The Me In Team

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

2010 Monday Night Sharpshooters Awards Party

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.”

Gentleman Thwarts Robbery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but still…” said Tommy.

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

A Night That Will Live On In Infamy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touchy Feely

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