tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-106602612024-03-12T21:31:37.302-07:00Ace's Pool BlogThe ramblings of an incredibly lousy pool player.
(This blog's about the grand old game of pocket billiards, not one of those pits Jethro Beaudine referred to as "cee-ment ponds." Duhhhhhh.)Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-28838968104743839722023-12-05T06:41:00.000-08:002023-12-05T06:41:01.749-08:00The Deadly Truth About Medicare Advantage (A True Story) by Ace Toscano<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgMX8PikXq7Q11vQ3z5mXPjpQkE6JR6kuYKbUEAs-EUHDRaeduIrP6BiME-evdgEyKEnxf1SxFD2J3PHbpUg9KVvjSVibK3M4sgY5v6RE9czVo2ue9XxCINn8X2aYkIZAAb4IWgjEOhgsg6-MaO0sv7kNRgYmHaxIJr4rJkgTcOe0EczY9kEsa" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgMX8PikXq7Q11vQ3z5mXPjpQkE6JR6kuYKbUEAs-EUHDRaeduIrP6BiME-evdgEyKEnxf1SxFD2J3PHbpUg9KVvjSVibK3M4sgY5v6RE9czVo2ue9XxCINn8X2aYkIZAAb4IWgjEOhgsg6-MaO0sv7kNRgYmHaxIJr4rJkgTcOe0EczY9kEsa=w406-h304" width="406" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p>He was an idiot. Every day, as soon as the poolroom opened, he
made it his mission to make sure each of the eight televisions that
were spaced around the room were tuned to FoxNews, as if he were
performing a public service by exposing the other players to the
misinformation streaming there. This was during the Obama years when
dyed in the wool racists proudly revealed themselves setting the
stage for the rise of the deplorable Trumpian hoard now crawling
across America like sludge from a busted septic tank. I can imagine
the mantras now cascading through his diseased mind – “Fake
news,” “Witch Hunt,” “Impeach Biden,” “Lock him up.”</p>
<p>Verifying his credentials as an asshole was the fact that he
cheated at pool. I was playing him in a local tournament once when
while shooting a ball straight into the side he drew the cueball back
into the tip of the cue. I jumped up immediately but he kept on
shooting and said the foul never happened. I never forget or forgive
a cheat.</p>
<p>But as deplorable as he was known to be in local circles –
McNasty was one nickname bestowed upon him – his most serious crime
against humanity involved health insurance and his extraordinary
effort to get others to sign up for the same Medicare Advantage plan
that he had bought into. I don't know if he honestly thought the plan
was such a great thing, but I suspect he was getting a kickback from
the insurance agent he was steering people to. As I remember, he had
a never ending supply of the guy's business cards. And he was
relentless. Day after day he would corner a few of the old boys and
pound them with the many benefits of Medicare Advantage and urge them
to take the plunge.</p>
<p>Now, I'm not going to get into all the details of the plan he was
hawking. You've probably heard the commercials – every health
insurance company finds these policies beneficial to their bottom
line – they offer dental, free prescriptions, money for groceries
and dog food, even yearly orthopedic shoes if you happen to be a
diabetic. Why do they do that? That's a question I wish my friend Bob
would have researched before he signed up. He turned out to be a
victim of Medicare Advantage and of the idiot who talked him into
signing up for it.</p>
<p>Of course, the answer becomes obvious towards the end. All those
little trinkets they hand out to rope you in are nothing in the grand
scheme of things. The real threat to those insurance companies'
bottom line are hospital stays. Whoa doggie!</p>
<p>The average hospital stay in the U.S. lasts 4.5 days. At an
average cost of $2,833 a day, that comes to $12, 974. And that's not
considering any procedures that are deemed necessary and the
subsequent costs associated with them. Bob didn't realize that the
time had come for him to pay for all those so-called benefits of
Medicare Advantage. You can have your $50 orthopedic shoes, Bobby,
but for them you'll have to sacrifice days in the hospital, whether
you need them or not.</p>
<p>When he called me and told me he had had a heart attack and was in
the hospital, I headed right to the cardiac unit of the hospital. He
was in the midst of explaining to me about his chest pains and his
call to 911 when a man identifying himself as Doctor Patel came into
the room and explained that Bob would be going to rehab. So, sure
enough, he found himself booked into a fly-by-night rehab facility
that same evening. No doctors or nurses there, just one young woman
who when quizzed proudly proclaimed, “I's a CNA!” Unfortunately,
as part of her routine she began giving Bob a high dosage potassium
supplement even though his potassium was already high. Oops! So,
without any fanfare after a day he was sent home. Predictably, that
same night, more than likely because of the elevated potassium
levels, Bob suffered another heart attack and wound up in the
hospital again. Coincidentally, I was visiting him when the same
doctor who had visited him and cut his first hospital stay short came
into the room and like before declared that Bob was to be moved to another rehab facility, this one farther away and probably cheaper.
Recognizing Dr. Patel from their previous meeting, Bob asked why was
he calling the shots. “You aren't my doctor,” he said. </p><p>“I'm
here on behalf of _____”, Bob's Medicare Advantage provider.</p>
<p>So, there it was, the ugly truth. Dr. Patel, in order to save his
employer, the insurance company, money was charged with cutting Bob's
hospital time to the bare minimum whether it was in his best interest
or not. Bob's health declined rapidly after that and it was only a
matter of weeks before we held a memorial pool tournament in his
honor. He was a well-liked member of the local pool community and
there was a big turnout. Even the idiot showed up, unwilling to take
credit for the part he'd taken in Bobby's demise.
</p><div style="text-align: center;">THE END</div><p></p>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-60556805573728722352021-03-15T06:47:00.000-07:002021-03-15T06:54:26.794-07:00Fifteen Lousy Minutes by Ace Toscano<p> </p><h1 align="CENTER" class="western"><b style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">The Covid Reflections of Edoardo
“Fast Eddie” Baladini</b></h1>
<p>Before my Covid confinement, my life had been flowing along
without a ripple, like the clear pools of the Willowemoc on a
summer's day.</p>
<p>
<img align="MIDDLE" border="0" height="256" name="graphics1" src="https://s3.amazonaws.com/fathom_media/photos/New-York-Catskills-Willowemoc-MAIN.jpg.1200x800_q85_crop.jpg" width="633" />
</p>
<p align="CENTER"><i>Willowemoc Creek</i></p>
<p>When we were young and carefree, my friends and I often journeyed
to the legendary fly fishing waters of New York state up around
Roscoe, casting our flies through the cool morning mist, coaxing
rainbows, browns and native brookies to rise and attack the
imitations we had worked so hard to create. It's a tranquil pastime,
fly fishing, at least until you hook one. Then, it's exhilarating –
your nerve endings on fire, your line, your connection to your prey,
charged like a live wire. Only when the battle is over, and your
trout is safely netted and in the creel can you allow yourself the
luxury of a slow, deep breath.
</p>
<p>There's nothing like it, really. Read the complete short story <a href="https://amzn.to/2OSOHNp" target="_blank">here</a>.</p>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-58925152864498383812020-08-19T07:09:00.002-07:002020-08-19T12:57:12.820-07:00I Quit Playing Pool Altogether Because of the Friggin' Virus: A Pool Poem<div class="separator"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjokm8wQeXbkhoRes4x-nz9_EK7X8Mivlh8RQGLYSUx_GKz9vpa6S9kyE1CgXnElN6vh-Ouh8MvcxU7NyRhASRbje3Ye459RII37NrqGVeYupdLYO9AN_ZaXQYpUGNiBGEYH49x/s320/players-wearing-masks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjokm8wQeXbkhoRes4x-nz9_EK7X8Mivlh8RQGLYSUx_GKz9vpa6S9kyE1CgXnElN6vh-Ouh8MvcxU7NyRhASRbje3Ye459RII37NrqGVeYupdLYO9AN_ZaXQYpUGNiBGEYH49x/s0/players-wearing-masks.jpg" /></a></div><p></p></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I quit playing pool altogether</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Because of the friggin' virus.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As far as safety precautions go</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dr. Fauci would admire us.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But others are out there shooting pool</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And apparently having fun</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Which makes me wonder if it could be</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">That I'm the only one</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Who doesn't believe this whole pandemic</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Is a made up left-wing hoax.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Or could it be that my pool playing
buds</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Don't let on when someone croaks?</p><br /><p></p><div>~ Ace Toscano</div>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-28435905245492422852020-08-16T07:26:00.001-07:002020-08-16T07:27:30.173-07:00ALL FOR A BOY: A POOL LEAGUE ROMANCE<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiek9MjTsCm0cpuCm3GQNKiYiSl6wsKYgnEdTIwXwUmzOnIutmBePpK4g6ef772NLOwPBfutMYYDuh7hDl_g-qZeenrsiUJ_btapK6boXO9b9zKfjK6WeEuJx72WJwLJUm3zFh1/s300/crowded-bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiek9MjTsCm0cpuCm3GQNKiYiSl6wsKYgnEdTIwXwUmzOnIutmBePpK4g6ef772NLOwPBfutMYYDuh7hDl_g-qZeenrsiUJ_btapK6boXO9b9zKfjK6WeEuJx72WJwLJUm3zFh1/s0/crowded-bar.jpg" /></a></div><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The
parking lot behind the pool room was desolate, like the lot
surrounding a stadium the morning after a big game. Papers, carried
by the wind, skittered around aimlessly. Bottles and cans lay
everywhere, some lying flat, others set upright as though offering a
swig to someone who might come along, later.</span></span><p></p><p>
</p><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">As
usual, Jack O'Brien's car was backed up to the rear entrance, he
being the owner. The white van backed up against the fence, though,
was not a common sight, nor was the way it was bouncing up and down,
up and down, like someone was standing on the bumper testing its
suspension. While no one was visible, logic would tell you it wasn't
moving on it's own. Someone inside was expending a lot of energy.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">On
some days, there would've been another vehicle parked in the lot,
Sam's blue and chrome F150. He often stopped off during his lunch
break for a few minutes practice. But, today, he was parked at a
distance, two vacant lots away, on a little used side street, his
binoculars focused on the bouncing white van.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Damn,
he thought.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Melissa
had texted him, saying “Chuck thinks it's time for another lesson.”
