was just plain pitiful.

10

“Toast or a cupcake,” asked Ellie.

“I better have both,” he decided.

He loaded up his syringe with fifteen units of Lantus, the slow-acting stuff. Fast-acting insulin before meals, slow acting insulin at night. It wasn’t really a pain in the ass, it was his life.

11

His teammates.

Unlike Stroker, who had to perform the rituals of the diabetic before heading out on league nights, his teammates would simply climb into or onto their rides and head out. No problema.

Well, that probably wasn’t exactly true. He could envision Buzz, the Buzzer, trekking out to his work shop last minute to roll a few bombs. It was a condition of life that Buzz and his other teammates could not play pool without a frequent infusion of weed. Every so often the three of them would slip out the bar’s back door to partake in their favorite pastime. “Going to the dumpsters” was how Stroker referred to it. Of course, he realized he was probably inserting himself into the equation when he imagined Buzz slinking off to the work shop. For all he knew, maybe Buzz just plopped his ass down at the kitchen table, in front of wife and kids, pulled out a baggy of buds and went to work. Who knows? These were creatures of a different world.

And, on pool nights, Wiley Baker, Buzz’s sidekick, reportedly had a difficult time extricating himself from the comfort he found between the sheets, if, in fact, his bed bore sheets. Again, Stroker realized he was taking liberties. Anyway, Buzz’s usual excuse for arriving late was difficulty dragging Wiley Baker’s “lazy ass” out of bed. While probably a contributing factor, Stroker allowed, the leisurely loop they traced through the county’s back roads while sharing a pre-match blimp did little to hasten their arrival.

Team captain, Timothy Calderone, TC, had no punctuality issues. Most nights, he was first to arrive. Having sworn off booze, cigarettes and marijuana, he was unencumbered, except for a nasty disposition. He’d work all day cutting lawns, race home, gnash teeth with his girlfriend, Tammy, shower, eat, strap his cue to his back, then, jump on his Harley and hit the road. All night long, during their matches, he and Tammy would exchange angry, hate-filled text messages, some that he shared, some that he didn’t.

12

After his snack, a thorough teeth brushing, three partially successful attempts to empty his bladder, one stint on the toilet during which he tried not to think of that positive stool sample - “Gee, thanks Doc, it’s nice to hear something positive for a change,” Stroker finally dragged his tired ass out of the trailer. It was twenty-five to eight when he cruised into the Beer Factory’s parking lot, leaving plenty of time, he thought, to get in a couple practice games before the match started. Generally speaking, with the boys venturing to the dumpster for some pre-match fortification, things didn’t get started till eight fifteen. He couldn’t help notice, with a sigh of resignation, an array of Harley’s lined up out front of the Beer Factory’s entrance. That meant, more than likely, they’d be playing the gang from Ivy’s Road House, tonight. The Nomads.

13

For some reason, TC, Wiley and Buzz held the Nomads, in high esteem. Last time they had played, TC had inadvertently motored up to Ivy’s wearing a red flydanna and was immediately put on notice that to ride into the Nomads’ lair with an unauthorized display of the group’s colors was a violation of the biker’s code so blatant and disrespectful that under different circumstances it may have wound up being severely detrimental to his physical well being. Thankfully, Stroker had an intimate connection with one of the Nomad’s top dawgs, Charlie Evans, and because of that the situation quickly fizzled and the gang forgave TC for his flydanna faux pas and bestowed on him various biker-style hugs of condescension.

It was one of those “small world” coincidences that had landed Stroker and Charlie Evans in the same pitiful ten team bar league in the remote outskirts of Florida’s redneck civilization. Fact was, they had met years ago trout fishing at the Paulinskill River in Sussex County, New Jersey. Charlie, his brother and dad, natives of Morristown, would drive up most Saturdays during the fishing season to fish in one of Stroker’s favorite stretches of water, one that ran from a dam just east of Blairstown down to the steel railroad trestle. Thing was, unlike Charlie who was light complected, Charlie’s brother and dad were blacker than Jackie Robinson. Among the Nomads who couldn’t go five minutes without referring to the n-word in one form of usage or another, that bit of trivia most surely would have effected the current leadership structure. But, if passing was the way Charlie wanted to go, Stroker figured he had that right and wished him all the best. Though they never spoke about it, the cordiality he always bestowed upon Stroker showed that Charlie was very appreciative.

14

It was common knowledge at Chalkies that most mornings would find Stroker doing laps at Veteran Park’s walking circuit. He did it mostly for the exercise, but he also enjoyed being outdoors in a bucolic setting that was very hospitable to various species of birds, including pileated woodpeckers, bluebirds, hawks and, frequently, bald eagles. Johnny Jones, especially, an outdoorsman himself, was always eager to hear about sightings Stroker had made during his morning strolls.

Though he wasn’t on a first name basis with anybody, he knew others who frequented the park by sight and he made it a practice to nod and say “good morning” as they crossed pathes.

Being pretty good with faces, he recognized as a newcomer a nice looking young lady who, traversing the circuit in the opposite direction, flashed him a wide smile as she went by. He was still contemplating her enthusiasm when he passed her again down by the tennis courts, this time smiling like they were old friends. She didn’t seem to be walking that fast, making Stroker wonder what had brought them back together so quickly, but he didn’t dwell on it. When, not a quarter mile further on, he bumped into her again, same smile, same glow, alarms went off. If nothing, Stroker was a realist. In his sixty-four years, he had never once been accused of being a babe magnet, nor had he ever been greeted with such enthusiasm, not even by his mother.

She stopped in front of him. “Can I ask you something?” she asked in a please-please pretty please tone of voice.

“Sure,” said Stroker. “Go ahead.”

“Mind if I walk with you? I hate walking alone.”

“Well, I’m not going to be here much longer, but you can walk me to my car. Maybe, I’ll take you home with me.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” she purred. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

With that, she came aside Stroker, took his hand in hers and, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, fell in step beside him.

They had gone about twenty yards when Stroker stopped.

“Sweetheart, do you think you could do me one little favor?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” she said, eager to please.

“Would you please tell Lumis that I said he shouldn’t be pimping out his daughter.”

15

“GONADS?” Stroker always yelled that out when they played the Nomads, not to goof on the bikers, but to goof on his teammates who were afraid he was going to instigate a confrontation.

TC wandered over. “Shut up, will ya,” he whispered. “You’re going to get us killed?”

“GONADS?” He winked at Charlie Evans who could barely suppress a laugh.

By the time the barmaid Vicki served up a hug and a diet soda and Stroker had assembled his cue, it was quarter to eight. As usual, Buzz and Wiley hadn't arrived. Stroker checked his cell phone to see if they had called. They hadn’t. He dug a quarter out of his pocket and set it on the rail of the pool table to establish his place in order for a practice game.

“We’re playing!” announced TC.

“I can wait,” said Stroker. “I’ll take the next game.”

“We’re playing,” repeated TC, more emphatically.

“What are you talking about?”

“We started the match.”

“What?” Incredulous, Stroker looked again at his watch. “It’s only quarter to fuckin’ eight,” he said.

“They wanted to start, so we started,” said TC.

“Your fuckin’ team isn’t even here, yet.”

“You're here. Buzz and Wiley are on the way.”

“This is fuckin’ stupid!” said Stroker. “I don’t even get to practice?”

TC had moved over by the Nomads’ table. He was shouting, now, evidently unhappy that his authority was being questioned. “We started. Okay? We want to get done before midnight. Some of us have to work for a living. Live with it.”

“Fuck. You. Asshole,” said Stroker. Without a word to anyone, he took his cue apart, returned it to his case, and walked out the door.

He was halfway to his car when TC came running out of the bar. “They wanted to start,” he said once again. “They're the Nomads.”

“You're a fuckin’ asshole” Stroker shouted over his shoulder. ”Live with that!” And that quick, his season, his quest of a five-peat, and his career as a bar player all came to an end.

16

Realizing his body couldn't take the pounding, he slowed to a walk, then stopped. Running wasn’t good for you. It couldn’t be if it brought on this much agony. His knees felt like they’d been pummeled with a sledge hammer and he was pretty sure his right foot was broken. Plus, he needed air. Doubled over, he fought to catch his breath, drawing in deeply, once, twice, three times. What the hell had he been thinking! He must’ve been out of his fuckin’ mind!

A trio of crows mocked him from atop the cyclone fence that enclosed the ball field. Thanks, he muttered, right back at ya.

And just when he was thinking that this running horse shit was worse than a colonoscopy, he glanced back over his shoulder and there she was, Lumis’s hooker, coming as fast as her high heels could carry her.

Damn that fuckin’ Lumis.

“Are you all right?” she asked with syrupy concern.

“I’m... okay,” he told her, between breathes. “Just restin’.” Then, he took off, running as fast as he could.

Three weeks later, when he finally got around to turning his cell phone back on, there was voice mail from Charlie Evans. "Hey, old buddy," he said, "I was just wondering if you enjoyed that little number I sent over to the park for ya. Sweet, huh? Let me know."

Fixing Nicks In A Cue Shaft Country Style

2011-01-18T12:23:00.000-08:00

I was playing one day when it occurred to me that my stick lacked the slick smoothness that I prefer. It felt rougher than grandma's broomstick. Though I noticed the network of nicks and dings all of a sudden, they were, more than likely, an accumulation of several months of bangs and knocks. A few days later I decided it was time to clean up my shaft.

Now, I refer to the procedure I follow as "country style" because it is not likely to please those cue worshippers who handle their sticks like an English doctor might handle Prince Charles' unit -- very carefully. I mean, I've heard repeatedly from different players, especially those who like to give advice via the internet, that they would never let sandpaper touch their cues. Me, I love sandpaper. I think it's pretty handy stuff. And, it plays an important role in my method of eliminating nicks. Others would probably warn that my method could cause shafts to warp. All I can say to that is it's never happened to me and I've been cleaning up my shafts this way for a long time.

So, let's begin. What do you need? You'll need a regular household washcloth, the kind you wash your face with, not the kind you'd use on dishes. You'll need a piece of cloth. I opt for an old undershirt. Last, you'll need a piece of sandpaper, preferably 2000 grit. I usually find this in the same section of a department store where they sell spray paint for cars.

Washcloths

During my most recent refurbishing, I started at the tip end of the shaft and worked my way up to the joint. You might be able to tackle the whole length of the shaft at once, but I prefer to work my way up over a matter of days.

You fold the washcloth so that it roughly conforms to the location of the nick. If you have two or three nicks that are close together, you may want to fix them together. Next, you wet the bottom third of it with hot tap water, squeezing out the excess water so that the cloth is good and damp but not dripping. Then, you press the wet end against the ding and roll the entire cloth tightly around the shaft.

Set the shaft aside and check it out tomorrow. If, as is usually the case, the nicks have vanished, you can then thoroughly dry the worked-on area by rubbing it with the cotton cloth. Then, hit it with the sandpaper. Voila - you're back in business.

Now, if you want your sticks to last forever, this method is probably not best for you. But, if you don't give a crap about forever and just want to get rid of the nicks, give it a try.

Note: I ran into Freeak-Zilla Bill at the pool room today and had the opportunity to watch him employ the method referred to in his comment first hand. I'd be willing to bet a wad of hundreds that his method is a lot better than mine. First, he wet a paper towel, squeezed out the excess water and nuked it until it was hot, but not too hot to handle. On this day, he deemed 20 seconds to be enough. First time out, play it safe - if the paper towel isn't hot enough, you can always give it another ten seconds. He removed the paper towel from the microwave and applied it directly to the nick for two or three minutes. Then, as he stated in his comment, he completed the process by vigorously rubbing the area with a dry paper towel, rubbing until the area was dry. Voila! In less than 5 minutes, the dent was eliminated. He fixes bigger nicks, chips or dents that won't succumb to this method by filling them with a drop of super glue gel, allowing the glue to dry for a few days, then sanding the spot smooth. I can't wait till my shaft gets nicked up again, so I can try his method out. LMAO!

GEAR: What’s in your case and why?

2010-09-15T06:59:00.000-07:00

PoolSynergy's theme this month calls for their esteemed network of pool bloggers to examine their cue cases and explain, if they can, the odds and ends they carry around in them. The topic struck me as one that wouldn’t strain my limited mental resources, so I decided to contribute to the discussion. You can find the complete list of contributors at The Tip Jar, the site of this month's host Samm Diep.

Before I get to what’s in the pockets and pouches of my 3/7 Instroke cue case, let me say a quick word about pool cues in general – they ain’t magic wands. Frankly speaking, I played the best pool of my life, back in the 60’s (that’s 1960’s, not the 1860’s), with a spruced up one-piece house cue. Of course, I never played badly back then, but, if I had, I never would have thought of using the cue as an excuse. I mean, it was straight and it had a tip on it – what more could a guy want?

Back then, strangers carrying their own cues would occasionally invade our suburban New Jersey pool room, but we were not terribly impressed by their lacquered finishes or their fancy inlays – I guess we didn’t get it. Fact is we viewed these intruders with more than a little suspicion. Figuratively speaking, we were all dressed up in jeans and in came these guys decked out with more ruffles than Little Lord Fauntleroy. Know what I mean?

Anyway, fast forward to when, after a 38 year layoff, I started playing again back in 2000. I soon discovered there wasn’t one decent stick in the game room of the old fogies’ trailer park where I reside. So, I went shopping. Finding Kmart was out of their quality implements, I boogied down to Sports Authority where I found a stick for twenty bucks. It wasn’t all that but it was plenty good enough for a guy who could barely hit a rail. By the time I realized it was a piece of crap, I had been carrying it to the local pool room for over a year with no pangs of conscience whatsoever. When I did decide to upgrade, I went online and bought myself a $55 Players cue stick. I still have it, somewhere. I used that for a few years and, then, graduated to a $200 Falcon sneaky-pete. I liked that stick well enough, but, for no good reason, a year later I decided to get myself a custom made Josey sneaky which I’m still using. With it, I carry two other sticks: an ASKA break-jump cue I found on ebay and a 1990's vintage Meucci. I hardly ever use the Meucci; I just carry it around.

