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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but still…” said Tommy.

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

Resurrection of a Pool Legend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Night That Will Live On In Infamy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Milestone

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Visit from The Dutch Boy

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

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

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

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

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

Here are some pics we took that day:


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


Tommy, Kari and Me at Hudson Beach


The Girls and Tommy on the Gulf


Shooting One-handed at the Outback


Kari and Tom


Look at that pair, the three of us.

Wednesday Night SharpShooters

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


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


Sheila: Our Lovely Host, Sponsor, Groupie


Kay, Gene, Guy in Green Shirt


Champs Boogie & Rick


Ace with Team & Individual 1st Place Trophies


You Can't Get Enough of These Guys


Boondocks: Dreamers & One Sore Sport


Carla: Cotie River's Perennial Top Female Point Leader


Sail In


April's DD (Double D) Saloon


More Sail Inners


Happy Fellas: Boog & J.C.


Our Sponsor

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

Pool?

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


R.I.P. Little Girl

Two Steps Back

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas Everyone!

The Rat Gets The Cheese

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

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

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:



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