Obviously, she was learning a lot today, or vice-versa. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jee-sus
Christ. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">It
was Friday, so she was probably expecting him to pick up some fried
chicken, mashed potatoes and biscuits from KFC for dinner and to be
home waiting like a faithful puppy whenever she came wandering home.
Not today, sweetheart!</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">He
adjusted his binoculars bringing Chuck's van into sharper focus. The
way it was bouncing around you might've thought it was speeding down
a line of railroad ties. But, it wasn't. It was just sitting there,
going nowhere.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Inside,
stressing the van's suspension system, was Melissa, his soon to be
ex-girlfriend, and Chuck Reynolds, his soon to be ex-pool team
captain. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Damn
them both. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of
course, being honest, he had to admit this was partly his fault. She
usually toured the local bars when he was out playing in the league,
but, for some reason, one night, she didn't feel like doing that and
begged Sam to taker her along to the poolroom. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">If
only she had introduced herself, as he often did, as the woman who
was living with him along with her son, to which she liked to remark
that he liked the boy better than her, which was true, though not in
the sick way she liked to put it.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Looking
back, he figured it most likely had something to do with the many
beautiful women of all ages they encountered as they snaked their way
through the raucous crowd on their way to the bar, more than a few of
whom greeted Sam with a hug or a kiss or both, one pinching his
cheeks and declaring, “I love your face,” that prompted her to
step up and declare, “Hi, I'm his girlfriend, Melissa.” If only
she hadn't done that, Chuck, at this minute, would have been banging
with total abandon the woman who lives with Sam, and not his
girlfriend.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Bitch!</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When
they had returned from the pool room that first night, Melissa had
slipped into his room, probably intending to knock all thoughts of
those hot poolroom chicks out of his mind, wearing a sheer blue
nightie and purring demurely. He probably should have chased her out,
but she would have exploded into one of her rages and he didn't think
he could handle that at one in the morning. When he left for work,
next morning, she was still asleep in his bed. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Unfortunately,
her undying devotion didn't last long. Three days later Sam came home
early and bumped into one of her “old friends” flying out the
front door toward his car, his shirt half-on – the off half
flapping behind him like laundry on a clothesline – one hand
carrying his phone and the other holding up his pants which were
unbuttoned, unbuckled and only zipped half-way up. Everything was
back to normal.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Her
initial eagerness to join him on league night, Sam now realized, had
nothing to do with watching him play and was more about sitting on
the rail next to Chuck listening to his long line of shit. When
Chuck, as part of his sleazy scheme, had suggested that Melissa join
the team saying they could always use someone of her skill level, Sam
had stupidly agreed.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: medium;"><i style="background-color: black;">Bouncy,
bouncy, bouncy.</i></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
chided himself as tears streamed down his face, not because she had
betrayed him – that was nothing new – but for the plain fact that
by playing Humpty Dumpty with the captain of his pool team she had
made it necessary for him to quit. She just as well could have cut
out his nuts and wore them around her neck. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam,
sniffling, not brokenhearted but extremely downhearted and angry,
fired off a text telling Melissa he was going to pick up Liam after
school and take him to the park He added a smiley face, for effect.
She wouldn't be rushing home, now, and that would give him plenty of
time to pick up new locks and pack up her stuff. It went without
saying that the boy would be staying with him.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Tuesday
night heralded in a new era, meaning he would be playing on a new
team, in a new league, in a different county. He was not about to let
that despicable, conniving ho rob him of his favorite pastime. He had
messaged Glenn Johnston, a facebook acquaintance and league operator
for Pequot County, who had replied within minutes that his team could
really use a 7 since their best shooter had recently moved back to
Indiana. Sam, impressed by the speed with which Glenn had accessed
his APA stats, replied with his usual admonishment, “Just because
I'm a 7 up here, doesn't mean I'll be a 7 down there.” Glenn
replied, “You're close enough,” followed by a super-sized thumbs
up sticker.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
gave himself plenty of time to travel the twenty miles down Highway
19 to Stroker's. With a hundred traffic lights and the usual number
of confused and overly cautious old drivers, he figured it was the
worst twenty mile drive in the country. When he had lived in Montana,
on the outskirts of Kalispell, he'd been able to drive the twenty
miles into town in about ten minutes. This drive to Palm Bay had once
taken him two hours. So, to avoid being late, he gave himself plenty
of time. First, he had to drop Liam off at his sister's house. Annie
liked Liam and he got along well with her ten year old, Cole. Despite
his ill-feelings toward Melissa, he was determined not to let
anything disturb his relationship with the boy. For most of his
life, Melissa had dragged the poor kid along on her sordid adventures
in bars, motels, seedy apartments, alleys and abandoned cars. Sam
shuddered to think of what the boy must have witnessed first hand. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Of
course, you couldn't survive a life like that without scars. When he
first moved in with Sam, Liam hardly spoke. He would retreat to his
room with his cherished possessions – three old Marvel Comic books
and two battered action figures – and amuse himself for hours with
fantasy battles, enhanced by a host of sputtering sound effects. If
Sam looked in on him, he would stop abruptly and curl up into a ball.
One day, after picking him up at school, Sam, instead of going
straight home, took Liam to the mall. At the comic shop, they added
to Liam's arsenal three new action figures and to his library with a
handful of new comic books. After that, the boy allowed him to
participate in his games and they read together almost every night.
Thus, he gained the boy's trust. The closeness that developed wasn't
something he had expected, but he treasured it, now, and refused to
give it up. The way Sam saw it, the boy needed him and he needed the
boy. No way was he was going to let Melissa open those old wounds by
dragging him through the brambles of her unstable world. He told her
Liam could stay with him until she got settled and she raised no
objections.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Predictably,
when it became apparent that staying with Chuck and his wife, Rita,
was not an option, Melissa, by necessity, grew extremely remorseful.
Her fling with Chuck had been “a big mistake,” she claimed, with
a tearful emoji, begging Sam to please, please, please take her back.
“Sorry,” he texted her, “not now, not ever.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Bouncy,
bouncy, bouncy. </i></span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">It
had been a while since he'd visited the Palm Bay poolroom and, when
he walked through the door, it took him a while to get his bearings.
Glenn must have been watching for him because he began frantically
waving both hands over his head and motioning for Sam to come over.
He navigated across the room to a table Glenn and a couple of his new
teammates had staked out for their free pre-league practice. After a
sincerely warm greeting, he directed Sam to a table in the bar area
that looked down on the pool table and told him to take a seat there.
Because he was driving, Sam declined Glenn's offer of a beer, got
himself a water with lemon from the bar, and settled in.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">He
quickly recognized his new teammates as free-time gluttons. A common
breed – he'd witnessed this annoying defect in many players over
the years. Whenever a table opened up, they'd pounce on it so they
could gobble up that free practice time. Not surprisingly, never once
during the forty-five minutes he sat there did they ask if he wanted
to play a warm up game. Nice way to welcome a new teammate,
especially one who wasn't used to the tables.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Glenn
won the flip and immediately put up Ernie, one of the gluttons. Ernie
played bad. He made a couple shots but inevitably took the balls in
the wrong order and didn't put up much of a fight. He lost his match
without winning a single game. The opposing captain, apparently set
on going up two-zip, then put himself up. He must have been the best
on his team because Glenn enthusiastically countered with Sam, the
new guy. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
won the lag and the first game with a break and run. Normally, when
he had been playing with Chuck, the team would've come together for
high-fives and fist bumps and a little jubilation, even if they
hadn't been paying attention, but there was no celebrating with these
guys. He sensed from their scowls that they weren't too happy he
played well, like they might have to sit out more now that he was on
the team. <i>Nits</i>.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">He
won four more games against the guy, Roger, including two break and
runs and one 8 on the break. If only he'd had a chance to warm up. He
watched the beginning of the next match, a race to three, but when
the first game seemed to go on forever, he grabbed his case and
whispered to Glenn, “I gotta boogie.” Glenn thanked him for
coming, adding a “see ya next week.” Sam made it a point not to
respond – he would not be coming back.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Driving
home, he thought it might be time to give up pool leagues altogether.