All that said, I’m still a firm believer that if a person can play, he or she should be able to make do with any kind of stick, including a broomstick. But just like golfers who invest in $5,000 clubs and still can’t break a hundred, there are a zillion poolplayers out there with $2,000 cues who can’t hit a rail. To each his own. Moving on…

There’s chalk in my case, plus a magnetic chalk holder. Chalk generally isn’t an issue at area pool rooms, but our local bars usually opt for that cheap gooey stuff they sell in Wal-Mart. If you want to use Master Chalk, you better bring your own. The danger, then, is that someone will hijack your chalk and claim it as their own. I had returned to my place at the bar after winning a match in our local bar tournament one night, when a guy came charging over and asked, “Did you take the Master Chalk that was on the back table?” I reached in my shirt pocket, flashed the chalk at him showing him the name sticker I had placed on the bottom of the cube and stated simply, “It’s mine.” Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Because I’m a bit of a germaphobe and don’t like sharing chalk with people who are sniffling and sneezing and otherwise snot-filled, I occasionally pull out my magnetic clip-on chalk holder. Of course, this is mostly a symbolic gesture since the infected one’s germs are crawling all over the balls, the rack, the rails and the cloth. That reminds me – it’s time for my flu shot.

I like a slick shaft and I carry several items that contribute to that end. I have talc in a plastic bottle and talc in a Slyde-Rite bag. I’ve got one of those blue scouring pads. I’ve got the Smooth Micro-Burnishing system plastic squares. I’ve got a few pieces of 2000 grit sandpaper, plus a leather pad and a couple small pieces of cloth for wiping down a dirty cue. I’m usually too lazy to dig one of these rags out of my case and opt instead to use my handkerchief. I know there are those who are of the opinion that you should never sand your shaft. I suspect they are afraid that repeated sandings can transform a shaft into a crooked, pencil thin wand. Good luck with that. Me, I’m a sander and a scourer. If, somewhere along the line, my shaft becomes too thin or crooked, I’ll get a new shaft or, more likely, a new cue.

I also have a steel version of the cue tip sander we’re all familiar with. More like a file, it works great, never needs new sandpaper, and, if necessary, could probably double as a parmesan cheese grater. The Porper Cut-Rite tool comes in handy to shave the sides off mushrooming tips.

Thinking about it, I could probably get by with just the talc. Plus, a little sandpaper. And, maybe, the file and those Micro-Burnishing squares. The Porper tool comes in handy, too. Hell, I might as well keep it all – that’s what those compartments are for.

Pool Room Etiquette: Shut the F#&K Up, Please

2010-08-20T16:33:00.000-07:00

It ain’t tennis, or golf, or a chess match, but it isn’t a gin mill either – it’s a pool room and, as such, there are times when excessively working your mouth is inappropriate. Like when a big money game is going on. Back when I was a kid and literally hung out in the pool room, you could tell the moment you walked through the door that a money game was in progress. Except for the random clicking of balls, the place was immersed in thick, tense silence. Onlookers, staking out all the reasonable vantage points from which they could view the action, watched, hardly breathing. There were no signs on the walls, no announcements had been made, it was the natural way to behave.

Of course, the big money game was an exception rather than the rule. Most often players were involved in what nowadays are called “cheap sets.” Still, even for those games, there were accepted rules of decorum. For one thing, you would never charge up to the table and start shooting the shit with one of the players. Most often, you would approach someone on the periphery and ask if they were playing for something. “Playing for something” was how we referred to gambling. If guys were gambling, that meant they weren’t just screwing around – they were serious. If, for some reason, you did say something to someone who was gambling, as soon as he said “We’re playing for something” you knew enough to make yourself scarce. Like I said, none of this was written down, it was just the way things were, common sense.

Florida pool rooms are over-populated by old-timers who claim that they grew up in pool rooms and, of course, that they once could play much better than they do now. Unfortunately, ninety-nine per cent of the time, this is bullshit. These are people too uncoordinated to play golf, who may have occasionally played pool at their local watering hole or at the Moose Club, who have taken up pool again so they have excuses to get out of their houses and away from their wives. The problem is they don’t know how to act.

I was playing a guy, let’s call him Lenny, some cheap sets up at Capone’s the other day when an acquaintance of his comes sashaying up to the table with a drink in hand, plops his ass down on a stool next to him, and starts up a conversation. I, at the table, just froze. Lenny saw my reaction and told his friend that I didn’t want him hanging around while I was playing and, after rephrasing that a couple times, the guy finally took the hint. I really didn’t like the idea of Lenny making me the heavy. The way I see it, all he had to say to the guy is “We’re playing for something,” then the guy should’ve known enough to get lost. Instead, he made it appear I was unreasonable and that if it was up to him the guy could have stayed around for a good oldfashioned gabfest. WTF.

Lenny’s another guy who claims he once hung out in a pool room, in Brooklyn no less. I have a hard time believing that folks in Brooklyn would put up with that kind of shit while they were playing, but what do I know, I was 40 miles west in suburban New Jersey.

Speaking of Lenny, a couple months ago we were playing when, jacked up between a cluster of balls at the foot of the table, I tried to make an extremely thin cut. Well, I missed the shot and almost missed the object ball completely. In fact, it barely moved, then settled back where it had been. I told Lenny the ball moved and I guess he didn’t believe me because just last week we’re talking and he brings up something he refers to as “The Phantom Hit.”

Now, you might think he could have taken my word that the ball had moved and been done with it. After all, I was right there with my eyes glued to the balls while he was at the far end of the table engaged in smoking, farting and belching as he normally is. Beside that, during the time we’ve been playing each other, I’ve frequently called fouls on myself that he wouldn’t otherwise have known about. Just a couple weeks ago we were hill-hill and I called a foul on myself for a double hit on the cue ball. He had no idea I had fouled, but I did, so I called it. I doubt seriously that he would ever stop for a foul I had not noticed. At least, he never has. Just saying.

Anyway, you think he could give me the benefit of a doubt and take my word for it that the hit was good? No, two months later he brings up the “phantom hit.” And I wouldn’t doubt that he’s been telling his fellow nits the sad tale every chance he gets. Needless to say, he and I won’t be playing any more. I hate whiners. Maybe he can hook up with his nitwit buddy and they can shoot the shit till the cows come home.

First DJ’s Memorial 9-Ball Tournament A Success

2010-08-13T04:12:00.000-07:00

Top players from around Pasco County converged at DJ’s Family Billiards last night, 8-12-2010, for the first annual Memorial 9-Ball Tournament. The night was dedicated to the memory of several special people, among them Tommy Moses, Albert Osanna, Bob May, New York Jimmy, Tommy Hill, special, not only to gathered friends and family, but to all in attendance because they shared an affection for the game of pocket billiards.

Three weeks before he got hit with his final illness, Bob May called me bright and early one Thursday to let me know he’d had a good night down at Stroker’s (Palm Harbor) the night before. Not only had he finished in the money, but on the way he had defeated local notables Dave Williams and Donny Mills. He was on top of the world.

Well, Bobby, I had a pretty good night last night at your memorial tournament. Not only did I finish in the money, but, like you, I managed to beat a few people I had no business beating. Unfortunately, my success had more to do with a streak of luck than great playing, but, what the hell, we have to take what we get.

Among those showing up for the tournament were Mike Davis, Billy Moses, Fast Eddie, Mark W., and Bobby Livrago. I, of course, slipped out as soon as I was eliminated, so I can’t report who won. I can tell you Mike Davis and Jared were still in it when I left.

The tournament was co-sponsored by my website AcesWebWorld.com.

The Me In Team

2010-06-06T06:33:00.000-07:00

I don’t usually spend a lot of time thinking about the individual point standings of our local bar leagues. First of all, I never bring my reading glasses on league night so I can’t read the sheets. Plus, I’m not that conscientious about reporting to the scorekeeper every five or six ball run I make – if I miss a shot or fail to run out, everything that’s happened before often gets wiped from my mind.

None the less, because one of my teammates kept reminding me that he was hot on my heals – he trailed me by a scant six points with six weeks left – I knew I was leading the pack on Monday nights and wasn’t at all surprised when I finished in the number one spot.

Wednesday nights was a different story. Based on my own observations, I hadn’t played very well the last session – I hadn’t won enough games or made enough runs. So, when the captain of my team called explaining that the player who had been in the lead had had a bad final week scoring just six points and that both he and I had leapt past him in the standings, thereby finishing one two, I had a hard time believing it. But, it turned out to be true as the first place trophy on my shelf attests.

And to cap things off, my partner and I came in first in the blind-draw scotch doubles tournament that followed the trophy presentation at the league’s party.

This is small stuff, I realize, but being number one in both leagues is a kick, especially, at this stage of the game.

Here are some pics from the Wednesday night party at my team’s home bar, the Hayloft:

The Team - Ace, Rick, Boogie

Same Guys With Eye Candi

Sandi presents me with SharpShooter Trophy

Blood, Lust, Sex, Bullets, Money

2010-05-11T07:21:00.000-07:00

My latest pool story has none of that. Check out Once A Weasel by Ace Toscano.

As in most of my fiction, the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

2010 Monday Night Sharpshooters Awards Party

2010-05-04T06:17:00.000-07:00

Our team, wearing the Hayloft colors, consisting of Boogie, Billy Cook, Craig and yours truly were declared league champions for the winter session. And, once again, I was awarded a trophy as the league’s individual male points leader. Here’s my acceptance speech for the male points leader award:

Left: Individual Points Leader; Right: 1st Place Team

“Thanks, everybody, I appreciate the applause. This trophy means a lot to me, not only because it was hard-fought, but because, realistically, with Billy Cook back from Ohio, it could very well be my last. But, hey, there’s nothing wrong with second place, is there Billy? (more applause) Anyway, seeing as I only won by seven points overall, I guess I can thank that 31 point night I had early on for clinching first place for me.

But, as proud as I am of coming in first in the individual points race, I’m prouder yet of the way I played – I never tried to shark anybody by jumping off my stool when they were trying to shoot; I always made an honest effort; and I always played by the rules. Though I can’t say that about all of you who have made it here tonight, (laughter) I can say it about a lot of you. And I just wanted you all to know that, regardless of how many games you won, or what place you came in, if you played by the rules and were a good sport, you have my respect and my friendship. Thanks for making this league fun for all of us. (applause) As for the rest of you - the cheaters, crybabies, sharks, and whiners - maybe you can find another league somewhere. (more laughter) Peace, love and peyote.”

Barrelz Ekes Out Victory in Challenge Cup Match

2010-05-02T12:51:00.000-07:00

Jeremy, Bobby, Jonny, T.J.

Now, let me preface my comments about the first-ever Hayloft-Barrelz Challenge Cup Match by saying my observations on said match may not be entirely accurate as I was heavily medicated at the time which also accounts for the fact that I couldn’t make a shot.

Unfortunately, I did not have a corner on problems interfering with performance at the table. Boogie, our number three player, was playing on short notice and hadn’t had time to put himself in the proper frame of mind. Billy “The Kid” Cook, our anchor, had been to a Rays game the night before sitting in seats so far removed from the field of play that he had developed eye-strain. Jimmy, a last minute addition to the squad who nearly made the eight on the break in two games, was victimized by bad roll after bad roll. As for me, I was heavily medicated as I may have mentioned before.

In the lead-off position, I missed what should’ve been easy position and managed to give the first game away. I think I followed suit with my second game, though, like I said, much of the happenings were obscured by a medicinal fog.

Heading into the match, I figured, if Billy and Boog won four games each, then I would only have to win one to cinch the match. That being said, I held up my end while my two amigos fell short. Jimmy was just there to fill out the roster so he shouldn’t be held accountable in any way for the massacre.

Barrelz, on the other hand, was living the charmed life – they didn’t get a single bad roll, nor did they have any medical emergencies. That’s the way it goes some times.

The Barrelz four - Bobby, T.J., Jeremy and Jonny – have sworn to give us a chance to get even though it seems, now, the Port Hole team has injected itself into the mix. We’re looking forward to a renewal of the competition, though we would hope they set things up for a day more hospitable to our side.

BTW, if you’re ever in the area, stop by Barrelz (8115 Us Highway 19, Port Richey, FL) for some pool, beer and pizza. You’ll be glad you did.

The Jackhammer Break Cue - A Tale of Gullibility

2010-05-02T05:51:00.000-07:00

I just received the new jump/break cue I found on ebay, an Aska Jump Break AR Professional, which reminds me of the last jump/break cue I bought via that vast shopping mall, The Jackhammer.

The Jackass's Jackhammer

What’s with the name, anyway? Obviously the name Jackhammer was supposed to bring to mind another popular break cue, The Sledgehammer, which sells for around $300. The Jackhammer sold for considerably less. Yet, while both names conjure up powerfully destructive images, the power is delivered primarily vertically, not along a lateral path as a cue might traverse. Perhaps, Battering Ram would be a more apt moniker.

Anyway, I was taken in by the whole Jackhammer thing and soon paid the price for my gullibility – my Jackhammer turned out not to be worth jack shit. The “special” phenolic tip/ferrule chipped and cracked in half in short order. I had already given the seller positive feedback on the basis of the cue’s appearance, so I figured I was stuck. I got what I deserve – I was a Jackhammer jackass.

Aska Jump/Break Cue

So, somewhat inexplicably, when I again needed a jump/break cue, rather than going to my own break cue page, I again took a trip to ebayland. The Aska Jump/Break Cue sells for $109. It has a nice look, a solid feel, and, what’s more, it comes from Canada. I’m hoping our Canadian brethren have more scruples than those sellers dumping the Jackhammers on an unsuspecting public. I'll let you know how it holds up.

Top Ten Pool/Billiards Instructional Books

2010-04-08T04:21:00.000-07:00

I learned to play pool back in the 1960's primarily by studying Mosconi's little red book, Mosconi On Pocket Billiards. Lucky for me, old Teasdale picked up a few copies during his travels and made them available to his customers. Unfortunately, it was the only book I came across during my developing years. Nowadays, there are scores of books professing to teach readers the art of shooting pool. Following are the ten most popular pool/billiards instructional books. Point your cursor at the book's title for ratings, plus new and used prices.

1. The 99 Critical Shots in Pool: Everything You Need to Know to Learn and Master the Game ~ Raymond Martin

2. Byrne's New Standard Book of Pool and Billiards ~ Robert Byrne

3. Precision Pool: Your Guide to Mastering Key Skills, Shots & Strategies ~ Gerry Kanov

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

5. Play Your Best Pool: Secrets To Winning 8-Ball and 9-Ball ~ Philip B. Capelle

6. Pool and Billiards For Dummies ~ Nicholas Leider

7. The Illustrated Principles of Pool and Billiards ~ David G. Alciatore

8. Pleasures of Small Motions: Mastering the Mental Game of Pocket Billiards ~ Robert T. Fancher

9. Picture Yourself Shooting Pool: Step-By-Step Instruction For Successful Pocket Billiards ~ Matthew Sherman

10. The Science of Pocket Billiards ~ Jack H. Koehler

Review: Psychology of Losing – Tricks, Traps & Sharks by Allan P. Sand

2010-03-11T05:25:00.000-08:00

Allan P. Sand is a man after my own heart. He’s written a book on sharking, a guide to protecting yourself from ruthless gamesmanship. Now, I’m pretty well known, especially around bars where players will do anything short of jumping jacks in your line-of-sight to distract you, for calling people out for their sharking moves. Strictly speaking, according to my definition, if you aren’t sitting still, by still I mean motionless, and quiet, by quiet I mean completely silent, you are engaged to one degree or another in sharking. There should be no asking about the weather, no striking up a conversation with other people in the poolroom, no whistling, no humming, no tapping your stick on the floor, no “nice shot”, no nothing. Of course, I’m often disappointed by the deportment of my fellow competitors.

