Cheaters at Pool: Pity the Poor Desperate Fools

“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.

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.

An Honest Effort

I’d been in the same fix before, too many times – playing in a 8-ball bar tournament where safes aren’t allowed and you’re expected to play some ball somewhere even if you have no reasonable chance to make it. In this instance, I was playing Barry, author of most of the rules we were playing by and the man who ran the tournament.

I actually had two possible shots, one a lot more possible than the other. The best shot I had was a kick made more difficult because I would have to spin the cue ball off the cushion in order to get it headed toward my ball which was frozen to the end rail. Making the shot even harder was another ball I would have to slide the cue ball by, plus the fact that rules would make it necessary to call rails and kisses. The other shot which may have been possible if I had been given 20 tries at it involved me hitting the edge of the object ball I could see and thereby bank it two cushions, end rail to side rail, into the side. Though it was highly unlikely that I could make this shot, it would have allowed me to send the cue ball around to the far end of the table where my opponent would be left with a difficult shot. If I missed the kick shot, I was dead. His two remaining balls were sitting along the end rail and the 8 was hanging in the side.

As I contemplated what approach to take, Barry appeared at me shoulder. “You have to try it,” he said. “Excuse me,” I said incredulously, somewhat annoyed that he had come over to break my concentration. “It’s the only shot you have,” he replied. “What’s the only shot I have?” I asked. “Kicking at the ten,” he said. “I could bank it two rails into the side,” I suggested. “Yes, you could,” he agreed. Of course, we both knew chances of that going were about nil.

So, to hell with it, I said to myself, and in the name of honesty gave the kick my best effort. I missed, left Barry an easy set up, and he ran out.

After that I won a few games and wound up playing Barry again, this time for 3rd place. The game comes down to the point where Barry has to run out or I’m going to win. He’s moving around the table pretty good when he screws up position. So, what’s he do? Rather than make an "honest effort" attempt to make a ball, he plays me safe and winds up beating me again. Man, was I pissed. First, the mother-humpin’ bastard looks over my shoulder to make sure I try some kind of hair brained shot. Then, when he gets a chance to show me what a stand-up guy he is, he cheats me.

I think I’ll be passing on those Tuesday night fiascos from now on. I hate bar pool tournaments anyway.

As for me and my game, I can honestly say I’m still getting better. I continue to work on my stroke and, when I remember, my eye-training exercises. Though I don’t have a chance, I’m thinking about playing in Rocky’s Monday Night $500-added open tournament up at Capone’s. Not that I’d have a chance against, Strickland, Morris, Saez, or any of the other sharpshooters, but there are a fair amount of chumps who enter and with a little luck I might slide into 8th place some day. Talk about your lofty ambitions. LMFAO.