When he had moved down south ten years ago, he had discovered his
father was a fixture in the local bar pool scene, attending local bar
tournaments and playing in their leagues. The old man had never been
a very good player or even fair, but ,when he had moved to Florida,
he had discovered that he could hold his own with the local barroom
players. And, pool gave him something to do besides sitting at home
listening to talk radio day after day and getting drunk. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Up
north, Sam had played a lot of pool as a boy, but mostly for money.
Pool as an excuse for socializing was new to him. But, he had
promised his mother before her death that he would keep his eye on
the old dog. So, reluctantly, he began touring the bars with him. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As
he cruised north, he couldn't help shaking his head as he recalled
his mother's patented lament, “He's a good provider, Sammy.” That
was partly true, but he was also a drunk, and a mean drunk at that,
who thought nothing of beating the crap out of his wife and throwing
her down the cellar stairs and terrorizing the helpless kids he was
providing for. By the time he joined his father in Florida, the old
man had mellowed and was far less inclined to express himself with
his fists, though he did wack a guy in the head with his cue one
night for bumping him while he was over the table trying to shoot. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">A
promise was a promise, so, for his mother, he had faithfully
accompanied his father on the barroom circuit for a few years until
the smoking and drinking finally caught up to him. Even after he
died, Sam kept going 'round to the bars, keeping in touch with his
new found friends, partly for the old man's sake and partly for his
own. Though the old man hadn't given him much during his lifetime, he
was grateful for these friends – they were good people.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Over
time, though, bar pool with it's ridiculous rules became more and
more of a drag. One rule, the no safety rule, was particularly
annoying. A safety is a defensive shot designed to leave your
opponent with no chance of making a ball. Even though he had grown up
playing straight pool, a game that required safety play, he had
tolerated this rule because everyone else seemed to respect it. But,
over the years, more and more players relocating from up north,
looking for some easy prey, had slithered into the bar scene. They
played safe without shame. Oh, they'd twist their faces into looks of
sincere apology as if locking you up had been simply an unfortunate
accident, but they weren't fooling anybody. When he realized the
cheaters had managed to squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of
the game, he quit playing bar pool once and for all.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Oh,
he still played pool, mind you. On most days, he'd visit the poolroom
on his lunch break and bang them around for a half hour or so. And,
on Tuesday nights, if he had nothing to do he'd play in the weekly
8-ball tournament. On one Tuesday night, he trounced a guy named
Chuck, who immediately asked him to join his team. “A bunch of good
guys and gals,” Chuck had said of his teammates. So, like that, he
was a member of the APA , a league, he was soon to discover, whose
players were obsessed with qualifying for a trip to Vegas where the
national championships were held every year.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At
first, Sam was the fair-haired boy beating everyone he played for the
first ten weeks. Then, one week, Chuck told him it might be a good
idea if he lost a match, here and there. Well, Sam wasn't built that
way, so he continued to play all out destroying everyone in his path
for another ten weeks. He wondered, now, if Chuck's lusty shagging
of Melissa was his idea of payback. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Any
worries he might have had that his life would be empty, now, without
pool, dissipated within a few weeks and he was soon to discover that
he didn't miss it at all.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">He
stopped at Annie's, carried the sleeping lad out to the car, strapped
him in and drove home.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">With
Liam in bed, he plopped himself on the sofa and turned on the TV.
Some nights, he'd tune in to YouTube and watch some classic pool
matches, but tonight that held no appeal. Instead, he settled on an
old Bill Murray movie with Melissa McCarthy. He lasted a quarter of
an hour, then fell asleep.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
</p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dad...
Dad...” He'd been submerged in a dream, not bad or good, in which
he and a couple friends whose identities he forgot immediately upon
waking, had been searching for a place to plug in a pinball machine.
Details of that quest dissolved and were overcome by the sensation
of someone jostling him by the shoulder, trying to wake him.
Gradually, as he emerged from the fog, he detected a familiar voice.
It was Liam's. Sam opened his eyes, stretched and yawned and took a
moment to clear his head. “Huh?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dad,”
said the boy more emphatically.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Without
thinking, he said, “You realize, don't you Liam, (yawn) that I'm
not your dad and probably never will be.” He thought it best to be
straight with the kid but when Liam's face took on the look of one
whose most precious dream had been stomped on by The Hulk, and tears
began to streak his face, he realized that he had been a little too
quick. Sitting up, he put his arm around the boy and pulled him
close. “That's not to say that I don't wish I was your dad. I would
be the luckiest guy on earth if I was. Believe me. So, if you want to
call me that, that's good. I like it. Just, let's not tell your mom.
She's probably out there shopping for a new dad even as we speak.
Okay?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay,”
he said. “Dad?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yeah.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Can
I have some lunch money?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sam
jumped off of the sofa and started growling and walking like one of
those stiff-legged monsters that peopled Liam's fantasy battles. The
boy screeched and tried to get away. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">WHAT'S
MY SUPER POWER?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
don't know,” squealed Liam as he ducked behind the brown recliner.
He took off again as Sam approached, flexing his fingers.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">THE
DEATH GRIP! (Growl)”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Later,
scrutinizing Liam from across the table, Sam asked, “That's a
different shirt you have on?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's
one of Cole's. Aunt Annie gave it to me last night after my bath. She
said it wouldn't do to put on the same dirty clothes when I was all
cleaned up.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Aunt
Annie?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She
said I should call her that.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Cool.
Maybe, I'll call her that, too,” he chuckled. “Now, finish your
pancakes. Don't want to be late.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Sam
guessed Annie had realized Melissa was long gone right from the
start. No calls, no texts for two weeks.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
suddenly knew the huge commitment it was to have kids – they leaked
into every aspect of your life. In short order, not only had he given
up pool but he had stopped making those occasional after work stops
at the pub, too – there just wasn't time. Besides, though she was
perfectly willing to watch the lad, he wanted to save his sister for
emergency situations. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After
school, he took Liam to a quiet section of the park. One trip to the
batting cages had proven that the lad needed some work on the
fundamentals. He had been going on and on about the start of the
little league season, so Sam had taken for granted that he had some
skills. But, he didn't. He couldn't hit a beach ball with a paddle,
and, though he had a decent arm, his fielding was pretty feeble, too.
If he had been teaching him how to play pool, he would've started
with the basics, so, he decided the same approach would work for
baseball. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When
he had suggested they work with a tee, Liam had balked claiming the
kids would make fun of him and call him a baby. What shits kids could
be. Anyway, in this corner of the park, no one would see them. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">After
a half hour, Liam had stopped squinting and flinching and swinging
blindly. Sam thought that was good progress and he told him so.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thanks,
Dad,” he replied.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">He'd
been called worse.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">They
played catch for a while, then he got a text from his sister inviting
them over for a backyard barbecue.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Annie's
having a barbecue. Wanna go?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Liam's
face lit up. “Yes,” he said. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
pass up the boxed mac and cheese?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Uh,
Yeah.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
chuckled. “Then, let's go.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After
almost decapitating Annie with an errant Frisbee throw, Liam started
sulking and refused to play anymore.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Come
'ere,” said Sam. “Lemme show you.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">After
a few minutes of flinging backhand, finishing with his index finger
pointing at his target, the boy started to get the hang of it.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Way
to go, buddy. You got it.” They high-fived.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Back
on the lawn chair, sitting beside Annie, sipping a diet sprite, he
watched the kids play.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You're
good with him,” said Annie.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
scoffed. “He's a good kid.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Have
you heard from her?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Not
a word.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nothing?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nothing.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What
about her family?” she asked.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They
hate him, want nothing to do with him.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Annie
sighs. “That sucks.” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Liam
unleashed the Frisbee and it flew over Cole's head.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hey,
Dad,” he shouted excitedly. “Did you see that?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Way
to go!”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So,”
said Annie.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
shrugged. “I don't know.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What
do you want?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mr.
Pritchard...”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What's
he doing here?” Mr. Pritchard scowled, his eyes on Sam's truck and
Liam.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He's
with me. I just wanted to tell you that – Melissa took off again
and Liam's with me.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
don't care. Understand? I don't give a shit.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
I thought I should tell you since you're his only family.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That
little bastard's no kin of mine. You hear? No kin of mine. Don't you
ever bring him here again. Don't even drive by. Do you understand me?
Stay a-way.” With that, he slammed the door.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Monday
afternoon, Sam and the boy drove down to Holiday to a barber Annie
had found. She said she didn't trust the locals to cut Liam's hair.