Maybe, I spend too much time thinking about the topic. In the preface to his book The Psychology of Losing - Tricks, Traps & Sharks, Sand advises “It is important to be aware of situations where psychological tricks and traps can be applied. Being alert helps you minimize and counter their affects. Don't obsess about it, just accept the facts that these attempts are being used by everyone, whether on purpose, or unintentionally.”

Though I’m confident that I generally know when sharking is going on, and I’m quick to point out each individual offense, the task of categorizing the myriad of ploys that qualify as sharking is beyond my analytical abilities. Thankfully, Sand has taken on the monumental task and succeeded. Here, he has broken down sharking into 70+ variations. As I read through them, I found myself remembering again and again instances from my own experience.

Take, for example, his first subcategory “Accusations.” To show you how successful my opponent was in knocking me off my game, I’m still seething over an incident that happened three or four years ago. I was ahead in a local 9-ball tournament match when my opponent started complaining about my racking, claiming that the one-ball had to be dead-center on the spot. I was so pissed off that eventually I told him to go fuck himself and walked out without finishing the match. Not the response that Sand recommends but I did get considerable satisfaction blogging about the experience. I even wrote a poem, A Nit With No Name, about my opponent.

Obviously, Allan P. Sand has put a lot of time and thought into this book and we should be glad he did. I recommend it to all serious players. It’s analysis of sharking moves and suggested responses should be an invaluable asset to your development.

Wanted: Billiards Entrepreneurs

2010-01-28T16:08:00.000-08:00

Cue holders are much in demand by pool players whether they play in leagues or tournaments, in bars or poolrooms. Everyone needs a safe place to rest their cherished cue between turns at the table. Presenting, now, the Cue-It-Up Cue Clip. These handy cue holders attach to counters or tabletops with jaws that expand up to two inches.

If you think you can move these handy accessories, contact Robin Dodson: robindodson@ix.netcom.com. Two-time world champion and WPBA Hall-of-Famer Robin will supply interested entrepreneurs with cases of 24 clips (six colors, four of each). Dealers will be eligible to win a limited edition (one of four made) $1500 Schon cue. Says Robin, “That’s just my way of saying ‘thank you.’ We can all make a few bucks and one lucky person will be doubly blessed.”

My Souped Up Bar Cue: Players Hydrogel Performance Pool Stick

2010-01-21T06:37:00.001-08:00

A few weeks back, the custom-made pool cue I’ve been using during our bar league matches got knocked to the floor for the umpteenth time. Unfortunately, on this occasion it slapped a metal chair rail on the way which produced a super-sized ding midway up the shaft. As I worked on removing the indentation, I swore to myself that I’d never carry one of my better cues into a bar.

Confessedly, I’m not a guy who believes the cue makes the man. I grew up playing with a house cue and believe to this day that if you know how to play you should be able to play with anything that remotely resembles a cue stick. But, over the years, pool has followed golf in regards to offering duffers high-end high-priced equipment that’s guaranteed to elevate their game. The result is a plethora of lousy players with fancy sticks.

Anyway, I digress. To spare my regular playing cue, I started to shop around for a cue I’d use strictly for bars. After a little research, I decided on a blue Players Hydrogel Performance Cue Stick. First of all, it looked snazzy. The logo emblazoned on the butt reminded me of an endorsement packed NASCAR car. Bar players like that kind of thing – sticks with wolves, spiders, bears, lava lights. I had no doubt they’d admire my new Players cue more than they would my custom made Josey. I’m even thinking of using a glove to complete the slick bar player look.

Well, the stick has achieved all I expected and more. It seems the bar players really appreciate the chrome. But, what really has surprised me is the way the stick plays. It plays great. I’ve taken to leaving my high-end sticks at home and carrying it to the pool room for my daily practice sessions. For more info about the Players Hydrogel Performance Cue Stick visit my Players Cue page.

Note: After using the Porper Shaver on the tip to trim down the sides, the tip disintegrated. I replaced it with a Triangle tip which is working much better than the original. It looks like this model has been discontinued, so mine has quickly ascended to the status of collector's piece. If you're looking for a good C to B player's cue, I been getting some good feedback about Griffin cues.

Cheaters at Pool: Pity the Poor Desperate Fools

2009-11-26T08:47:00.000-08:00

“Integrity is not a conditional word. It doesn't blow in the wind or change with the weather. It is your inner image of yourself, and if you look in there and see a man who cheats, then you know you are a worthless human being.”

I have to admit, there is a part of me, a small part that says people who are so desperate to win at pool that they resort to cheating are to be pitied. I mean, they truly are pitiful human beings. Thankfully, a larger part dominates, the one that screams “You no good mother-effin’, cheatin’ piece of crap – you’re lower than snake shit.”

The owner of the pool room where I grew up had zero tolerance for cheaters, air-barreling welchers, and other slick characters who thought they might make a score at his establishment. He dealt with them decisively - by throwing their asses out.

Down here in Florida, things aren’t so simple, especially in barrooms. For one thing, people who own the bars aren’t likely to make any moves that might cut into their revenues. Then, there’s the fact that their establishments are usually left in the hands of bar maids who don’t know squat about pool and couldn’t care less. And, of course, you have to consider the quirky nature of the rules which often vary from bar to bar. Around here, bar rules usually mean no safes, honest-effort, call the rails and kisses. Crazy, but that’s what it is.

Like the other day, I’m sitting at my usual perch, right next to the first bar table, watching the local Friday night bar tournament, when a player snookers himself on the 8-ball and calls a kick into the corner using one rail. Now, the 8-ball’s on the rail, so the call of “one-rail” immediately got my attention. Were it my shot, I would have called two rails allowing the cue ball to hit the second rail just in front of the 8. That is, if I really wanted to make the ball. I suspect that this player had no intention of pocketing the 8 and hoped only to knock it toward the hole. So, the player launches his kick shot. It hits the head rail then angles toward the 8-ball. It was pretty well on line, except it hit the side rail just before the eight and knocks the eight into the corner.

To the unknowing, it looked like a great shot. People were clapping and hooting and hollering. They did not realize it was technically a bad shot. Maybe they didn’t hear him call “one-rail.” Maybe they didn’t care. His opponent, a member of my pool league team, knew it was a bad shot as, of course, did I. The tournament director asked “Who won?” and I told her “Craig, because it was a bad hit.” Then, the arguing started. People started saying the hit looked good to them. I’m saying, “If you had been watching you would have seen it hit the long rail – he said ‘One rail.” Things continued to go back and forth like that with people who could not have been watching closely swearing that the shot was good.

The thing is, the guy who made the shot, and the subsequent bad hit, had as good a view of the cue ball as I did. He knew, as well as I and his opponent, that it was a bad hit and he could have settled the argument quickly by just admitting it. But, he wouldn’t. Why? Well, that would have meant the end of the night for him – the loss would have knocked him out of the tournament.

Eventually, to settle things, they decided to play the game again. The cheater won this game, though he was aided by another bad hit which he didn’t call on himself. Call me stupid, but when I make a bad hit I stand up and admit it right away and relinquish my turn. I don’t wait to see if my opponent notices or to see if he’s going to call it on me – that’s sleazy.

Anyway, the way I feel now, I don’t think I’ll be attending this tournament any time soon.

Been cheated? Leave a comment detailing your experience.

The Best Sneaky Pete

2009-11-20T11:14:00.000-08:00

As you might expect, the emails keep rolling in.

Dear Ace,

I read that you prefer Sneaky-Pete cues. Why? Do you hustle pool? And which Sneaky-Pete would you recommend?

Thanks,

Justin B. May
Greenville, SC

It’s true, Justin, I do prefer Sneaky-Pete cues. Not because I like to go out hustling nits, but because they have the look and feel of the house cues I learned to play with when I was a kid in northern New Jersey.

I don’t mean to knock those who go in for the exotic inlays and fancy wraps – if that’s what you crave, have at it. But, let’s face it, all that artwork does nothing for your game. All it does is jack up the price of your pool-shooting implement.

I personally have three Sneakies – one custom made by Keith Josey of Josey Cues that I bring to the local pool rooms, a Predator SPW Sneaky Pete that I use from time to time, and a Mezz ZZSP Sneaky Pete that I carry around to bar tournaments and bar league matches. As far as I’m concerned, these are top-notched cue sticks. If you’re serious about getting yourself a Sneaky, I would suggest you start here.

John Bender Cues: Great Cues If You Can Get One

2009-11-16T20:03:00.000-08:00

There’s a good reason why I haven’t written the great American pool novel – several reasons, really. But, among the top reasons is the fact that I’m easily distracted from the task by all kinds of meaningless pursuits. Such is life.

My friend John Bender, on the other hand, is a single-minded artisan whose energies are concentrated primarily on one task – making first class pool cues. Having worked with Richard Black, it’s no wonder that he too produces cues that not only play superbly but also qualify as legitimate works of art.

Of course, there’s a backlog. Players crave his cues. But, if you place an order, in due time you will be in possession of one of his magnificent signature cues. Believe me, there’s no stick that compares.

Click these thumbnails to see some detailed pics that were recently taken at John's shop:

Do yourself a favor. Check out John Bender Cues online.

Robert May (8/16/1934-10/22/2009): Gone

2009-11-03T11:38:00.001-08:00

I heard, today, that Bob May, a fixture in our local Pasco County pool scene and a friend to many in the New Port Richey area, has passed away at 75. Bob’s health had been declining for several months but he battled bravely till the end. Originally from Wisconsin, it was his wish to be returned to his native soil, as cold and as lonely as it is up there.

Bob enjoyed playing pool and could be found many afternoons banging the balls around at Hammerheads or DJ’s. When he could, he liked to travel down to Stroker’s on Wednesday nights to play in their regular open 9-Ball tournament. Not long ago, he emailed me telling me he had finished in the money the previous night, scoring victories over Dave Williams and Donny Mills enroute.

Some time ago, I published Bob May’s One Rail Kicking System, here. I’m glad I did. Not only because Bobby got a kick out of it, but, since he always enjoyed sharing his knowledge of the game, it’s a fitting remembrance.

Non-Slip Shelf/Drawer Liner: The Perfect Cue Holder

2009-10-30T03:28:00.001-07:00

My pool-shooting friend Sandy showed me saying that Bill up at Capone’s showed him. Apparently, I figured, it wasn’t that much of a secret. Yet, when I googled “non-slip shelf liner” with “pool cues” nothing showed up. So, I decided to share it with you here.

In a nutshell, a square of non-slip shelf liner makes a perfect portable cue holder. I brought a 9 x 12 piece to our last bar league session on Wednesday, draped it over the edge of the round table the team was sitting at, and it held the entire team’s cues all night without one single mishap. Usually, our cues are scattered around stuck in whatever nooks and crannies we can find. Wednesday, they were all together where they were easy to access and easy to keep track of.

I’m speaking as a guy who has wasted a considerable amount of money on commercial cue holders that do not work. Now, finally, I have found one that works. I bought my roll of non-slip shelf/drawer liner at our local dollar store. I’m sure the big department stores have it, too. It’s also available in bulk supply online: 6 each: Wonderliner Extra Non-Slip Shelf/Drawer Liner.

Of course, if some drunk plows into your rig, the cues will go flying, but that would be the case no matter what kind of system you were using.

Break Cue Infomercial: Elite Heavy 27 oz “Banned” Break Cue

2009-09-21T11:12:00.000-07:00

Here’s some of what I’ve been hearing:

Dear Ace,
You were right about that Elite 27 oz break stick. Overnight, it has made me a force to be reckoned with. With no more force than I used to use (in fact, as per your instructions, I’ve dialed back on the muscle) I’m obliterating the balls. Eight ball, nine ball, ten ball – it makes no difference – I’m bustin’ the balls from here to Sunday. And, I’m pocketing more balls, too. I’ve had more run-outs from the break in the two weeks since I got my new break stick than I’ve had in the last 6 months. Last Tuesday, I won our local 8-ball tournament for the first time ever. It’s got to be the cue.
Thanks again,
Billy Hogan
Port Richey

Hi Ace,
Nothing gets me madder than when one of the guys on my pool team tells me I break like a girl. I mean, I am a girl. So what? Live with it. But, you know what? The guys aren’t making that wise crack anymore. Not since I received that new Elite Heavy 27 oz “Banned” break cue. I’m breaking the balls as well as they are, even better. Fact is, I’m leaving them speechless. And the silence is beautiful.
You’re the best,
Veronica Palantonio
Palm Harbor

I’m not one to make outlandish claims about a product. I mean, I wouldn’t want to take advantage of my fellow pool players the way golf pros hoodwink duffers into buying clubs they don’t need. The standard spiel for The Elite Heavy 27 oz “Banned” Break Cue is as follows:

We hear it over and over again. Pool players always want to know how to get a stronger break. They want more power and more action. If you can handle it, the answer for you may just be the new Elite "Heavy" Break Cue. This new breaker generates power through its massive weight. Rather than weighing just 20oz or 21oz, the Heavy weighs in at approximately 27oz, making it one of the heaviest breakers on the market. The weight is only part of the story. The cue also features a phenolic tip and ferrule giving it more power than a standard leather tip. The wood pin is actually built into the shaft, giving the Heavy not only superior power but also unprecedented feel for a break cue. It should be noted that this cue is not for everyone. Some leagues have banned this break cue, as it exceed their maximum weight restrictions. Also, keep in mind that if your ball comes off the table, it is a foul so you will need to have control to go along with the power of your break.

You’ll find a variety of break sticks on my Break Stick page, some quite a bit more expensive than the heavy elite cue. But, the Elite Heavy 27 oz “Banned” Break Cue seems to causing more than its share of interest and excitement.

