Elbows, Assholes and False Accusations

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.”

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.

2009 Resolution Breakdown

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.

Brokeback Billiards

I’ve got to be honest with you: I have no wish to be known as a good bar box player. It’s my contention that if you can play pool on a regulation table you should be able to handle yourself on the small tables as well. In fact, as I recall, back when I could actually play this game I had a hard time missing on a bar table, even at times when a miss was in order.

In addition, as regards my playing now, I don’t think playing on the small tables is doing anything for my game. Yet, since there’s not much going on in the local pool rooms, I find myself playing in bar tourneys three nights a week. And that’s it. No mas, no mas. So, when I was recently invited to join a bar pool league, I declined. Most of my pals from the bar tour play every night of the week, including two nights, Mondays & Wednesdays, set aside for leagues. Guess they don’t have much going on at home.

Anyway, I was asked to sub this past Wednesday and, because it didn’t involve a season long commitment, I said I would. I won my four games so I don’t have to carry any guilt around for letting the guys down. But as far as the league experience goes, it’s not for me. Too much high-fivin’!

I come from the pre-touchy-feely generation. I don’t believe guys should be touching other guys except to shake hands when it’s appropriate or to knock someone on their freakin’ ass. I lost my appetite for bowling when it turned into a high fivin’ marathon. Not only did my fellow bowlers feel the need to celebrate their camaraderie after every frame, some wanted to touch hands after every ball! That’s ten frames, times two balls, times four other guys, times three games… God, it boggles the mind.

Speaking of God, the “give your neighbor the sign of friendship” hand holding is a big reason why I gave up church going.

If I win a game, tell me “Good game.” If I make a good shot, say “Nice shot.” That’s all I require. That’s all I want. If you feel the need to touch somebody, go console my opponent.