When he had suggested he cut it all off, she had threatened to cut
off his balls. So, at 3:30 they pulled into a spot in front of Luby's
Barber Shop. A sign in the window said “Haircuts $7” so he gave
Liam a ten and instructed him to tell the barber to keep the change.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How
do you want me to cut it?” the barber asked.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
shrugged. “You'll have to discuss that with him.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Not
wanting to join in the barbershop conversation, he went outside, lit
up a cigarette and waited.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">The
finished product was called a faded mohawk, short on the sides, long
on top, and Liam thought it was “cool.” So, who was Sam to argue.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They
stopped at the park on the way home and tossed the Frisbee around.
Liam was getting quite good at flinging it and, more importantly, at
catching it. Sam would deliberately send it far and wide forcing Liam
to run it down like an outfielder would run down a fly ball and he
liked the way the kid was moving. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For
supper, they shared a medium pizza, then headed over to Annie's to
show her the haircut. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What
a handsome young man you are, Liam,” she declared.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thank
you, ma'am.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ma'am?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
mean Aunt Annie.” She hugged him hard, gave him a blubbering kiss
on the cheek, then they were on their way home. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">When
he got back to the apartment, Sam found two vehicles parked in the
spaces reserved for him, one with its top lights flashing, belonged
to a county mounty, the other was all black with its high beams
illuminating his apartment's door.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What's
going on, Dad?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Don't
know. But, I guess we'll find out,” he answered, but the feeling in
his gut said it wasn't good.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Liam
grabbed his backpack out of the backseat, and the two walked side by
side, circling to the far side of the black car, toward the
apartment's door. As he fiddled with his keys, a woman climbed out of
the black car.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mr.
Renaldi,” she blared.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">By
this time, the deputy had exited his car and joined her. He didn't
have his hand on his gun, but it was suspended a few inches from the
holster.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes,
can I help you.” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'd
like to speak with you, if I may.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
pushed open the door and ushered Liam inside. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Would
you like to come in?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">The
woman turned to the deputy and stated in a formal tone, “Please
note that Mr. Renaldi has invited me into the apartment at 12017
Highland Drive.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">The
deputy nodded and the woman mounted the three steps to the front door
and entered. As Sam was closing the door the deputy said, “Could
you leave that open, sir?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'd
rather, not.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That's
fine, officer, I think you can leave, now. We're okay. Right, Mr.
Renaldi? We're okay?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes,
ma'am.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">She
smiled, then closed the door herself.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Liam
was worried. “What's the matter, dad?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nothing,
kiddo. Nothing to worry about. Why don't you go upstairs, take your
bath and get ready for bed. Okay?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dad?”
Liam asked, obviously near tears. “I think something's wrong?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Come
'ere, slugger.” He opened his arms and Liam rushed to him and they
embraced. “Nothing's wrong, you hear me?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yeah.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay,
now get ready for bed and let me talk to the nice lady. Go go go.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Liam
mounted the stairs, somewhat reluctantly, his eyes fixed on their
visitor.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Once
alone, the woman spoke. “You should never lie to a child. You know
that?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
nodded. “I try not to.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
you told him I'm a nice lady. That may not be the case.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
can hope, can't I?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">She
thought about it and sighed. “I suppose you can.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">The
woman took a file out of her satchel, set it on her lap, and sighed.
“Mr. Renaldi, a complaint has been made concerning your custodial
rights regarding Liam.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sam,
his face twisted with confusion, turned away from the woman, trying
to make sense of her words. Looking up, he saw Liam at the bottom of
the stairs, crying. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">As
he walked toward the boy, “Hey, Buddy, what's the matter?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Tearfully,
“I'm afraid, Dad. She's going to take me away.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
knelt on the floor grabbed the boy by his shoulders and drew him to
his chest. “No, no, no. That's not gonna happen. Okay?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">The
boy sniffled.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You
believe me, don't you?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Liam
nodded as he continued sniffling with his face buried against Sam's
chest.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Did
I ever lie to you?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That
time I beat you running and you said it was because you had a sore
foot.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One
time! You gonna hold that against me for the rest of my life?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Looking
him in the eye, the boy nodded, a tearful smile on his face.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">He
rose, lifting the boy, “Up you go.” He started to mount the
steps, then stopped. “Sorry, Miss...”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hunter.
Althea Hunter, CPS.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Just
give me a minute, Miss Hunter. I'll be right back.” He drew the
bath while Liam gathered his night clothes. “Now, wash good. Okay?”
The boy nodded. “I have to talk to the nice lady. I'll be up to
tuck you in when we're done.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Seated
on the opposite end of the sofa from Miss Hunter, he resumed their
conversation. “So, someone made a complaint.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Can
you tell me who?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes
I can.” She lifted her glasses that had been hanging from a cord
looped around her neck, set them into place and read off one her
papers. “Mr. Andrew Jackson Pritchard.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
just shook his head. “What a piece of work.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
was concerned about his grandson.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You
think so, Miss Hunter? Do you really think he was concerned about
Liam?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You
don't.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No,
I don't.” He looked Althea Hunter in the eye. “He hates Liam.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well...”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
couple weeks ago, because he and his wife are Liam's only relatives
besides Melissa, I figured it was only right that I should go over
and explain to him that his daughter had taken off for parts unknown
and that I was looking after his grandson. Know what he said to me?
Do you want to know what that poor excuse for a human being said to
me?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">She
looked at him somberly.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
I'll let you hear for yourself.” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
took out his phone and opened up the recorder app. “I went to the
his door and left Liam in the car.” He played the recording.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>What
do you want?”</i></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Mr.
Pritchard...”</i></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>What's
he doing here?”</i></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>He's
with me. I just wanted to tell you that – Melissa took off again
and Liam's with me.”</i></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>I
don't care. Understand? I don't give a shit.”</i></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Well,
I thought I should tell you since you're his only family.”</i></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>That
little bastard's no kin of mine. You hear? No kin of mine. Don't you
ever bring him here again. Don't even drive by. Do you understand me?
Stay a-way.”</i></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">The
recording ended. The two sat in silence, then Sam excused himself
while he went upstairs to check on Liam. With the boy tucked in bed,
he returned to the living room and joined Miss Hunter on the sofa.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Can
you tell me why you thought it necessary to record your conversation
with Mr. Pritchard,” she asked.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Well,
let's face it, Liam's not my son,” he started, never expecting that
those few words would cause his eyes to tear up. He sniffled. “But,
I wish he was. He's a super kid. (</span><i>more sniffles</i><span style="font-style: normal;">)
I just wanted to do what's right.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Ms.
Hunter hesitated before speaking again. “Well, during our
conversation, Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard expressed no desire to become
the boy's custodians citing their health as the reason.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
scoffed to himself.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Where
is his mother, Mr. Renaldi? Where is Melissa Pritchard?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">He
shrugged and shook his head slowly. “I don't know.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">The
woman was taking notes.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She
hasn't called or answered my texts. I'm still paying for it but I
don't even know if she still has her phone.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When
was the last time you heard from her?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;">He
brought up the texts on his phone and showed Ms. Hunter Melissa's
last text. </span><i>Watch Liam for me. I'll let you know when I get
settled</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. It was accompanied by a
picture of a green road sign whose white letters stated “You are
now leaving Florida.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
watched as Althea Hunter took more notes. When she was finished, she
turned toward him and sighed . He looked into her eyes.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Are
you gonna take him away?” he asked, somberly.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Her
large chest heaved as she took a deep breath and seemed to be
searching for words. “Let me be honest with you, Mr. Renaldi. If I
didn't think you were providing a safe and nurturing environment for
Liam, I'd be taking him with me right now. But, based on what I've
seen and heard and what you've told me, I don't think that would be
in the best interest of the child. To take him away would most likely
be traumatic for him.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
sighed with relief. “Oh, thank you, ma'am. Thank you, thank you,
thank you.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You
have to understand, Mr. Renaldi, this is only temporary.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But
-”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mr.
Renaldi, I am a caseworker, not a judge. At some point, you are going
to have to appear before a judge in family court.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
you'll tell him that Liam should stay with me, right?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I''ll
give him my assessment but that's only part of the process.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Do
I need a lawyer?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Choosing
her words carefully, she answered, “That depends.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On
what?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On
Liam's mother.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What
do you mean?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
do you think Miss Pritchard would agree to terminate her parental
rights?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Uh...
no, she would never do that. I mean, Melissa isn't the greatest
mother, she probably isn't even a good mother, but when she's not
running around doing who knows what, she actually cares about Liam.
Besides, that would probably screw up welfare when she applied. No,
she wouldn't ever agree to something like that.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then
there's another option. It's called consent guardianship. The parent,
Melissa in this case, would not lose her parental rights but you
would gain custody and the right to make decisions for Liam. However,
Miss Pritchard would have to either appear in court or, at least,
sign papers to that effect that you could present to the judge.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay,”
said Sam. “I think that would work. She trusts me. She knows I have
Liam's best interests at heart.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Alright,
then,” said Ms. Hunter, rising and extending her hand toward Sam.