Elbows, Assholes and False Accusations

2009-08-17T15:10:00.001-07:00

Let me start off by explaining that one of my pool league teammates has been pestering me for a couple years to go out golfing with him. I continue to decline his invitation on the grounds, and I’m dead serious about this, that I’m afraid I might hurt myself. Hey, at my age it doesn’t take much to throw you out of whack. It’s for pretty much the same reason that I don’t go around looking for fights. That was before Lizard came along.

Lizard plays for another team in our Monday night bar league. For most of the year, he and I have been battling for top individual honors and, though I’m ahead by about 20 points, my team has a bye-week coming up which should give him a chance to narrow the gap.

Anyway, I ran into a couple friends of mine who are on a different team on Monday nights and they told me that last time out they had played Lizard’s team. Now, I must interject here that before the current session I had never seen nor heard of this reptile. Yet, my friends tell me that Lizard swears that he has known me for years. He even relayed to them this story about how, once upon a time, we had had a heated argument over a pool game and that I had wound up sucker punching him. He subsequently, according to his tale, kicked the shit out of me. Later, I had supposedly called him and apologized and to seal the deal we had an Obamaesque confab where I bought him a few beers. Some story! Unfortunately, it’s pure, unadulterated bullshit.

There are enough true stories out there painting me in a negative light that I’ve pretty much given up on the notion of achieving sainthood. Still, the idea of someone fabricating a drama about me that includes me hitting someone with a sucker punch and then getting the shit kicked out of me, just rubbed me the wrong way.

I started telling friends about it and, as luck would have it, one of them, Big Gene we call him, remembered the incident, only it wasn’t me who sucker punched Lizard, he said, it was a guy named Abe. Now, honestly, this threw me because I couldn’t fathom someone confusing me with someone else just because our names, Ace and Abe, were somewhat alike. But, based on the info I was able to gather, that seemed to be the case.

Of course, when we had our home match with his team last week, Lizard denied there was a mix-up. It was me, he swore, who had suckered him at some little hole-in-the-wall bar that I’d never heard of.

“You’re wrong, I’m tellin’ ya,” I said to him. “I never seen your f___’in ass before we played you last time.”

“You damn sure did,” he sneered. “And I gave you what’s for.”

Exasperated, I said, “You dumb ass, no wonder you’re always getting suckered. You’re one dumb-assed motha f___ka.”

Now, Lizard didn’t especially like that characterization of his reptilian self, so, as I turned away, he jumped off his stool and came up behind me.

As I intimated earlier, I’m really careful with my body. I wouldn’t want to do something that would make playing pool difficult for me or even painful. Hitting someone with my fists would fall into the general category of activities to be avoided. My hands – I’m afraid I might break my fingers.

So, as I finished putting my cue in its case, I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, mother…” he began, but got no further. I pivoted and caught the side of his jaw with my elbow and upper arm slamming him back against the wall. Then, I gave him a solid shot in the nuts. He was still doubled over when I walked past him on the way to the door. “Hey,” I taunted, “now, you’ve got a real story to tell people.”

Pool & Politics

2009-08-01T03:29:00.000-07:00

So, I’m sitting at the bar, last night, waiting for the tournament to start when this woman and her boyfriend, both in their forties if I had to guess, take position a couple stools to my right (to my left if I had been facing the bar, but I was swiveled around facing the pool tables). Without so much as an introduction, she asks me how old I am. I say “62” and she immediately hands me a well-worn sheet of 8 1/2 x 11 paper. I explained that I didn’t have my reading glasses on, so she told me to fold the paper up and put it in my pocket which I did.

Well, within a few minutes I had occasion to extract from my cue case a pair of reading glasses I keep there for pool related business and while I had them out I decided to peruse the aforementioned sheet of paper. A quick scan revealed it to be a litany of anti-Obama-health-care rhetoric of the same kind I’ve been getting in email from acquaintances still groaning about the election.

Frankly, I didn’t vote for Barack Obama for my own reasons, but he won, he’s the president, now, and I wish him well. I’m not going to dedicate my life to badmouthing him like so many others are prone to do. Hell, I’ve got friends in New Jersey who still, 9 years after he left office, forward anti Bill Clinton garbage to me. Some people.

Anyway, I hand the paper back to the woman and mumble an insincere word of thanks hoping that would be the end of it. It wasn’t.

“Did you read it all?” she asked skeptically.

“I read enough of it,” I replied.

“What do you think?” she continued.

“I think whoever wrote that doesn’t like Obama very much.”

Then she jumped up on her high horse telling me that all of the 99 or so listed items had been taken directly from Obama’s health plan, blah blah blah. I told her “It’s a bunch of crap.”

It soon became apparent that her interest in the health care issue had nothing to do with her love for her fellow man because she called me a “mother f___er” and verbalized that she couldn’t wait till I expire. I tried to ignore her, but she directed one too many “f” bombs in my direction. “Listen, mother f___er,” I say to her, “you’re the one who approached me, asking me how old I was and giving me this sheet of paper. It’s a bunch of crap and I’m not f___ing interested.”

By now, her boyfriend, realizing this was not going to turn into a sixties-style love fest, decided they might find a more sympathetic audience at the opposite end of the bar and coaxed her into moving. Thank God.

I had been within a hair of leaving the Hay Loft and skipping the tournament just to get away from that idiot, but I decided not to since I actually look forward to the Friday night get-together with my friends. As it turned out, we didn’t have enough players for the tournament anyway and the evening ended early. Guess we can blame that on Obama.

P.S. To keep track of the misinformation about Obama's health care program, check out the Truth-O-Meter at PolitiFact.com.

Recommended Pool & Sports Sites

2009-07-30T19:06:00.000-07:00

If you wish to exit this page and move on check out the listings in the right hand column under "Pool Blogs" and "Favorite Links." I won't take it personally. Maybe, like me, you have a short attention span and easily succumb to the urge to surf on. I just removed from those lists a dozen or more sites I wouldn't want you to visit. You wouldn't enjoy them. They stink. And their administrators are somewhat shady to say the least. You see, after striking up reciprocal you-link-to-me-and-I'll-link-to-you arrangements, they sometime later decided for whatever reason to remove their links to me. All fine and good, but in the meantime they didn't bother to let me in on their decisions so I, like an idiot, continued to recommend their sites. Well, today, while adding yet another new link to one of my blog rolls, I decide it might be a good idea to check my old linking partners. Looks like I should have done it long ago. Anyway, it doesn't matter because, like I said, their sites weren't worth visiting - just worthless crap. Nothing like the high brow nonsense available here.

I'd Like To Thank My Fans

2009-07-25T15:29:00.000-07:00

I started a facebook page for those fans who like to keep in touch. As of a minute ago, I had accumulated one fan... me. But, rest assured, that number will skyrocket over night.

Go to Ace's Web World: Pool and Billiards on Facebook

The Never-Ending Battle

2009-07-16T07:15:00.000-07:00

It’s bad enough having to do battle with some young hotshot who drools all over himself at the thought of shooting me into a coma, but, for me, there’s always another foe, lingering in the background, waiting to do me in. Diabetes.

Let me say this, when I lose, and I do more often than I like, I’m not the kind of guy who rattles off a litany of excuses. Usually, when I lose it’s because I play bad and that’s that. Privately, though, I know that my glucose level is often to blame.

Generally, I eat three meals a day with a snack in the early evening. Before meals, I check my glucose level and, then, based on that number and the meal I plan to eat, figure out how much insulin I have to take.

Of course, my main concern as a diabetic is not my pool game, it’s my long-term health. Uncontrolled, diabetes could cause me a multitude of problems including kidneys, nerves, eyes and vision, and the risk of heart disease. In fact, diabetes increases the risk of having a heart attack as much as smoking.

Still, there has to be something more to life beyond managing one’s diabetes. For me, it’s pool. Normally, I’ll eat my dinner around 4 PM. Within four hours, the fast acting insulin I take with dinner will bring my sugar down to a point where I need to eat again or suffer from low blood sugar. To prevent that, I take a snack around 7 PM or earlier if I’m going out to play pool. I don’t want too much of a snack, measured in carbs, so that my glucose level will soar and remain high all night. Nor do I want too small of a snack which would cause my glucose level to dip too low. Low sugar literally destroys my pool game. Here are some of the symptoms of low sugar (hypoglycemia):

• decreased physical performance
• variable mood
• paleness
• tremor
• headache
• sweat
• poor vision
• fatigue
• hunger
• dizziness

Try playing pool behind that.

I used to meet a guy up at Capone’s in the afternoon and we’d play three or four cheap sets before I had to bow out and head home for my next meal and shot of insulin. Most days, by the second set I could feel my sugar dropping to undesirable levels so I’d start popping glucose tabs like crazy. Of course, by the time they kicked in it was too late to save the match. I’d often win the first two sets, but never the third. I got sick of it and quit playing the guy. Now, when I go to the pool room in the afternoon, I play about an hour then head home.

My night play is similarly affected. Some nights when I’m playing in league, I shake so bad I can barely hit the cue ball. My teammates are counting on me, and I can’t make a shot. I can’t stand it. Yes, I’m the individual point leader in both leagues I’m playing in, but that doesn’t console me. I lose too many games that I shouldn’t. I’m close to dropping out.

Sorry for the whine. I know there are people out there with real problems.

Gentleman Thwarts Robbery

2009-06-23T07:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-03T11:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-19T18:42:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-25T10:53:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-14T12:25:00.000-07:00

“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

2009-02-26T04:34:00.000-08:00

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?

2009-02-11T14:51:00.000-08:00

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

Pool League Schedules, Etc.

2009-01-19T10:54:00.000-08:00

I play in two bar leagues, one on Monday, one on Wednesday, and it’s always a mystery where, when, and if we are going to be playing on a given night. The schedules we were given at the beginning of the season are out of date, so our captain has to check with the league operator on game day and then call up the members of our team. Who needs that kind of aggravation?

Well, these headaches could be removed if the league had a web page that players could access quickly for information. Think of it – a schedule, the standings, top point leaders, and even rules and a picture gallery! A web page seems like such a necessity for leagues operating in the year 2009, that I decided I would provide such a service to league operators who desire a web presence but don’t have the resources or know how to do it themselves. Check out Ace’s Pool League HQ.

Two Steps Back

2009-01-18T08:31:00.000-08:00

It was less than a month ago that I beat one of our local sharpshooters to make it into the finals of our local open nine-ball tournament. My would-be opponent in the finals, the best player around here, had been up since 4 AM and asked if I would like to split the pot. Knowing he’d most likely beat me, I said yes. He later observed that he had never seen me play better than I had been that night. That was good to hear.

I had been seeing the balls better lately which accounted for improvements in my shot making. But my stroke was still pitiful. I knew that – it was nothing like the stroke I had when I was a kid, smooth and fluid and relaxed. But, I had it in my head that at my age (I’ll be collecting SS in June) there was no way I could will my bones and muscles to produce a good stroke. Then, while I was practicing one day, an old-timer, a guy probably a dozen years older than me, came over and started giving me advice on my stroke. Well, I figured, if he doesn’t think I’m too old to learn, maybe I’m not. So, that’s what I’m doing now – working on my stroke.

One exercise he’s got me doing involves shooting spot shots. I’m not to aim, per se, just go for a half-ball hit – aim thru the center of the cue ball (cb) at the edge of the object ball. You can’t make this shot, he claims, unless you put a good stroke on the cb. Of course, there are other factors involved, like form, stance, etc., and I’ve been practicing those at home in front of a mirror. I try to keep them in mind at the pool room as I’m shooting my spot shots. After that drill, I throw all 15 balls onto the table and pocket them deliberately, using my new and improved killer stroke. It’s a little awkward, right now – I’ve taken a couple weeks off from gambling – but I’m sure I’ll be back at the table shooting better than ever very soon. Count on it.

2009 Resolution Breakdown

2009-01-06T05:12:00.000-08:00

No one said it was going to be easy – keeping my resolution to be more tolerant in 2009.

First came that old jerk-off who spilled a tray of balls on table number four at DJ’s. What an asshole! Then, last night, during our Boondocks team's first pool league match of the new year, I was put to the test again by the team from Cricketers in Port Richey.

In my first game of the night, I was playing this girl, the only female on their team. I missed a bank on the 8-ball into the side pocket and the eight came to rest about an inch beyond the side pocket and about 1/8” off the rail. My opponent managed to run out to the 8-ball, leaving the cue ball approximately in the center of the head end of the table. To me, it appeared she had three choices – she could try to cut it in the side (a shot I thought I could have made), she could try to run it down the rail to the corner, or she could have banked it cross side or cross corner. This is my frame of mind as she calls one of her teammates over to the table and confers with him. After a few words, he walks around the table and positions himself between me and the side pocket, screening me from the 8-ball. I get off my stool and lean out far enough to see what he’s doing. He’s making a lot of unnecessary hand gestures in close proximity of the 8-ball. My first thought is that he was going to put his hand on the point of the side pocket and depress it. Some players believe that this can give you a little more room on shots like this. However, I was giving them too much credit. Their plan was to move the 8-ball enough to make the shot into the side simpler. Despite all his gesticulating, her teammate punked out and called on a second teammate to take his place. He took up the same position, screening me from view, and I, again, was forced to leave me seat to see what he was doing. He continued the same tact, talking with his hands, moving his fingers all around the ball. When his critical move came, he was trying just to nudge the ball a fraction, he applied too much force and the 8-ball moved 3 or 4 inches. By then, I’d had enough. I went to the table, pushed aside the cue ball, and grabbed the 8-ball, declaring the game over. They bitched and I called them “fuckin’ cheats.”

That’s about as tolerant as I can get.

2009: The Year of Tolerance

2009-01-04T18:40:00.000-08:00

High on my list of New Year’s resolutions is my intention to be more tolerant. Like, regarding that old guy, Tom, who came into DJ’s and dumped a tray of balls out onto table number 4 a few Thursdays ago, I will try not to utter the word “asshole” under my breath every time I see him. Hm… good luck with that. I mean, as far as I’m concerned, people who do that are assholes. I was in DJ’s another time when this other idiot did the same thing and thereby also offended my delicate sensibilities. I couldn’t keep myself quiet. “Where’d you learn that move?” I asked. “At the friggin’ Moose Club?” (No offense to the Moose out there, it was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment.) I can only imagine how Moulton Teasdale, the guy who owned the pool room where I grew up, would have reacted to someone doing that to one of his tables. Most likely, he would’ve made a few choice comments regarding the man’s intelligence and lineage, and then thrown the stupid mother ef’er out, suggesting strongly that he never come back. But that was yesterday…

Here, I had intended to move on to my second resolution, but writing about the first one has me so ticked off that I can’t think straight. How’s this? I resolve to be the same mean old son-of-a-bitch in 2009 that I was in 2008. If you don’t like it, shove it!

Ace's Christmas Story and Poem

2008-12-24T20:10:00.000-08:00

The Poem: A Mean Man Named Ho
The Story: The Christmas Meucci

Merry Christmas Everyone!

The Rat Gets The Cheese

2008-12-23T05:23:00.001-08:00

Like lab rats trained to navigate their ways through a maze, pool players can also benefit from repetition. Note that I said “can” benefit and not a definitive “will.” The exceptions, of course, and I’m sure you know someone who fits into this category, are those who bang the balls around meaninglessly, even on a daily basis. Practice must have some kind of purpose. The more purposeful, the more benefits a player will reap.

I got off on this tangent because, at 61, I find that I’m still improving. In fact, I came in second in a tournament last week, opting, at 1 AM, to split the pot with Mr. Hot Seat rather than play it out. He had beaten me in a hot seat match that went hill-hill and I really didn’t have the juice at that hour to do it again. Anyway, he’s better than me and one of the best players on the west coast of Florida. So, I found it satisfying when he later told me that he had never seen me play better.

Of course, I have played better, but that was 45 years ago and, as much as I hate hearing others talk about how good they used to be, I don’t like bringing up my former level of proficiency. I mean, anyone, even a refugee from the Moose Club can come into the pool room and start bullshitting about how good they used to be, true or not. In most cases, their stories are purely fabrications. I mean, you can tell by how a player looks when he’s playing, by his technique and form, even by his mannerisms, if he was ever an approximation of a pool player.

That being said, I really was a pretty good player at age 16. Straight pool being my game of choice back then in the early 60’s, I routinely ran 40 and 50 balls and might have run more except in games to 50 opponents normally didn’t want to pay for any added indulgence. To compare myself to that sharp shooting kid, publicly or just to myself, is a little depressing. I mean, right now, all that matters is how I play today. What would be the purpose of telling someone how well I used to play? Might I scare them into submission?

Anyway, it’s probably seven years since I took up the game again after a 38 year hiatus. I have friends who, regardless of how long it’s been since they played last, could step up to the table and play just about as well as they ever did. That was not the case with me. I stunk. But, I stuck with it and little by little I got better. I tried this and I tried that. You know how it goes.

Lately, I’ve been making it a practice to go to the pool room every day and shooting balls, even if it’s only an hour. Unless, I have someone to gamble with, I prefer to bang them around by myself. I concentrate on staying down, stroking through the ball and hitting my aim point. Based on recent comments, it seems to be paying off.

The Problem With Florida’s Pool Rooms

2008-11-21T07:41:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s no secret – the biggest problem with Florida is old people. Sure, they bring their money when they come, but they also bring their declining health, their withered bodies, and their eroding mental faculties. Thanks a lot.

I have one friend who has endured constant pain for the last 5 years and several operations on his neck and spine as the result of one miserable old-timer’s inability to control his vehicle. The old geezer shouldn’t have been behind the wheel but no one in Florida has the guts to take a license away from an elderly person. The last time I had my license renewed, I went to the license bureau and, while I was waiting for my turn, I witnessed an exchange between an old man and the girl who was giving him the eye test. “Can’t you see anything?” she asked, exasperated. “No,” he answered. “Okay, okay,” she sighed. Then she cleared him for renewal. This is what we have to deal with.

I haven’t played golf in 6 years because the courses around here are littered with slow moving geezers who can’t play a round in less than 5 hours.

Well, as odds would have it, a certain amount of these fogies find their ways into the pool rooms. I was down Hammer Heads yesterday afternoon, minding my own business, banging the ball around by myself, when the guy at the next table accused me of slipping over to his table during his absence and stealing his cue ball. Now, this guy is a well-known asshole. The last time I was down there, a week ago, he picked up my friends cue case from a table where it was lying and threw it onto the floor because according to him it didn’t belong there. Now, I’m pretty sure this guy suffers from OCD. He can’t start playing before he puts all the surrounding furniture and knickknacks in their customary places. He even has to put all the TV’s on particular stations. He used to drop into DJ’s occasionally, but the players there soon got tired of his constant complaining nicknaming him McNasty.

Anyway, I told him I didn’t take his cue ball, and that I had no interest in it. I had been playing with a red dotted measles cb that the girl who handed out the balls had placed in the tray. I didn’t ask her why she did it. I didn’t care. But, old McNasty cared deeply. So, I traded cue balls with him to make him happy. Still, unconvinced of my innocence, he later complained to a friend of mine, Bob May, that I had stolen his cue ball. He oughta be locked up in a home some where.

And I Thought I Had It Bad

2008-11-10T05:49:00.000-08:00

Call it karma.

A fly, pure and innocent, was buzzing around DJ’s pool room a couple months ago, enjoying the sights and smells and tastes, as flies often do, when it had the misfortune of landing on the table I was playing on. Automatically, almost instinctively, I slithered up to the table and with a quick, deft slap I killed my prey. I was proud. Not that long before, in similar circumstances, one of this bug’s brethren had landed on a bar table I was playing on. Without much forethought, I simply reversed my stick and bopped the bug into oblivion with the butt of my cue. That, however, had been a lucky shot – one in a million; this latest achievement had been a demonstration of speed of hand, a sign that at sixty-one I still had it.

All the glorious feelings dissipated next day when I was forced to deal with a fierce pain in my wrist that was aggravated by the tiniest of movements, like picking up my toothbrush. I nursed it for a couple days, the pain disappeared, and I eventually forgot all about it. Then I started lifting my weights again and before I knew it the pain in my wrist was not only back, it was much worse than it had been initially. Yesterday, at WalMart, I picked up a wrist stabilizer like the ones those suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome wear. Problems, problems.

Then, yesterday, I was contacted by Bloggers Unite regarding the Refugees Unite campaign. After reading some of the reference material, it became clear that there are millions of people out there who are suffering from real problems, problems that make mine look silly.

To learn more about the worldwide suffering of refugees, go here:

.

You Had Me At High-Low

2008-11-06T16:02:00.001-08:00

It’s not like I’m the first guy who appropriated a line from the movie Jerry Maguire. My wife tells me that a wine-loving friend of hers in Montana has a t-shirt that sports the slogan “You had me at Merlot.” And it was that, of course, which got me to thinking along those lines.

Jerry Maguire ranks up there among my all-time favorite movies, with movies like Heaven Can Wait, As Good As It Gets, An American President, Dave, Shawshank Redemption, and Freeway, just to name a few. I’ve seen it at least ten times, probably more.

“You complete me,” “Show me the money,” “I won't let you get rid of me” – the movie contains memorable lines galore. “You had me at hello” has always been a personal favorite of mine so it’s with great pleasure that I introduce my latest pool t-shirt design. I think this one is number 7 in the series.

With Christmas coming, you'll probably want to order a dozen. You'll find them and other pool tees here.

Farewell to Uncle Franky

2008-10-18T12:47:00.000-07:00

First my Uncle Nicky, and, now, three months later, I get word that my Uncle Franky, a/k/a Deuce Ricciotti, passed away this past Thursday. Uncle Franky loved a lot of things, like boxing, OTB, and, yes, even pool. There was a time when we would meet at the Peanut Shack, a small neighborhood gin mill on the outskirts of Dover, NJ, for the express purpose of shooting a little pool. Though Uncle Nicky was the legendary pool player, I heard from more than one source that Uncle Franky had been pretty good, too, in his day. Of course, he was much more widely known for his fighting abilities. When he was in his prime, and long afterward, no one would mess with him – NO ONE. Being Deucey Ricciotti’s nephew carried with it a lot of respect and prestige. And, in a way, even if he wasn’t standing there next to me, he was always offering me his protection. This has really been a sad year for me and my family up north. I’m glad that I did get to visit with Uncle Frank and talk to him a little bit when I ventured north for the 4th of July family get together, but right now it’s little consolation. Though gone, he will live on in my mind and my heart, and, now, on the internet. Feel free to leave a comment.

In and Out of the UPL

2008-10-15T08:32:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine invited me to play on a team he was putting together for the Thursday night UPL league at Hammer Heads. On Thursdays, I usually play in the open 9-ball tournament they have at DJ’s Family Billiards in New Port Richey, but I hardly ever come in the money so I wouldn’t really be losing anything if I changed my schedule.

On the first night of the league, I showed up a little after 6:30 PM. A meeting was scheduled for 7 PM and I didn’t want to be late right off the bat. I needn’t have worried – the meeting didn’t start until after 8. Corey Deuel explained how the league worked, how fees were collected, how score was kept, etc. His sidekick, Tony D., also pitched in with explanations. Preeminent was the fact that players had to pay their yearly $20 UPL membership fee before they played. Weekly league fees were $8. I didn’t bother to ask where the $8 went.

As our team gathered, I noticed that my friend had recruited more than the required 5 team members. In fact, there were at least seven. Before making my $20 commitment, I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be just a part time player. When I asked, my friend assured me I’d be playing every week. So, I anteed up and launched my UPL career. I didn’t play real well, but I did manage to win my match 47-30. Our leadoff man won by the identical score. After that, it was down hill. We lost the next three matches. My friend, who plays as well as me, sat out in favor of another member who couldn’t hit the rail. I left, unenthused.

Next day, I’m talking to my friend and he reveals that we are all going to have to sit out so that everyone gets a chance to play. The more I thought about it, the more unhappy I became and, ultimately, I decided I didn’t want any part of being on his team. I emailed him, saying I quit. First, I wanted to play every week. Second, I believe you should field your best team every week. And, third, his idea of giving everyone a chance to play regardless of how well they play is nice when you’re coaching little league, but it has no place in a pool league where teams are competing for money.

Hey, I only have so many Thursday nights left in me. Rather than waste my time making nice-nice with a couple mediocre players down Hammer Heads, I’d prefer to sacrifice myself to the sharks at DJ’s.

To Willie Nelson: Please Sing My Pool Song

2008-09-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

Dear Willie,

If I may be so bold, it seems to me that this poem I wrote would make a great country song and NO ONE could sing it as well as you. So... check it out.

Mickey and the Wild Eight
by Ace Toscano

Don't play with little Mickey,
That pleasant Irish lad -
He's got a charming way of talking,
But his coping skills are bad.

I bumped into him at Chalkie's
Just the other day.
He offered me the wild eight.
I shot back, "Sure, let's play."

refrain
Stroke, stroke-stroke, stroke thru the ball.
Stroke, stroke-stroke, stroke thru the ball.
Keep your head down till the balls stop rollin' 'round.
And stroke, stroke-stroke, stroke thru the ball.

When he fell behind three to one,
He swore the table was at fault.
So we moved from two to three
Where I continued my assault.

Determined to expose me
To all his sharking tricks,
He vacationed to the men's room
Then moved the game to table six.

refrain

If you're seeking the worst table,
Table six is it.
It's just inside the entrance
And there's no safe place to sit.

Foot traffic rumbles back and forth
Through the ever-swinging door.
And everybody stops to chat,
"Who's winning?" "What's the score?"

refrain

Down two sets and dying,
Mick's attitude got meaner.
Then he choked as I hopped up -
T'was a concession misdemeanor.

He called me on it - I owned up
And offered him the game.
But, he kept on losing,
So, of course, my sharking was to blame.

refrain

Play ended with me three sets up,
But he only paid me two.
Next time he offers the wild eight,
I'll tell the lad, "Go screw!"

© Ace Toscano 2005

Best always,
Ace

Last Time I Saw Uncle Nicky

2008-07-23T18:41:00.001-07:00

During my recent 4th of July trip to New Jersey, Bobby and I ran into Uncle Nicky at Rockaway Billiards. The proprietor was nice enough to snap this picture for us.

Then I snapped one of the Ricciotti brothers, Bob and Nick.

Bobby took one of Nick and me.

And Nick manned the camera for an artistic shot of me and Bob.

Though he was widely known for years as the best pool player in town, family and friends also appreciated his artistic talents. He could draw and paint, and in recent years he had taken up wood carving. On this particular day, while Bobby and I banged the balls around playing nine ball, Uncle Nicky amused himself by going through his repertoire of masse and trick shots. Sort of funny that nowadays this kind of play is referred to as “artistic” pool. In the midst of his routine, I managed to get a shot of him at the table. He liked performing for an audience, so I watched him for a while. He told me that he went down to Carmine's (a playground in Dover) every morning and hit golf balls. He was practicing his wedge shots. Can you imagine - 80 years old and still working on his game, still improving.

A few days later, I saw him again at the family picnic. Everything seemed okay. At one point, I went inside and found him in front of the tv agonizing over another frustrating Yankee game. When I got back to Florida, I remembered I had promised him a Sniper tip for his cue, so I stuck one in an envelope along with a short note and mailed it out. It seems that while I was wondering if he had received the tip and if he had put it on his cue, he was falling ill. Out of the blue, I heard he had been hospitalized. And then, suddenly, after a good day, things made a turn for the worse.

Uncle Nicky will be laid to rest this Friday. He will be sorely missed by those who counted on him, including his three children, several grandchildren and great grandchildren, his brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews and many friends, all of whom loved him very much.

My Family Reunion

2008-07-13T15:29:00.000-07:00

We drove up to Jersey for the 4th of July. (For those of you who are curious, we spent $131 on gas and averaged 34 mpg. Not bad, if you ask me. We ran into a guy at a gas station on rt. 206 who was braggin' that his hybrid was getting 42 mpg. Shit - we're driving a 2003 Hyundai.) Anyway, I didn't get a chance to play a whole lot, but I did manage a couple excursions to Rockaway Billiards. Here's a pic of yours truly (right) with my two legendary uncles, Bob and Nicky.

Uncle Nicky, recently turned 80, can still entertain with his assortment of trick and prop shots. I personally witnessed a couple table length (object ball not on the rail) 90 degree cut shots. Bobby, an artist, doesn't play at all anymore but he still possesses the skills that made him someone to avoid back when we were kids. Somewhere out there is a picture he painted of a poolroom. Unfortunately, for me, his current work is abstract.

We played for a few hours one day - the bill was $31. OMG, I pay $5 for all day down here. Still, I enjoyed myself. Feel free to check out my vacation photos here.