They shook hands. “I'll be in touch.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay,
thanks. In the mean time?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In
the meantime, keep doing what you've been doing. I have a large
caseload, Mr. Renaldi, and sometimes things don't progress as fast as
I would like. Here's my card. Any problems or questions, just give me
a call.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thank
you, Miss Hunter. Thank you very much.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
checked on Liam and found him sound asleep, his baseball glove
pressed against his cheek. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">He
wanted to call Annie and tell her all about his encounter with Ms.
Hunter but decided it was too late. They both needed their sleep.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Ms.
Hunter kept her word and stayed in touch over the next couple months,
still Sam wasn't expecting to see her in the stands for Liam's first
ball game. And she wasn't alone. Sitting with her was her daughter,
Tasha, a very nice looking young woman who Ms. Hunter boasted was a
school teacher. “Do you have a boy playing?” he asked. “No, she
said. “We're here to watch Liam.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Come,
Mr. Renaldi, sit here with us.” Not sure if this was an official
request, he decided to comply, just in case. He spotted Annie and
Cole at the foot of the stands and whistled to get their attention.
He made introductions all around as they joined the group and the
women exchanged small talk till the game began.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With
Liam playing right field, the opponent's lead off hitter blooped a
hit over the first baseman which Liam charged with boy-like urgency
and trapped in his glove. Sam stood up and shouted, “Throw to
second, Liam. Throw to second.” Whether or not Liam heard, he
couldn't be sure, but the boy threw a dart to second and prevented
the batter from taking an extra base. He was surprised to hear Tasha
shouting, “Way to go, Liam. Whoop whoop!” When Sam looked at her
in wonder, she smiled and said, “ That's what we're here for, isn't
it?” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
should have warned you,” said Ms. Hunter. “She's a big baseball
fan.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In
his only time at bat, Liam lined a ball into the left field gap –
an easy double. His little cheering section, led by Sam and Tasha who
was whistling like a construction worker, erupted. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">When
Althea Hunter learned that Liam was out of the game, she left but
Tasha, saying she was having too much fun, decided to stick around.
She and Annie were getting on like sorority sisters so he invited her
to join them for pizza when the game ended. “With pepperoni?, she
asked. “We can arrange that,” laughed Sam. “Okay,” she
smiled, “I''m in.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As
the evening progressed, Sam fought off the idea that Tasha was there
on her mother's behalf. She was just too nice. You would have thought
that she and Annie were lifelong friends and her connection with the
children was like magic. Everyone enjoyed themselves and, for a
change, no worries or tension seeped into their experience. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As
they gathered themselves to leave, she asked Sam when the next game
was. He said he didn't know but he had a schedule at home. She
grabbed his phone and entered her number. “Text me,” she said
with a smile and a wink. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Tasha
came for every game after that and was, as far as everyone was
concerned, a welcome addition. Then, for one game, Annie couldn't
make it which left Sam and Tasha alone in the cheering section. When
Liam cracked a triple over the center fielder's head in the second
inning that scored two runs, the stands erupted. Tasha leaned toward
Sam and laid her head against his shoulder. “I really enjoy this,
you know,” she said.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Me,
too,” said Sam. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Someone
from the top row called down to them, “Is that your boy,” he
asked.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes,
he is,” came Sam's quick reply. He looked at Tasha and smiled.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You
should do that more often,” she said.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What,
lie?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No,
silly, smile.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Pizza,”
asked Tasha, her big brown eyes filled with hope.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
I've been thinking,” he began.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Her
expression was playful and mocking. “Thinking?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yeah,
I've been thinking that instead eating the pizza at the pizza place
we could bring it over my place and eat it there.” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">She
eyed him, her lips forming a contemplative pout. “Inviting me over
to see your etchings, eh slugger?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Uh,”
he started, “I don't have no etchings.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh,
well, I guess it'll be okay then,” she said as she kissed him
quickly on the lips.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="background-color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: white;">Sam
pulled into his regular spot in front of his apartment's door and
froze. His headlights illuminated the stoop. Sitting there in a
disheveled heap was Melissa.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's
mom,” said Liam, fear of what was brewing leaking into his voice.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes,
it is,” said Sam. He sighed as he opened his door. “Let's see
what she wants.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Tasha
pulled in alongside Sam's car and climbed out carrying the pizza. “I
got caught at the light...” When she saw Melissa, she froze.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Who's
this?” asked Melissa with a sneer.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tasha,”
said Sam.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">His
girlfriend,” added Tasha.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Melissa
shook her head, an unpleasant sneer on her lips. “Girlfriend.”
She laughed. “Isn't this rich – a nigger mama for my nigger
baby.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No
need to get ugly, Melissa. What do you want?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
want my boy, that's what I want. Get your stuff Liam. You're coming
with your mama.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">The
boy squeezed close to Sam and pleaded, “I don't want to go. Don't
make me.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Melissa
stood and made a grab for Liam's arm, but he ducked behind Sam. Tasha
stepped up alongside Sam further shielding the boy.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Get
over here, you little shit. You're coming with me.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That's
not going to happen,” said Tasha.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's
got nothing to do with you, bitch.” Melissa lunged at Tasha, pushed
her backwards onto her butt and jumped on top of her. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
hauled her off and threw her to the side. Helping Tasha to her feet,
he asked, “You okay?”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm
fine,” she said.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
I'm not,” said Melissa as she struggled to get to her feet.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
handed Tasha his keys. “Take Liam inside, please.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Didn't
you hear me?” shouted Melissa. “He's coming with me.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No.
He's. Not.” said Tasha, emphatically. “Aren't you going to tell
her?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tell
me what, bitch?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
Miss Pritchard, while you were away, after you abandoned your son, a
judge in family court awarded custody of Liam to Sam. So, you aren't
taking Liam anywhere!”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Bull
shit! You can't do that.” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes
we can. And we did,” snapped Tasha.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">An
old Chevy started up across the parking lot and sounded it's horn
getting Melissa's attention. “Just a minute,” she shouted.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">The
horn blared again and the driver pulled up to the walkway and lowered
the passenger-side window. “Let's get out of here before someone
calls the freakin' cops.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They
won't give me Liam,” she said.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Let
it go. He isn't worth it.” He raced the engine.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You
can't do this,” she shouted as she got into the car. “You can't
friggin' do this.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then
she was gone. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sam
tracked Melissa's departure until the taillights faded into the
night. Inside, he could hear Tasha upstairs drawing Liam's bath.
Walking back to the kitchen, he found the pizza on the table. He
opened the box and touching the crust found it only lukewarm, so he
turned on the oven. He glanced over his shoulder. There was Tasha. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We
better heat it,” he said, almost apologetically.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Tasha
remained silent, her expression brooding. Going to her, Sam took her
in his arms. She rested her head against his chest. Sniffling, she
managed, “I hate her.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm
sorry you had to see that... to hear that,” he said.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm
not,” she said. “Because I'm more determined, now, to make sure
she never gets her hands on that boy again.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">As
she looked up into his eyes, tears streaming down her face, he
couldn't help himself and began kissing her tears away. She pressed
her lips to his and soon they were lost in each other, their hands
exploring their bodies, their hearts beating as one. Then, sensing he
might have gone too far, he pulled back. “I'm sorry.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For
what?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
shouldn't have...”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm
glad you did.” She gave him one more kiss, this one filled with the
promise of things to come, and then stepped away. “Do you have a
pizza pan?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">After
pizza and a rousing game of Pictionary during which Sam swore Tasha
and Liam were conspiring against him, they put Liam to bed, leaving
the door open just a crack the way he liked it.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">TV?”
asked Sam, thinking he'd like nothing better than Tasha beside him on
the sofa.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No,”
she said, “I had something else in mind.” She took him by the
hand and led him into the bedroom.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sounds
like a plan,” he said.</span></span></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="background-color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="background-color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: white;">Sam's
and Tasha's lives melded together like two trickles of water that
merge to form a stream. She moved in with him, with Mrs. Tucker's
approval, of course, but ever mindful that Melissa might show up
unannounced, he decided to put some of the money his father had left
him to good use and bought a cozy three bedroom house with a pool
and, at Tasha's insistence, plenty of room for a pool table if he
should want one. The house was in the same school district – he'd
been careful about that – so Liam wouldn't be uprooted yet again.