Albert Osanna Gone

2008-06-03T18:58:00.000-07:00

I learned this morning of the passing of a good friend of mine, Albert Osanna. Originally from St. Louis, in his day Albert had been quite a bowler as well as a pool player. In recent years, physical problems had made playing pool for an extended period of time impossible. Still, there was nothing he liked more than watching good players play and sitting around with his friends and talking pool. Having known Albert for the last several years, the thing that struck me most about him was his persistent good humor and his ability to see good in just about everybody. Many the time I'd rag on somebody only to have Albert interject that the guy was a pretty good Joe, anyway. Even in the midst of his last illness, he remained in amazingly good spirits and was always happy to have friends call on the phone or drop in. I never talked to Albert about religion, but from the emails he forwarded to me over the years I got the idea he was a believer. Ever the pessimist, I'd like an explanation for why nice people like Albert are taken away, while miserable old goats like me are allowed to carry on. Next time me and the guys get together, you can bet we'll be hoisting one to salute our good buddy Al.

Pics: Seminole Pro Tour Stop at Hammer Heads

2008-05-18T06:43:00.000-07:00

I recently bought a new camera (a Panasonic DMC-FZ18) because I wanted to be able to take pictures at pro tournaments that wouldn’t disturb anyone with a flash. This weekend’s event at Hammer Heads in Holiday gave me my first opportunity to try it out. I have to confess that the DMC-FZ18 is a lot more camera than a guy like me needs. I’ll never take advantage of a small fraction of its capabilities. But I hope that, in time, I’ll be able to take some halfway decent pool pics. Here are a few of my first efforts.

Butch Kroft

The Break

Donny Mills' Follow Thru

Jason Ritchko

One Foot on the Floor

Once again, I have to congratulate Hammer Heads on being the most congenial of hosts - it's a great place to go if you want to watch a tournament.

Sharking Yourself: Watching Stocks Drift By

2008-04-11T20:03:00.000-07:00

Speaking for myself, I prefer TVs in the area of the poolroom where I am playing be tuned to ESPN or a MLB game. I’m a big fantasy baseball player and I’m interested in the latest scores and the latest news. Distracting? No, I don’t get wrapped up in the action, I just passively glance at the screen now and then between turns. And, I’d like to think the majority of pool players are sports fans just like I am. Unfortunately, they’re not. Preferences in the poolrooms I frequent include soap operas, the animal channel and, God help us all, Fox News. To be honest, I like it when someone I’m playing has their eyes focused on the closed captioning during a match – they’re not into the game. But, it’s when opponents sit with their eyes glued to stock quotes as they slide across the screen, especially in the midst of today’s troubled market, that I get the urge to double up on the bet. How can anyone concentrate on a simple game of pool while their money’s going down the drain?

Not that I’m not interested in the market. I am. To tell the truth I’ve got a considerable amount of change invested in the market. The key word here is “invested.” I’m not a day trader – I’m in for the long haul. When the market does bounce back, and it’s bound to, the funds and stocks I’m invested in will bounce back with it. I’m as confident in that as I am in the fact that sun will come up tomorrow. For the record these are the funds I’m invested in: DODFX, FAIRX, GABAX, MERDX, RYOCX, VEXMX, VFIIX, VFSTX, VTSMX and VWIGX. I did a lot of research before I made theses investments and I’m confident that in the long run they are going to do all right for me. I don’t have to watch the minute to minute or day to day fluctuations in price. In fact, I’ve developed the habit of checking the closing prices only once a week, on Fridays after the market closes.

So, to sum things up, if the competition is all wrapped up in the market or in the jabber of Fox New’s talking heads, I don’t mind a bit. In fact, I encourage it with some well placed comments of my own, like “goddamned liberals,” or “the market’s in the crapper again.” It’s a good thing if their minds wander away from the game – good for me, anyway.

So You Want To Work In A Pool Room

2008-03-25T07:14:00.000-07:00

BITD, when you walked into a pool room, you could count on being greeted or ignored by a grizzled old timer who had pool running thru his veins and dripping from his pores. As I make my rounds thru the pool rooms of Florida, it's the cranky old farts and S.O.B.s that I miss most of all. Down here, every counter is manned (perhaps that's the wrong word)… behind every counter stands a woman. Now, I'm not one to lump all women together - in truth, they are as varied as the fishes in the sea - but many of those who find their way to the pool room, especially around NPR, FL, are of the same type. The things they do and say, the atrocities they commit, boggle the minds of serious pool enthusiasts who date back to the pool rooms of yesterday. What I am suggesting is that before a manager hires someone of any gender to work in his or her establishment, said manager should give the prospective employee a test. That way, maybe, their customers can be spared the agony of dealing with complete idiots. Toward that noble end, I have composed a sample test. Here it is:

1. When you hear the word "pool," you immediately think:
a) Chlorine makes me itch.
b) that's the opposite of "poosh."
c) it's a game played on a pool table with balls and cue sticks.

2. If a customer requests "different" chalk, you should respond:
a) that all the chalk is the same.
b) that you only have one color - blue.
c) by presenting them with the box of chalk and allowing them to pick their own.

3. A player who is playing on time brings back his tray of balls while you are busy on the phone talking to your daughter. What should you do?
a) tell him you will be with him in a second and keep his time running while you talk with your daughter.
b) start cursing at your daughter to show off your parenting skills.
c) set the friggin' phone down and take care of the customer.

4. Two regulars are gambling on the only table in use when a guy comes in with his girlfriend and his girlfriend's little brother. Which table would you put them on?
a) one right next to the gamblers so that people aren't scattered all over the place.
b) which ever one they want.
c) one as far away from the serious players as possible.

5. You have to deliver a pitcher of beer to a party on the far side of the room. Enroute, you approach a player who is in the midst of making a shot. What should you do?
a) squeeze past him, but try not to spill the beer.
b) say "excuse me" until he moves out of your way.
c) stay as far out of the way as possible.

6. A friend calls and asks you to reserve a table for him. What do you do?
a) Scatter balls on a table, and, if anyone asks, say it's occupied.
b) Tell people the table is reserved.
c) Tell your friend that you can't tie up a table for a nit.

7. When you hear terms like "one-hole" or "dirty balls," how will you react?
a) I've heard worse at other dumps I've worked at.
b) I will be offended and make a complaint.
c) Ignore them - I'm not that much of a sexual deviant.

8. You're scheduled to work, but you're sick. What do you do?
a) Go in anyway - you need the money. Keep sickness to yourself.
b) Go in and tell everybody how sick you are hoping to boost tips.
c) Find someone to sub and stay the hell home, so you don't spread your germs to everyone you come in contact with.

If you own or manage a pool room, feel free to use this test.

Oh yeah, the preferred answer for all questions 1-7 is c. Duhhhhh.

This all reminds me of one of my favorite riddles - Why does God give beauty queens one more brain cell than he gives horses?

So they don't shit during the parade.

Join My New Pool Group

2008-02-28T04:32:00.000-08:00

I created a new group at blogcatalog.com called "Blogging Pool/Billiards." I recently discovered that posts at blogcatalog get good coverage from google so I thought it might be a good idea to join a pool group. To make a long story short, there weren't any. So, I formed my own. Now, I need members. Visit it here. Primarily a place for those who have pool blogs or sites, it will be a place to ask questions, discuss problems and observations, to swap ideas and to make announcements.

Otherwise, everything's good. I recently told someone somewhere that I would continue playing as long as I keep improving. Well, I have no thoughts of quitting yet. I've been playing almost every day and my game shows it. Of course, I can't fire in shots like I could when I was 16, but even that aspect of my game is getting better. The only thing standing in my way right now is the lack of players down here willing to play for a little something. I refuse to engage in matches where nothing's at stake. I'm convinced that kind of nonsense hurts my game more than it helps. Those who refuse to gamble are the same guys who wonder why they choke when they play in tournaments. "It's because you're not used to playing for anything!" I tell them. But, they won't listen and prefer to supply their own excuses. Anyway, like I said, I drive to the pool room (either Capone's or DJ's) every day and, unless I run into someone with a little gamble in them, play by myself for about an hour concentrating on the basic stuff - staying down, stroking thru the cue ball, etc. It's working.

Here's an item of interest for those in the market for a new cue:

John Bender Cues

John Bender, a friend of mine from NJ, and a cuemaker who has worked with Richard Black, is now making custom cues on his own. Visit his site and send him a message.

Getting the Most From Hot-Wirers

2007-11-01T05:50:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t brought into the myspace community by a friend or acquaintance – I was brought in by a stranger who had hot-wired an image off my website and onto his profile page. When I tried to follow the link from awstats to the culprit’s page, I learned that I had to be a member to do that. So, I signed up.

At first, I reacted with vengeance. I renamed the hot-wired images so that those who were using them were left with empty image boxes on their pages. Then, I got a better idea. Since these folks were using my images without asking and without giving me any credit, I decided to add some promotional text to each hotwired image. In most cases, this amounted to my domain name – aceswebworld.com. Below is a partial list of sites currently carrying my modified billboards. Who knows, one day my brand might be as recognizable as Coca Cola or Campbell Soup.

Man Ray’s photo of Salvador Dali is very popular. Here are three sites currently tapped into it:
http://www.myspace.com/_wildrose_
http://www.myspace.com/nadiataijeron
http://z11.invisionfree.com/DeathRowInmates/index.php?showtopic=2686

From my pool photos these have been hijacked:
Savchenko's Billiards - http://www.myspace.com/redbluesbird
Laurel and Hardy - http://singles.meetup.com/1403/calendar/6519976/
Rat Pack - http://www.myspace.com/graceb1980
Rat Pack - http://myspace.com/chriscorleymitchell
Corner Pocket by Steve Mills - http://www.myspace.com/narkosis1113

Many prefer to spruce their sites up with pics of their favorite musical artists. Here are 3 Rolling Stones fans:
http://www.myspace.com/ellonnora
http://www.myspace.com/thegreekcanadian
http://pahuljica88.blog.hr/

An Amy Lee/Evanescence fan:
http://www.imonline.nl/darknessdevil

One Dean Koontz fan:
http://www.myspace.com/tigerrr

And here are a couple hot-wirers whose guarded pages forbid access:
http://www.myspace.com/straightouttacompton18
http://www.ete-donta.splinder.com/

The following sites are freeloading small pics, 50 pixels wide. They’re too small to work on really, so, I haven’t changed them. If I had originally converted them to gifs, I could animate them now; but I didn’t, so I can’t. Live and learn.

Nirvana - http://myspace.com/danthemanmusicfan
Nirvana - http://www.myspace.com/jumble_of_junk
Green Day - http://www.vibeflog.com/manupx/p/21257512
Green Day - http://gd.best.fan.sblog.cz/+%3E_dvd_international_supervideos/
Dale Jr. - http://community.foxsports.com/blogs/tylerhead24/2007/07/09/Nascars_First_Half
Janis Joplin - http://www.myspace.com/ellyvt3
Tupac Shakur - http://www.nexopia.com/profile.php?uid=2726160
Jerry Garcia - http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=62718472

Bob May’s One-Rail Kicking System

2007-09-07T05:19:00.000-07:00

My friend, Bob May, worked out this system one day after becoming fed up with losing too many games because of missed kicks. Suffering from the same problem, I took immediate interest when one afternoon he offered to share his knowledge with me, free of charge. Since then, I’ve not only improved my kicking, but I’m pocketing more balls off the kick. Before, I go too far, I have to emphasize Bob’s view that to become an expert you have to put in the practice. In certain situations, you will have to apply a little natural or reverse English – the more you practice, the better your feel for these shots.

Here’s Bob’s formula:

(Cue Ball Track Origin) (Object Ball Baseline Location) = Long Rail Target Point
Or,
(CBTO) (OBBL) = LRTP

See the illustration. Note the method Bob uses to mark the rails. The long rail from which the kicking tracks originate is numbered one thru 8 with each number corresponding with a diamond. After number 8, which actually is the corner pocket, the tracks continue around the corner on the short rail with each diamond increasing in value by 2 (10, 12). The locations on the baseline (here represented by red numbers) are similarly divided. On the target rail, the diamonds are numbered 8, 16, 24, 32 (side pocket), 40, 48, etc.

Here’s the process for kicking in the 9-ball that sits nearest to the corner pocket in the upper left of the illustration:
1. Obtain a value for the OB. In this case, it is 3.
2. Obtain a value for the Cue Ball Track. Estimate the track, then move to the nearest diamond. In this case, the nearest point of origin would be the corner, for a value of 8.
3. Plug your numbers into the formula, then multiply. The product, 24, indicates your target on the kicking rail.
4. Because the CB seldom lies directly on the track, you must here employ the distance method of aiming. Here, you must sight along the track thru the target to a secondary target, a point 8-11 feet beyond the table.
5. Stroke the CB firmly, center ball, at the secondary target.

If this method was only applicable to balls frozen to the foot rail, it would still be valuable; however, the beauty of it is that it applies to all balls in all locations. The baseline, here the foot rail, moves freely to wherever the ball you want to kick at lies. Just remember, you have to adjust the numbering of the long rails accordingly, as the junctures of baselines and long rails are always numbered zero.

Work on this a while and soon you’ll be kicking like Bobby – he’s one kicking s.o.b.

No Joy in Poolville

2007-08-05T06:54:00.000-07:00

Stroker had won the Friday night tournament at Boonies, but he was feeling less than jubilant as he made his way home on Highway One. Never had an eighty dollar win left him feeling so down. But, it wasn’t about the money, he told himself as his old Rav 4 roared on, it was about playing well; and he hadn’t played well at all. He’d dogged too many shots – two straight-in shots on the eight in the last game alone. It was a miracle that he had won, a cosmic joke.

The gloom persisted through Saturday and Sunday leading Stroker to suspect there was more behind these feelings than his clumsy victory at Boonies. He thought back to Thursday night. His second place finish at Chalkie’s had left him equally dejected. Thanks to a series of breaks, he had beaten Leapin’ Larry and Fast Eddie, two players he normally wouldn’t have a chance against and only a miss on an easy cross-side bank of the nine against Deek Nettles had kept him out of the hot seat.

“So, you think that’s it, a missed easy cross-side bank on Thursday night has caused you to feel depressed for the next five days.”

“It’s depressing – I used to be so good at banks.”

His weekly court-ordered visits to the shrink had been part of the plea agreement his lawyer, Anthony J. Rotundo, had negotiated following assault charges that had nearly put him in the pokey. Stroker still couldn’t believe the big deal they made over his whacking some nit in the head with his cue. “He accused me of cheating,” he had said to the judge at his arraignment. But that didn’t seem to matter. Anyway, he was enjoying the time he spent with Dr. Colleen Mathers. She was a good kid, and plenty smart.

“So, you came in first in one tournament and second in another, two events which might make a person feel somewhat pleased with himself, but, for you, this has all been overshadowed by a missed bank…”

“A missed easy bank,” he corrects. “It was dead in the side.”