His life was filled with love, now, and he couldn't help but wonder
what his old man would've thought. He had been a different man at the
end – sad and full of regrets. Sam liked to think that he would've
been happy for him.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It
was late September when word came by way of Tasha's mom that Melissa
had died of an overdose out in Oakland, California. The Pritchards
had told her that, since there would be no funeral or memorial
service, there was “no need for the boy to come around.” She
asked if they would be willing to relinquish any rights they had to
the boys custody and they were quick to agree and sign the papers. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">Sam
celebrated his good fortune every day. He and Tasha shared a love
that grew deeper with every breathe and every touch and was even more
special with the inclusion of Liam. No longer haunted by nightmares
and dread, the boy was now part of a loving family. Wherever he went,
whatever he did, he was comforted by warm thoughts of home and the
tender attention of Tasha and Sam. And no longer dependent on
fantasies, he ditched his bedroom games in favor of sports, real
sports, with his primary focus, currently, on soccer. Go figure.</span></span></p>
<p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">THE
END</span></span></p><br /><p></p>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-87754458987135540262020-04-03T06:19:00.000-07:002020-04-03T06:19:12.019-07:00My Coronavirus Lockdown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI04l8KXa5i-6x1W_htCtq2vnbRZN5lfYNkUNuFyYvfSJqzk8iWNVmX0zlhZEYYlsKeWh62LYggSVz0nR4qexCpvsGyDKzz7wy5jU06hbnBkNU_I4zAUEd5ovKZ8XvjOxPvsgD/s1600/ace-shooting-table-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI04l8KXa5i-6x1W_htCtq2vnbRZN5lfYNkUNuFyYvfSJqzk8iWNVmX0zlhZEYYlsKeWh62LYggSVz0nR4qexCpvsGyDKzz7wy5jU06hbnBkNU_I4zAUEd5ovKZ8XvjOxPvsgD/s320/ace-shooting-table-9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Capone's Table 9</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's been a month since I played pool,
maybe six weeks. I miss my daily trips to the poolroom and my
practice sessions which on average lasted about 40 minutes. I would
work on this and work on that, always playing by myself. When I first
started playing in Florida, twenty years ago, I soon discovered that
the old folks who occupied the tables in the afternoon didn't have
any gamble in them, so I gave up asking if they wanted to play and
got into the habit of practicing alone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Where I grew up, everybody played for
something, giving and receiving spots as the situation dictated. The
only exception was when you played your sister. Then, you would just
bang the balls around meaninglessly, which is what would happen if I
got into a social game playing for nothing with one of the resident
nits.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, I practice by myself, still hoping
to regain the skills of my youth when I would spot guys 25 to 50 in
straight pool for a few bucks and the time. If you've never played
straight pool, take my word for it – that's a tough game to win. I
was a kid of 16 or 17, playing guys in there 20's who were out in the
world working for a living. Of course, time is working against me –
I'll be 73 in June; and, my vision keeps getting worse (cataracts);
as do my tremors which at times shake my hands like an earthquake.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nevertheless, I keep thinking I can get
better. Now, I'm not altogether awful – I've dropped from a 7 to a
6 in APA and I think I'm a 5 in TAP – and I do have occasional
flashes of brilliance, yet it's still disheartening to lose to
players you know would have once ran and hid at the thought of
playing you. Recently, displeased with my execution of long straight
in shots, I adopted a new stance, more in line with that of snooker
players who I enjoy watching on the internet. Same goes for my hold
on the cue. I think that helped. But, not playing for what now seems
like forever, is going to take a toll if I ever do find my way back
to the poolroom. Right now, that seems doubtful.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was one of the first, if not the
first, to stop playing in our local leagues because to the
coronavirus. Many league players bought the President's line that
cries of alarm were a hoax, a leftest plot. They bitched about the
league shut down and about quarantines. They're probably still
bitching.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A couple weeks after I stopped playing,
the leagues shut down. My preexisting conditions, diabetes and
chronic lymphocytic leukemia, put me in real jeopardy. So, I've been
pretty much holed up ever since then. So far, I'm okay.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Returning to the poolroom seems far
away. I miss the game. I miss the people. But, I want to live and I
don't know when or if I'll ever feel safe there again.</div>
<br />Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-75235140411793257372020-02-21T06:29:00.000-08:002020-02-21T06:29:20.726-08:00Double Hit Cue Ball FoulsRule 1: If you're a league player, when you sense that a cue ball foul is imminent, call time and request a hit watch by a knowledgeable third party. (doesn't pertain to bar leagues - bar league players don't generally care about double-hit fouls. They just bang away.)<br />
<br />
I play in two leagues a week, one APA and one TAP, and situations where a possible double hit on the cue ball come up often. If it's my turn, I usually turn to my opponent at these times and ask if wants someone to watch the hit. I leave it up to them. Often they say no need we can watch ourselves. I've learned this is a mistake and won't go along with this self-policing any more. Though often a double hit is easy to detect, sometimes, it's just too hard to determine. Get a third party.<br />
<br />
I was playing a guy last week in the TAP league who thought he was slick. I was thinking to myself, if he plays that 7 ball which was about a quarter inch from the cue ball, I'm going to call for a hit watch. But before I could stop him, he took the shot without calling the ball - he just banged away. Well, I called the foul on him myself and took ball-in-hand. Of course, this nit said it was a good hit and that he shot at an angle. I said bullshit. The angle was about 3 degrees and the whitey flew around the table like no legal hit would allow. Besides, I saw and heard the double hit clear as day. Anyway, though it's against protocol, I wasn't going to let this guy get away with this shit. So, I called the foul myself.<br />
<br />
Of course, old slicky was already on my list of dickheads from a couple weeks earlier. I was playing one of his teammates in APA while he was watching from the rail. I drilled his buddy 5-0 but after the 4th game while I was emptying the pockets and rolling them to the foot of the table, my opponent says, "The 3 ball moved." Well, the 8 ball was a wide open shot with no ball within 6 inches. So, I said, "What are you talkin' about?" He replies, "I'm not callin' you on it." And I reiterate, "What the fuck are you talkin' about. My shot on the 8?" Then he admits that he wasn't really paying attention but his friend, old slicky, had said something to him from the rail. So, like I said, I already had a low opinion of mr. slick.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Dr. Dave has a video that explains pretty well the double hitting process. Watch it for your viewing pleasure:<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ubbAzu_sCS4" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-57451478319262266042019-12-11T15:46:00.000-08:002019-12-11T15:56:18.158-08:00Pool Tales & Poems and Other Stories by Ace ToscanoI've spent a lot of time in pool halls, in fact I grew up in one, and along with my penchant for writing things down, this has led me to write more than a couple pool stories as well as several poems. Selfishly, good or bad, I didn't want them to disappear once I was gone, so I decided to combine them, along with several non-pool-related stories, into a single kindle ebook. Hopefully, they will find a lasting home in cyber space.
<a href="https://amzn.to/36pNa4B"></a><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://amzn.to/36pNa4B" target="_blank">Pool Tales & Poems and Other Stories</a></div>
Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-65824333209351781292015-07-19T06:43:00.001-07:002015-07-19T10:55:15.452-07:00Season 1 - The Hustlers: A Review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjEMbe85mApjyKq5I5daggQJC__-gGYQblTFSZGIkKkY6xSUfd9uF5JGUkomip2l88PDUyEn2RtKQWbo_ldBQDR9MJDgR7k3my1vHtF7O8e88zPCHACzJLcmT_PehxbF1MoP-q/s1600/the-hustlers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjEMbe85mApjyKq5I5daggQJC__-gGYQblTFSZGIkKkY6xSUfd9uF5JGUkomip2l88PDUyEn2RtKQWbo_ldBQDR9MJDgR7k3my1vHtF7O8e88zPCHACzJLcmT_PehxbF1MoP-q/s1600/the-hustlers.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Take some hot chicks who also shoot
a pretty decent game of pool, make a reality show about them and it would seem
you have a recipe for a hit show, at least a cult classic, and a show that
could give the grand old game of pocket billiards a much needed shot in the arm. But, then you add
some representatives of the male gender, representatives whose behavior should
not be condoned in any pool room and certainly should not be broadcast on
television where it might influence the behavior of people just getting into
the game. Loud mouths, bullshitters and whiners who make unsportsmanlike conduct,
sharking and downright cheating an everyday part of their games - that's just what
we need more of. Knowing the popularity of the show among local pool players, I
know it's only a matter of time before these yahoos start mimicking Gary, Ross
and Finn. Oy vey!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Is this really doing the game of
pool any good? I don't think so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">The only participants who manage to
escape Season 1 with their honor in tact are Jennifer Barretta, Mike Dechaine and,
though up to now she's played only a minor role in the show, Yomaylin Sanchez.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Amusingly,
the season finale ended with Emily Duddy proclaiming that maybe now the other
players would start taking her seriously. Why, because she won a couple matches
after being spotted 5 games on the wire, plus the five ball? Sorry, maybe not that
seriously, yet.</span>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-56390736683560759882013-08-23T04:13:00.000-07:002013-08-23T04:20:55.257-07:00Charley Kutz - A New Guy in Town Replacing Cue Tips<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-3mRqf5LSB02NdsyHq46xLqHU-lSUZd3h6OLYOkYTjzs98WX1qBrylx3LIht08ssr_8tDNkIsjTM3NrE7vInHWI5rk4mM33IkjKBlv995B2OlQD_0R0dQjBi_fcjm5xJl847/s1600/charley-kutz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-3mRqf5LSB02NdsyHq46xLqHU-lSUZd3h6OLYOkYTjzs98WX1qBrylx3LIht08ssr_8tDNkIsjTM3NrE7vInHWI5rk4mM33IkjKBlv995B2OlQD_0R0dQjBi_fcjm5xJl847/s1600/charley-kutz.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For years, whenever anyone asked me who I'd recommend to replace their cue tip, I'd suggest they travel north to Capone's in Spring Hill and ask for Roger. But, now, for those who live in Pasco County and think Capone's is too far away, there's a new guy in town and his name is Charley Kutz. Charley's been working on cues for years for himself and friends, but he's only just now making his skills available to the public. Charley's a friend of mine and I'd trust him with my most precious stick. You should, too.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">CK-CUE SERVICE (New Port Richey, FL) - Replace Cue Tips; Clean and Seal Shafts; Remove Dings; Straighten Warped Shafts. Call Charley Kutz between 12PM and 6PM</span></b></blockquote>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">727-534-4192</span></b></div>