“… a missed easy bank, and this has left you feeling depressed.”

“That’s about it.”

“And there’s nothing else?”

“Well …”

Until a few days ago, the S-train had been chugging along unimpeded. Stroker’s dream of recapturing his boyhood form, after a 40 year lay-off, had still seemed achievable. Sure, he had just turned 60, but he was still improving, still moving forward with his game, chug chugguh-chug chugguh-chug. Then, he missed that shot against Deek and he had had what he interpreted as a major revelation. He had been kidding himself. He would never again be a player. He would never be more than a freakin’ bum. His comeback was over, fizzled, kaput. He was at the end of the line.

“So, the missed, easy, dead-in-the-side bank triggered for you a revelation that you…”

“That I am done. There isn’t going to be a comeback. I’m never going to be able to play any good and all the time I’ve been working on my game, trying to get back in stroke, all that time, I’ve only been fooling myself. I’m a chump – nothing more. I’m gonna have to live with it.”

“And, to be a chump…”

“Is to be nothing, nobody, a pimple on the ass of the world.”

She let that hang there for a good long while. Either she was considering the gargantuan proportions of what he had just said, or she wanted him to. You never knew with this broad.

“Of the pool world,” she finally added.

“Huh?”

“To be a chump in the poolroom is to be nothing, nobody, a pimple on the ass of the pool world.”

“I’m not following,” said Stroker.

“I think you do.”

“I said I don’t, Colleen. I wouldn’t say I don’t if I did.”

She smiled. Something he had said must have struck her as amusing.

“Well, let me put it this way: some people believe that the person we think we are is nothing more than the sum of the roles we play. Do you follow that?”

“No. What’s that – Scientology?”

She laughed. He liked to make her laugh. “Take me, for example…”

“Now, Colleen...”

“I’m a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother…”

“And a shrink.”

“And a therapist. My behavior in each of these roles is very different. When I am with my parents or with my husband, I am a very different person than when I am here with you.”

“I should hope so.”

She smiled. “And the same is true for you. You are not just Stroker, pool player. You are more than that.”

“Not really. I mean, I know what you’re getting at and, if you want to look at yourself that way, go ahead, but me, I’m Stroker Zambini, every minute of every day – Stroker Zambini.”

“And you’re never Stroker Zambini the son.”

“Not any more. My mother and father are dead.”

“And the part of you that was their son?”

“Died with them… I hope.”

“Why’s that?”

“Forgetaboutit, Colleen. I don’t wanna go there. I’m sixty years old, for Christ’s sake, too old to be crying about that crap.”

“But, you’re father not only beat you, you said he brought to your home an atmosphere of fear.”

“Yeah, but you know what? It dawned on me one day that I coulda run away from all that and I never did.”

“When you were five or six years old? I don’t think running away was an option.”

“Hey, I knew a lot of guys who ran away – to Florida, California, NYC – guys who had it a lot better than I did. They ran away just for the hell of it. But I never thought of it. I can’t understand that.”

“Fear, perhaps.”

“Huh?”

“Perhaps, you didn’t run away because you were afraid of what your father might do when he caught you. That would be understandable.”

“Nope, I don’t think so. I just never thought of it. Anyway, it’s too late now, so let’s forget about it.” She wouldn’t, he knew, but he could hope.

“What about your role as a father? Didn’t you tell me you have a daughter?”

“Let’s not go there.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t seen her in over twenty years.”

“Why?”

“She was kidnapped by aliens.”

“And…”

“Check with the aliens.”

“You’re being uncooperative, today, for some reason.”

“Is that going into the report?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Look, Colleen, I didn’t whack that guy in the head because my old man beat me or my mother never hugged me or because I haven’t seen my kid in twenty years – I whacked him because he dissed me. He accused me of cheatin’. He’s lucky I didn’t friggin’ kill him. You can’t let people get away with shit like that.”

“He dissed you.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“So, you had no choice.”

“No choice.”

“It was a matter of honor.”

“Damn straight… Is that going in the report?”

“If I think it’s important.”

“Is it?”

“It could be… Tell me, Stroker, are you a chump and a nobody to your wife?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! My wife doesn’t care anything about pool, except that it keeps me out late and makes me breathe in second-hand smoke."

“So, in the role of husband…”

“Listen, Colleen, what the hell does it matter?”

“Your relationship with your wife…”

“I mean, I’m 60 years old. I’m not going to be around very much longer, and nothing we say here is going to change that.”

“Nowadays, it’s not uncommon for people to live to ninety and beyond. You could…”

“Not this people.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s not in the genes, kid, not in the genes. I’ve had two operations on my colon and the doctor says I’m lookin’ at another one. I’ve got sugar diabetes. And, now, all of a sudden my doctor says I’ve got high blood pressure to boot. I’m falling apart, girl.”

“What’s this about another operation?”

“Oh, I had a colonoscopy a few weeks back and that’s what the doctor said.”

“And you never mentioned it.”

“My wife and I talked about it. She went with me.”

“I mean, you never mentioned it during our sessions.”

“Dying’s not something I like talkin’ about.”

She sighed. “It’s precisely those things you don’t like talking about that we should be working on.”

"You're a good kid, Colleen, but you just don't get it - your best years are coming, mine are gone. That's just the way it is. Now… know what I think we should be working on?"

"Yes, I'd love to know what you think we should be working on."

"Long straight-in shots… and maybe my banks."

"Well, I doubt that I can help you with that."

"Just my luck."

The End

Your Pool Bag of Tricks: #1

2007-06-25T05:33:00.000-07:00

Here’s a handy item you might want to add to your cue case – a can of lighter fluid. Have you ever found yourself in a match with someone who was way too deliberate, way too slow? You know, a guy who stands over a shot for an eternity before he finally pulls the trigger. Well, here’s a remedy I’ve discovered. Squirt some lighter fluid on his socks, hit them with a lit match, then stand back. That sucker will not only pick up speed but he’ll start moving in ways you never imagined.

At War With The Sopranokovs

2007-06-19T07:09:00.000-07:00

It’s like this:

I woke up Saturday to find all 150 of my web pages were suspended – and offline.

There were a couple emails in my inbox from my web host, ruskiehost.com, warning me of complaints made by the Data Center concerning phishing content on a couple of my pages. Supposedly, these pages were designed to gather personal information from clients of Wells Fargo and Bank America. I had been given one hour to delete said material from my account or face the consequences. Since the email came in during the wee hours, I had no chance to respond and, like I said, when I woke up it was already a done deal – my account was suspended and I had no access to the files.

For someone in the internet business, even in a small way like me, to be down for an extended period of time can be devastating. Not only do you lose business, but you’re search engine rankings may suffer and there’s the risk of being dropped from other types of listings. In other words, all the work you’ve done to promote your website can go down the toilet quicker than white powder when the cops hit the door.

Since I never actually saw the web pages in question, I have to assume they were of the type that are tied to those phishing emails the old geezers are always falling for. You know, “Your Wells Fargo Info Needs To Be Updated.”

I quickly emailed ruskiehost.com telling them that I had no knowledge of the files in question – that I hadn’t created them and certainly hadn’t uploaded them to the server. Of course, they already knew that. Not only did their logs reflect the intrusion of someone hacking into my account, they also had a hand in it.

Allow me to digress. Over the last few months, I had grown increasingly dissatisfied with ruskiehost.com's service. Most recently, it had annoyed me that my stats were not being updated every 24 hours as was promised. It had become necessary for me to email tech support and request a stats update every time I wanted one. It is not a coincidence that just two days before the planting of the files and my subsequent suspension, I had sent another such email adding the comment that “this is getting old.”

In due time, Boris – my contacts have names like Vlada, Natasya, and Boris leading me to believe ruskiehost.com is a front for the Russian Mafia and their illegal online activities – replied that he had updated my stats; but, he apparently didn’t leave it at that. There’s an old Russian proverb: If they complain about the service, kill them. Boris was trying to kill me.

For good reason, ruskiehost.com made no effort to help me straighten up the mess. Finally, after a few hours of frustrating intercourse, I decided to change web hosts and to transfer my domain registration. Eager to sign me on as a client, the firms I contacted were extremely helpful and by Monday my site was up and working again.

My passwords are changed and I’m completely separated from ruskiehost.com, now, but I feel far from safe. It seems inevitable that I’m going to get hit again; and I’m not sure I have the energy to deal with it. Guess if I want to make a few extra bucks, I better sharpen up my pool game.

_________

S, HBD, LD

$20 Pool Rap

2007-06-07T04:53:00.000-07:00

Once again, a work of art based on my real life poolroom experiences.

Picture me onstage, my pants on the verge of falling down, one hand on the mike, the other on my crotch.

$20 Pool Rap

Pardon me for stinkin'.
Wha'zactly wuz u thinkin'?
Axin' me to play,
When I sez to u no way
'Less u givin' me duh 8.
I'm talkin' to u straight.
Butchu jus’ wanna jump me,
Cut me up n thump me,
Not givin’ up a spot,
Jus’ stealin’ whad I got.

Cry. Cry. Whine. Whine.
I got duh heart.
I got duh dime.
U got no heart.
U got no balls.
Ur super-chump,
‘S how it falls.

Nickel sets r ‘bout ur speed,
Five bucks, sucker – chickenfeed.
I bump duh bet up to ten,
N ask u for the 8 again.
Butchu ass jus’ walk away,
Sayn u n me cannot play,
Meanin’ not-a-thing to me -
I’m duh prey, the pursuee.
I resink into my groove.
While u plan to make a move.

Cry. Cry. Whine. Whine.
I got duh heart.
I got duh dime.
U got no heart.
U got no balls.
Ur super-chump,
‘S how it falls.

Twenny down, u start to cry.
As chumps do, u wonder why.
Must be that I’m a thief –
A cunning weasel brought you grief.
U’ll get even if I play u checkers.
Get straight, sucker, bite my pecker.
More heart than me? That’s pretty funny.
The way you whine over a little money.
I’m jus’ a guy who likes a game.
Ur a loser! Now, who’s to blame?

Cry. Cry. Whine. Whine.
I got duh heart.
I got duh dime.
U got no heart.
U got no balls.
Ur super-chump,
‘S how it falls.

© Ace Toscano 2007

Remembering One Vet

2007-05-28T12:41:00.000-07:00

He lived in a township 20 miles southwest of Dover, NJ, the town I grew up in, and for the longest time I knew him only by name – Mickey DiMatteo. A weight lifter, wrestler, and high school football player, he was widely known as a tough guy. Though I can’t recall his face, exactly (it’s been more than 40 years), I do remember the first time I met him. I was standing outside Teasdale’s poolroom when he approached.
“Hey, you’re Ace, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Thought so. I saw you play once. You’re good.” Then he added, “I’m Mickey DiMatteo.”
“Lookin’ for someone to play?” I asked.
“No thanks,” he answered. “You’re way too good for me.”
He was a solid dude, but not as fierce looking as I had imagined. We stood there together for several minutes, watching traffic and spitting on the sidewalk, before he spoke again.
“Ever try to spit like this?” he asked. I watched as he opened his mouth, curled back his tongue, and flexed his chin. Out, from under his tongue, squirted two little streams of water. “See that?”
“Yeah.”
“Come closer,” he beckoned. He wanted me to look into his mouth.
“No way!” I said. I wasn’t an idiot.
“I won’t gob on you,” he said. “Swear to God.”
So I moved closer. He wanted me to see these two little holes that were in the watery area under his tongue. I did.
“That’s where it comes out. Watch.” Squirt, squirt. “See? Neat, eh?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. I was somewhat awestruck, not because he was shooting saliva out of those two little holes, but, rather, because here he was in the flesh, Mickey DiMatteo, mythical tough guy, talking to me as if we’d been best friends forever.
I never saw or spoke to Mickey again after that day, but I never forgot the lesson he taught me about the unreliability of preconceptions. I was saddened when a few years later I learned of his death. He’s remembered on The Wall by his proper name – Mario Frank DiMatteo. Look up his name for me next time you visit DC.

Bisecting Boxes: A Different Way to Sight In Object Balls

2007-05-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

Having trouble zeroing in on the object ball? Can't see the contact point that, once struck, will send the object ball along the desired trajectory? Maybe the principle of Bisecting Boxes will help bring things into focus for you.

Imagine lines drawn at 90 degree angles from the long and short rails to the edge of the object ball. (See illustration) Close the box by drawing lines from the adjacent points on the rail to the point of intersection at the targeted pocket. The desired path of the object ball coincides with a diagonal line that bisects the box. The line also cuts through the object ball clearly indicating the desired contact point.

This principle applies to all shots. If you have been having trouble sighting object balls, the next time you're practicing try visualizing the box and the bisecting diagonal line to the target. With practice, it will become second nature. Your shot-making will improve exponentially.

Still Tinkering: The Ungolf Grip

2007-04-17T19:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the smallest revision can have a huge effect. Like when Shakespeare revised the soliloquy from “To exist or not to exist…” or when Springsteen dropped “Born in New Jersey” in favor of “Born in the USA.” The same principle applies to pool. Since I’m far from happy with my game, I’m always tinkering with the various elements of it. Recently, I stumbled onto a little something that has had a significant positive effect. It involves the grip.

I know, most of the books are in agreement that the cue should be held with the first three fingers. Nonetheless, for some reason, I always felt uncomfortable about giving my index finger a dominant role. In fact, at times, I even went so far as to eliminate it completely. Why? Well, during the many years when I wasn’t playing pool, I was playing golf. One of my favorite golf books, Six Days To Better Golf, made a big point about the harm the index finger could do to your golf swing. And the advice proved to be sound. Unconsciously, I had been applying the same principle to gripping the cue.

I was rereading Ray Martin’s 99 Critical Shots the other day, when his instructions for gripping the cue made me pause. I immediately picked up my practice cue, carried it to the kitchen table where I practice my stroke, and began stroking with a grip that, rather than deemphasize the index finger, was dominated by it. It felt right. Later, when I hit the table for my practice session, I was pleased to learn that this new grip produced a much crisper stroke and more solid hits. Please note, it’s not a death grip, just a grip that’s dominated by the index finger.

Unlike some revelations that fail to stand up to the test of time, the benefits of my new grip have proved to be no fluke. And all aspects of my game – shot-making, position, speed of stroke – reflect the improvement. Just goes to show, sometimes the smallest change can produce monumental effects.

CSI: Poolroom

2007-03-19T20:21:00.000-07:00

Jimmy De Jesus and Rowdy Bryant were still playing nine-ball on table one as Tizzie worked his way around the poolroom covering up tables, collecting house cues and stooping down here and there to pick up fallen pieces of chalk.
“Make that the last set, guys,” he said as he set the last cover down on the counter beside the two combatants and carried the box back to the storeroom.
“Jeez, Tiz,” complained Rowdy, “I’m in the middle of a come back.”
“We can see the end tomorrow. It’ll be like a cliffhanger.”
“C’mon,” pleaded Rowdy, “Just one more set.”
“No. I gotta get out of here.”
Tizzie didn’t mention that he hadn’t seen Bob Casey and Mary in four days. It wasn’t like the old couple to stay away like this. And tonight they hadn’t been there to watch the 9-ball tournament. He couldn’t remember the last time they had missed a Thursday night. As soon as he locked the doors, he was going to head over to their trailer to see what was up.
Jimmy D cut the eight into the side sending the cue ball four rails around table for a straight-in shot on the nine.
“Lucky bastard,” growled Rowdy as he swept the nine down table with the side of his stick. “Next time, I want the eight, you hustlin’ piece of shit.”
“You must be kiddin’,” laughed Jimmy D. “I’m not givin’ you eight o’ anythin’.”
“Ask Teasdale! He’ll tell ya – you’re sposed to give me the eight. Right, Tiz?”
“You’re supposed to play better,” answered Tizzie as he collected the balls and placed them in their tray.
“See,” said Jimmy D. “I tol’ you – no eight!”
Tizzie rolled out the cloth. “Don’t let the door hit yous in the ass.”

* * * * *

The light was on in the trailer and he could hear the TV, but no one was answering his knock. Again, Tizzie pounded the door with his fist. “Bob. Mary. It’s me, Tizzie. Everything okay in there?”
As he pounded, he noticed that the door almost caved in from the force. Without hesitating, he drove his shoulder thru the door. He was engulfed immediately by the putrid smell of death. “Oh, my freakin’ God.”
Covering his nose with a handkerchief, he entered the living room. Bob sat alone on the sofa. Before him on the coffee table were two empty bottles of vodka and one half full.
“Guess you’re off the wagon, eh, Bob?”
Bob turned his head slowly, squinting as though through a fogged up windshield.
“What’s going on, Bob? Where’s Mary?”
“Oh, Mary,” sobbed Bob. “My beautiful Mary.”
Tizzie made his way through the kitchen and down to the bedroom. He didn’t want to look, but he had to. There on the bed lay Mary. Maggots were swarming on her face. As he turned away, repulsed, his eyes stopped on a photograph that sat atop the dresser. It pictured a young couple laughing, their arms lovingly wrapped around each other as they huddled beneath a beach umbrella. A signature moment, he thought as he made his way back to the living room.
“My beautiful beautiful Mary,” repeated Bob. “How is she?”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this,” said Tizzie as he picked up the phone, “but she’s starting to lose her looks.”

Hammer Heads: An Eye for the Ladies

2007-02-19T04:49:00.000-08:00

One good thing about being old is that, even if you're not mechanically inclined, you've had so many cars with so many problems that you develop a kind of sixth sense about car trouble. Otherwise, I might never had made it down to the Ladies Spirit Tour 2007 season opener at Hammer Heads Billiard Lounge in Holiday, FL today (Sunday, Feb. 18th)

After readying myself, a time consuming chore in and of itself, I kissed Uppy (the former Sarah Uppington-Smythe of the New England Uppington Smythes) and ventured out to the carport and our not yet one-year-owned previously used Toyota Rav4. It's been a good car for us, not even a hiccup since the day we brought it home. But, today, it was unresponsive to the twist of the key. Old hand that I am, I didn't panic - I reached for the hood release, gave it a yank, climbed out of my formerly reliable steed and raised the hood. I glanced at the battery and there it was - corrosion... on the ground side. I fetched a pair of pliers from the shed along with an assortment of files and returned but found the nuts on the terminal clamp stubborn and uncooperative. Undaunted, I started hammering on the clamp with the pliers, producing a chalky greenish white drizzle. Returning to the driver's seat, I again turned the key and was blessed with the sweet sound of engine music. I really am a genius, I said to myself. It took a mere ten minutes for me to disconnect the clamp, clean it and the terminal with my assorted files, and reconnect them. At last, I was ready to start out.

I arrived at Hammer Heads in plenty of time. I immediately caught up on Saturday's action. I learned that scintillating Az personality Pool Hall Maven, a/k/a "Amazin' Trace" and her traveling partner Shanna "The Red Tide" Lewis had suffered two losses on the opening day and were out of the tournament. Cheer up, fans, because as I was leaving late Sunday afternoon both were tearing up the opposition in the 2nd Chance tournament. Since they had both decided to stay around to support their fellow players, I figured the least I could do was stick around, too. So, I did.

I saw Rachael Abbink eliminate last year's Spirit Tour Player of the Year Debbie "High Altitude" Schjodt. Schjodt had previously been knocked over to the loser's side by the always tough Jeannie Seaver. Seaver went on to defeat Miynki Sakai to advance to the hot seat match where she would meet Bonnie Coats who won a nail biter against local favorite and tour standout Tracie Hines. Sakai was later dealt her second loss by Tamara Rademaker.

With her back up against it, Tracie Hines next faced Abbink, the potentially dangerous player who had eliminated Schjodt. Though Hines went on to win the match 7-1 it was not without it's drama. Up 3-0, she was racking the balls for the fourth game when she caught her nail on something and started shaking it like it was on fire. I caught up with her after the match, congratulated her on her victory, and asked about the nail. "It really hurt," she admitted. "Did it affect the outcome of the match?" I asked. "No," she replied. "I don't think so."

About then, I had to leave as I knew Uppy would be serving up Ravioli Lasagna at 4 PM sharp. It's an interesting recipe she got from Real Simple. You spread some sauce on the bottom of a lasagna pan, then lay down a layer of large frozen Ravioli. (We bought a 3 lb. bag of Celentano Cheese Ravioli for that purpose.) On top of that you spread a package of frozen spinach, then another layer of ravioli. You top that with the remaining sauce and mozzarella, cover with foil and bake at 350 for a half hour, then uncovered for another 10-15 minutes. It was great and as I was downing it and watching the Daytona 500 on the tube, I thought to myself, "It's been a very good day."

When I find out the final results of the tournament, I'll post them. Meanwhile, I'm looking forward to catching the girls at Hammer Heads again on April 28-29, and at Capone's in Spring Hill on September 8-9 and November 3-4. Check out their site at www.ladiespiritour.com.

Immortality Awaits You

2007-01-22T07:51:00.000-08:00

Being a writer of sorts, I never know where my next inspiration will spring from. The inspiration for this verse sprung from a recent experience in the poolroom.

A Nit With No Name
by Ace Toscano

Bounce your cue against the floor.
It only makes me bear down more.
Laugh out loud, sneeze, snort and snore -
Let loose your entire repertoire.
You can sigh and moan and curse your luck.
My pov? You dogged the duck.
And when you see I'm on the hill,
Recommence your sharking drill.
Too bad, these moves won't help you none.
It's clear by now the battle's won.
No doubt, you nit - you're done, done, done.

More Pool Poems

Florida: Mecca For Pool A$$holes

2006-12-31T08:40:00.000-08:00

Never have I seen so many guys who profess to know all there is about pool but who actually know nothing. Here’s a warning: I expose jerks.

I recently had an encounter with an annoying chump who claims to be from Boston. You can bet he never spent much time in poolrooms up there, because, if he had, he certainly would’ve been kicked out of them.

I refer to him as an annoying chump because, first off, he’s a chump - everybody beats him. He’s annoying because of the tiresome litany of excuses he offers up explaining his pool play. It’s the tables, the cloth, the pockets, the cushions, the balls, the atmosphere, and the alignment of the planets that make him lose.

Then there is his repertoire of adolescent shark moves. He walks around the table while you’re shooting and manages to slide into your line of sight when you’re ready to shoot. He goes to an adjacent table between turns and bangs the balls around. He yaks constantly airing his list of complaints to anyone willing to listen. He never sits still; he never shuts up.

A new pool room just opened up down the road. Fittingly, it’s called Hammer Heads. Where else would the king of grammar school shark moves hang out? I went there to play in what was billed as a tournament for non-A players. What it actually was was a tournament for C players and A’s masquerading as B’s.

So, I win a few matches and lose one and come up against Boston Sharkie on the one-loss side. Now, if you don’t already know it, the cardinal rule when you’re playing against a chump who can’t possibly beat you is not to give him anything. This means don’t leave him any easy combos or caroms and don’t leave the nine hangin’ in the jaws because even a choke artist like Sharkey might manage to score in those situations.

Well, ignoring my own rules, I left Sharkie an unmissible carom. Then he managed to shit the nine in on the break. I’m behind but I come back and pocket a table length straight shot on the nine and follow with a run out from the two ball. Senor Chokee is starting to sweat. I know he’s done. He knows he’s done.

I guess there’s nothing so scary for someone who is sick of losing as the prospect of another public humiliation. So, to put it off, he started bugging me about the rack. He complained that I was not placing the one ball on the center of the spot. It was on the spot, just not dead center. Now, everyone I have talked to since then, witnesses and those who just heard about the incident, are in agreement that Sharkie is an asshole. Still, I tried to placate him. Unfortunately, when I placed the one dead center, upon lifting the rack the one would roll forward and the only way I could keep the rack tight was by nudging it forward a fraction. Time and again, he complained. I called for the tournament director to come over and straighten the chump out but he had stepped out of the building. Finally, I just scattered the balls and quit. Not admirable, but going farther in the tournament wasn’t worth having to deal with the shit head.

Hammerheads has an open 9-ball tournament on Tuesday nights. I'd play in that with its better class of opponents except for the fact that it doesn't end until 2 A.M. Too late for me. Sharkie most likely will pass that one up, too – he won’t want to expose himself to more public humiliation.

Touchy Feely

2006-11-30T10:55:00.000-08:00

Ever since I took the game back up again four or five years ago I’ve been more or less obsessed with loss of my shot making ability and my practice sessions have been geared to improving my play in that area. Recently, however, after losing yet another match because of my inability to control whitey, failing to execute easy position on the nine and instead leaving myself with a difficult shot, I decided to start working on improving my touch.

My buddy Al informed me that touch is very much like shot making – once you lose it, he said, you never get it back. But I’m a hard one to discourage. Besides, my shot making has improved a lot since I started my comeback. Of course, there’s still a lot of room for improvement, but I’m not missing as many “easy” shots as I used to. I take heart in the fact that even though I’m nearing my 60th birthday, I am still getting better.

So, a major focus of my recent practice sessions has been position play and cue ball control. I start just by hitting the cue ball, trying to make it travel two diamonds farther every shot until it’s made three trips lengthwise across the table. Then I work on stop shots and follow, trying to follow shots of different lengths one diamond, two diamonds, and farther. It seems to be working. I’ve been winning more games and matches.

I recently started playing in a local 8-ball bar league. Bar pool, as you probably know, is significantly different from pool room pool. The rules down here are berserk: no safes allowed; ball in hand behind the head string after a scratch; and players, regardless of the situation, are bound to make an “honest effort” at making a ball. You can imagine the fudging that goes on in this area. My play has been inconsistent. I was 12-0 after the first 3 weeks, but am about .500 since then. Not that I’ve been playing badly, though I did make a couple bad choices. It just seems that I haven’t been getting my share of the breaks. You know, an opponent misses and accidentally safes you up, and other things like that.

Anyway, we’re cruising along in first place because even while I’ve been floundering my teammates have been wreaking havoc upon opposing forces. Here’s a picture of The 8-Ball Posse:

Left to Right: Jeff, Billy, Ace, Boogie

The Way I See It

2006-11-02T07:17:00.000-08:00

There are a few things going on in my pool world. First, as I approach my 60th birthday, I can happily claim that I am still getting better. For some reason, of late, my shot making has improved significantly. Not that I’m making a lot of outrageous shots, I’m just making a lot more shots that I should make. I don’t know if it’s a natural progression or if I’m doing something different that has led to the improvement. I have made changes to the way I visualize my shots – focusing on the path or channel the object ball will follow on its way to the target, finding the point on the backside of the object ball what would place the cue ball in that channel, then delivering the cue ball to that point. In the method I was using before, I seemed to spend more time staring at the object ball hoping the contact point would magically appear.

I’ve also shortened my stroke by gripping the cue about 6 inches to 8 inches behind the balance point. Speaking of the grip, I’ve been consciously trying to restrict my index finger’s involvement. It seems too much index finger throws my stroke off line. I guess my other keys regarding the grip are “light but firm.”

In other news, I’m playing in a pool league. Friends at the local beer hall asked me to sub the first week of the season, then, when they discovered one of their members had gone missing, invited me to join the team. After 3 weeks, I’m still undefeated and we're in first place. That could change seeing as so much luck is involved in bar style 8-ball and we haven’t played the best teams yet. Still, I’m having fun and have discovered that second-hand smoke isn’t as thick on week days as it is on tournament nights.

And, I've cashed in the last two 9-ball tourneys I've entered, the Wednesday Night handicap tourney at Capone's and the Thursday night open at DJ's, finishing third in each. Old codgers of the world unite!

Another Day, Another Doll

2006-09-25T15:02:00.000-07:00

I played in the handicap tourney up at Capone's last Wednesday. I won a few matches then lost to a couple young phenoms. Anyway, as I was leaving, Rocky mentioned that he was hosting the Women's Florida State 9-Ball Championship this past weekend. So, on Sunday afternoon I tore myself away from the miserable Bucs game and took a ride up to Spring Hill to see some of the action. By the time I got there, the field had been reduced to eight and within a few minutes it was down to six. When I left Maria Catalano, a sharp shooting Brit, was locking horns with Debbie Schjodt, a veteran of the Spirit Tour who has been sizzling of late, in the driver's seat match. The way it looked, the loser was going to have their hands full playing Jeannie Seaver who was racing through the losers bracket. And the final match promised to be a real battle. But, like I said, I had to leave (my sugar was getting low) and I don't know who eventually won. In addition to the prize money and the glory the winner was to earn a spot in the U.S. Open. Anyway, the three girls I mentioned - Catalano, Schjodt, and Seaver - put on a much better show than those pitiful Buccaneers.

I've been playing pretty well lately and, except for the fact that I've made too many careless mistakes, I'm pretty happy with the way my game is coming along. At least it's still coming. Last Thursday, I managed to miss a nine-ball that was laying in the jaws of the pocket otherwise I would've beaten Fast Eddie, one of the better players around here. That would've been a first. The cueball was up table and frozen to the rail, but I still should've made it. Damn!

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