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<br />Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-37929533339199511232013-07-16T06:16:00.001-07:002013-07-16T06:16:57.297-07:00John Bender Cues: Having a Little Fun with BoxesChecking in with my friend, John Bender of <a href="http://johnbendercues.com/" target="_blank">johnbendercues.com</a>, he sent along some pics of his latest creations. You won't be too surprised by the beauty and quality of John's work when you remember that prior to striking out on his own he had worked with Hall of Fame cuemaker Richard Black.<br />
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In regards to his current work he says "Just having a little fun with boxes that go around corners. Black buffalo horn joint and cap. .015 nickel silver rings at the handle, cap, and joint." I like those boxes a lot.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifSAC_LVa7x59pYSXdFCzA5ua3sM7UoHzUUGyIibWpJ8xXXYB9XC9MNbz9giHFeBtMwvj4LbgS11DE1lXl6kNEfkvUDp3eEfXtDsogffXbPHwAYq3_Ur0_YZr9W1nh0R4J69fk/s1600/boxes2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifSAC_LVa7x59pYSXdFCzA5ua3sM7UoHzUUGyIibWpJ8xXXYB9XC9MNbz9giHFeBtMwvj4LbgS11DE1lXl6kNEfkvUDp3eEfXtDsogffXbPHwAYq3_Ur0_YZr9W1nh0R4J69fk/s320/boxes2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-88887246551245399802013-07-04T05:46:00.000-07:002019-07-31T16:13:04.794-07:00Top Ten Pool Posters of 2013Updated 10/26/2017. As of today, these are the best-selling pool and billiards posters of 2017:
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2y6fVqw" target="_top"><img alt="" height="380" src="https://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/arthur-sarnoff-hustler.jpg" title="The Hustler" width="473" /></a>
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1. Hustler by Arthur Sarnoff
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2iBQnKR" target="_top"><img alt="" height="353" src="https://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/chris-consani-legal-action.jpg" title="Legal Action" width="473" /></a>
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2. Legal Action by Chris Consani
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2y5bXyr" target="_top"><img border="0" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/514csgqK0KL.jpg" title="Game of Fate" /></a>
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3. Game of Fate by Chris Consani
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2zQrgbd" target="_top"><img border="0" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51OI76Jyb2L.jpg" title="The Night Caf? in the Place Lamartine in Arles, c.1888" /></a>
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4. The Night Café by Vincent van Gogh
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2i5qQ8R" target="_top"><img border="0" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51zmWZzuq5L.jpg" title="Change for a Dollar" /></a>
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5. Change for a Dollar by Frank Morrison
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2gCx6EO" target="_top"><img border="0" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51tz5LjUf6L.jpg" title="Behind the 8 Ball" /></a>
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6. Behind the 8 Ball
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2h9hWHS" target="_top"><img border="0" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41WRpb1L%2BcL.jpg" title="Pool Shark" /></a>
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7. Pool Shark
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2y3YcQp" target="_top"><img border="0" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51GkBP8PGiL.jpg" title="Hey! One leg on the Floor" /></a>
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8. Hey! One Leg On The Floor by Arthur Sarnoff
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2zQ6wk7"><img alt="" height="400" src="https://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/billiards-mollie-b.jpg" title="Billiards By Mollie B" width="400" /></a>
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9. Billiards by Mollie B.
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2y6CSKg"><img alt="" height="355" src="https://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/billiards-patent-prints.jpg" title="billiards patent prints" width="355" /></a>
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10. Billiards Patent Art Prints
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Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-84037101628430155582013-06-30T11:11:00.000-07:002019-12-14T06:16:29.885-08:00Sneaky Pete Cues: A Matter of Taste<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Though I had shot a little pool at the YMCA, where the walls were too close to the table on all four sides, and at a social club for kids that met afterschool downstairs at the First Memorial Presbyterian Church in Dover, New Jersey, I didn't really get into the game until I started going to Teasdale's Billiard Academy.
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Typically, upon arrival, I'd search through the cue racks until I found my favorite cue. Since I wasn't an accomplished player - I was only 12 when I started going to the poolroom on a regular basis - I'm guessing my primary criteria were straightness and feel. Yes, I was one of those morons who rolled his cue on the table to see if it was straight, not realizing that any irregularity on the butt end would cause the cue to wobble, even if it was straight. And, I've always liked a smooth slick feel.
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Since I was outside, waiting, every day when Teasdale arrived, he asked if I might want the job of helping him remove the covers from the tables on a daily basis. It wasn't a paying job, but he did offer to give me a half-hour free practice time in exchange for my assistance and that seemed like a pretty good deal to me.
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It wasn't too long after that that he presented me with my own cue, an 18 ounce house cue that he had sanded down and given a new tip. It wasn't mine to keep, but it was mine to use whenever I wanted. He had written "Ace" on the butt and kept it on a special rack behind the counter.
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Soon after that, he began selling <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0517884283/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0517884283&linkCode=as2&tag=aceshomepage03">"Willie Mosconi On Pocket Billiards."</a><img alt="" border="0" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=0517884283" height="1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1">
Following his suggestion, I bought a copy. I almost immediately began improving at an amazing rate. That book became my bible. By the time I was 15 I was running 50 balls in straight pool as easy as rolling off a log and making a pretty good allowance spotting older guys who were already out in the working world 15 or 20 balls in games to fifty points.
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And through all that time I had that trusty house cue that Tizzy had customized for me. That's the feel I grew up with and most likely that's why I prefer that same feel today. In my Sunday-Goin'-To-Meetin' 3x6 Instroke cue case, I carry three cues. My regular playing cue is a <a href="http://www.joseycues.com/">Josey</a> purple heart sneaky pete. I've used it a few years, now, and it has become as much a part of me as my first cue did 50 odd years ago.
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I also carry a 90's vintage Meucci cue which has a wrap but since it's all varnished over it has a nice smooth feel. I remember an old friend of mine, Tennessee Joe, had a collection of Meucci cues. Whenever he played with one you would see him regularly applying powder to the shaft and the butt, just to maintain that smooth slick feel.
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The third cue in my case, my break-jump cue, also is without a wrap. That's how I roll.
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Now, I've been known to play in bars from time to time in leagues and in tournaments. I would never... NEVER bring my prime equipment into a bar. Not only because it's kind of dorky to beat up on bar players using a custom made stick, but because with all the metal on the tables and drunks wandering back and forth it's too easy to damage your equipment.
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My favorite bar cue is a Falcon Sneaky-Pete I picked up back in 2006. It still looks and plays well. Before that I was using an Elite EP01 stick. It had a wood to wood joing and played pretty well but a piece of the cherrywood at the butt end broke off and, even though I reglued it with super glue, that bothered me and I wound up selling it to a guy one night for $20.
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For several years I was content to use a basic $50 Players stick, but years of sanding reduced the shaft to the dimensions of a snooker cue and I started havin trouble controling old whitey, drawing it much farther than I intended.
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For those thinking about buying a <a href="http://www.dpbolvw.net/click-1879565-10579937?sid=sneaky-pete-cues&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.pooldawg.com%2Fcategory%2Fhustlers-and-sneaky-pete-pool-cues" target="_top">Sneaky Pete Cue</a>, here are my thoughts. If you want a better stick, most of the custom cue-makers offer sneaky-petes. Go to their sites. Ask them. Like I said, I'm happy with my Josey and wouldn't trade it for anything.
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As far as manufactured cues go, Predator, Meucci, Mezz and Joss each offer sneakies that look and play extremely well.
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<a href="https://amzn.to/2JdNLg3">Sneaky Pete Cues at Amazon >></a></div>
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Admittedly, pool cues are a personal thing. Some prefer sticks that look like they belong in a woodworkers museum. Others, like me, just want one that feels right and does the job. If you've never owned a cue before, buy a cheap one in the $50 to $100 range and see how you like it. Maybe it'll be all you need.
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<br />Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-88311273810460814812013-06-28T04:00:00.000-07:002013-07-06T06:39:05.798-07:00Willie Mosconi: The Greatest Ever<img align="left" alt="Willie Mosconi" border="1" height="110" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/willie-headshot.jpg" title="Willie Mosconi" width="100" />
What was Willie Mosconi to the game of pocket billiards? What was Babe Ruth to baseball, Michael Jordan to basketball, Jim Brown to football, or Jack Nicklaus to golf? Willie Mosconi was all that to the game of pocket billiards, and then some. He enjoyed that exalted distinction fifty years ago, when I was a lad first getting into the game, and in all the intervening years, no one has come close to supplanting him.
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His achievements are legend:
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<ul>
<li>From 1941 through 1956, a period of 15 years, he won the world championship 13 times.</li>
<li>In 1954, in an exhibition on a 4 ft x 8 ft table, he ran an unprecedented <a href="http://untoldstoriesbilliardshistory.blogspot.com/2010/04/willie-mosconis-high-run.html">526 balls</a>.</li>
<li>In 1956, he disposed of opponent Cowboy Jimmy Moore in a single inning, by running 150 balls on a 4 1/2 x 9 table.</li>
<li>And to verify that Willie excelled on all tables, he also holds the record for high tournament run on a 5 ft x 10 ft table at 127. That distinction he shares with Jimmy Caras.</li>
</ul>
Willie Mosconi was born in Philadelphia in 1913 in the second-floor apartment in a house at Eighth and Wharton Streets. He appeared destined for a stage career as a member of the Dancing Mosconis, a troupe that included several family members and began dancing lessons at his uncle's studio at Fourth and Arch Streets.
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When he was 6, he discovered the pool table in the corner of his uncle's studio and, almost immediately, he displayed an affinity for the game.
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<a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/mature-willie-edit-copy.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Willie Mosconi" border="1" height="100" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/tn100_mature-willie-edit-copy.jpg" title="Willie Mosconi" width="79" /></a>
<a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/willie-boy-wonder.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Willie Mosconi: Boy Wonder" border="1" height="100" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/tn100_willie-boy-wonder.jpg" title="Willie Mosconi: Boy Wonder" width="97" /></a>
<a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/willie-in-hustler.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Fats & Fast Eddie with Willie in the background left" border="1" height="100" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/tn100_willie-in-hustler.jpg" title="Fats & Fast Eddie with Willie in the background left" width="234" /></a>
<a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/willie-newman.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Willie coaches Paul Newman" border="1" height="100" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/tn100_willie-newman.jpg" title="Willie coaches Paul Newman" width="75" /></a>
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<a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/willie-on-pocket-billiards.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Willie on Pocket Billiards: Frontispiece" border="1" height="100" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/tn100_willie-on-pocket-billiards.jpg" title="Willie on Pocket Billiards: Frontispiece" width="76" /></a>
<a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/young_willie.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="A young Willie" border="1" height="100" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/tn100_young_willie.jpg" title="A young Willie" width="79" /></a>
<a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/young_willie2.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Willie's classic form" border="1" height="100" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/tn100_young_willie2.jpg" title="Willie's classic form" width="138" /></a>
<a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/willie-1933-world-championship.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Willie with Erwin Rudolph, Ralph Greenleaf, Jimmy Caras, Andrew Ponzi and others at the 1933 World Championships." border="1" height="100" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/tn100_willie-1933-world-championship.jpg" title="Willie with Erwin Rudolph, Ralph Greenleaf, Jimmy Caras, Andrew Ponzi and others at the 1933 World Championships." width="273" /></a>
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In fact, he showed so much promise that his uncle took him to a club in New York to show off his skills. A poster dating from this period touted Willie as an 11-year-old ''Boy Wonder."
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His father, Joseph, however, was not impressed by his son's proficiency. The elder Mosconi, a former boxer, ran a gymnasium on the first floor of the family home. In the back were four or five pool tables. But, the only chance young Willie got at the tables was when his father, a Phillies fanatic, locked up on Fridays and dashed off to the Baker Bowl to watch a game.
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"I'd sneak down and play pool and eat up his pies and candy," Willie said in a 1979 interview. "One day I ripped the cloth on a table, and boy, did he give me a licking that night. After that he locked up the balls when he went out. So I'd get bags of potatoes and take them down and use them as balls (and sink them with a broomstick). When he'd find the tables all dirty I'd get more spankings. But I got pretty good."
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He later recalled that he gave the game up for a few years but after he dropped out of school to help support his parents he heard of a pool tournament offering a $75 1st prize and entered it. He won. "My parents and I lived for a month on that money," he remembered.
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He rapidly outgrew the local tournament scene and started playing against world class opponents. He came to the attention of Brunswick Corporation, and was asked to join the staff and travel around the country to promote Brunswick's products.
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In 1941, he won the first of his fourteen world championships. Yet, though well known among pool aficionados, he was hardly a household name. He suffered a stroke in 1956 and, thereafter, competed less in world class events. Then, in 1960, he was hired as a consultant for the movie "The Hustler." It was actually Willie who suggested Jackie Gleason play the roll of Minnesota Fats. Gleason was known as a fair pool player in his own right. Paul Newman, who played Fast Eddie Felson, had never played before, so Willie coached him. It was largely through his association with this movie that Willie gained widespread recognition as the all-time greatest pool player.
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<img alt="The Hustler: Gleason, Newman, Willie Mosconi" border="1" height="188" src="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/willie-gleason-newman-small.jpg" title="The Hustler: Gleason, Newman, Willie Mosconi" width="320" />
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While "The Hustler" brought Willie to the fore and popularized the game of pocket billiards it also provided a launching pad for someone who was far less skilled in the game of pool, Rudolph Wanderone. Known previously as New York Fats and Baltimore Fats, depending on where he was located, Wanderone claimed the movie was about him and hence forth went by the name of Minnesota Fats. Even though Walter Tevis, the author of the novel upon which the movie was based, denied the claim, Wanderone was persistent in his declaration. Though he tried to uplift his own legend and denigrate Willie's, no one who really knew the game was duped, especially Willie.
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"Hustler is just another word for thief, and Minnesota Fats is just another word for phony," Mr. Mosconi once said of his rival.
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Wanderone wasn't qualified to carry Willie's socks and everyone knew it. A televised challenge match was arranged in 1978, Mr. Mosconi showing up in his tuxedo and the lip flapping Minnesota Fats in baggy pants and polo shirt. Willie destroyed the fat man. Still, the media loved Fats and to this day his name is associated with pool and, fittingly, a variety of lesser quality pool products.
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Willie was a great technician and teacher. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/?_encoding=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&keywords=willie%20mosconi&linkCode=ur2&qid=1372292856&rh=n%3A16536%2Ck%3Awillie%20mosconi&rnid=2941120011&tag=aceshomepage03" target="_blank">Books by Willie Mosconi</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=ur2&o=1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> are still sought after by collectors and aspiring pool players.
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Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-13632993147896208662013-02-07T15:10:00.000-08:002013-02-07T15:12:10.569-08:00My Buddy, Billy Johnson, GoneWe were kids together, Billy Johnson and me. We drank beer, chased girls, laughed and joked, sported around town - we had fun.<br />
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We grew up, but we stayed in touch. We fished, we bowled, we shot a little bar pool up at Hunky Hall.<br />
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One time we were out in a boat up in Lake Hopatcong, drifting with live bait, herring, when I hooked into a good one. It was one of those fish that you don't realize you have on the line until you start reeling in. When it got close to the boat, we both saw that it was a huge rainbow trout. Billy grabbed the landing net and got ready to net the fish, but as soon as it saw the boat it turned and ran and snapped my line. Over the years, whenever I recalled that day, I would tell Billy it was his fault I lost the fish. He'd swear at me, but I'd claim that he had deliberately sabotaged my attempt at making angling history. Of course, eventually, I'd reluctantly admit that it was my fault the line had snapped because I had the drag set too tight. A fact I'd conveniently forget the next time I brought the subject up. I like to kid him like that and make him laugh.<br />
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But, seriously, when it came to being a friend, he was one in a million. Whenever I moved, I called Billy. Yeah, he used to work for a mover but that didn't obligate him to supervise all my moves. Still, he never said no, never complained that his back was sore, never made any excuses, he just showed up.<br />
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One time, we were in pretty desperate straits without a place to live. Billy took us in. He didn't have a lot of room, not with him, his wife and kids already sharing a small apartment, but that didn't matter. He gave us shelter.<br />
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Billy left us last week. Cancer. It was much too soon. He deserved more time on earth. More time with his family, his friends, with me.</div>
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I miss him.</div>
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I set up a <a href="http://mskcc.convio.net/site/TR/Events/GivingSite?pg=fund&fr_id=1580&pxfid=29310">Giving Page with the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center</a> in his Memory. </div>
Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-50605731499251945642012-10-15T04:47:00.000-07:002019-12-14T06:31:14.644-08:00The Best One-Piece House CuesI'm often asked about house cues. People think that just because I grew up and learned how to play using a house cue that I might be some kind of
expert on the subject. I'm not. But, I can tell you one thing - you can play just as well with a good house cue as you can with a couple thousand
dollars of exotic wood and inlays. What you need is a cue that's straight, one that's relatively well-balanced, and one with a good <a href="http://www.tkqlhce.com/click-1879565-10579937?sid=Cue+Tips&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.pooldawg.com%2Fcategory%2Fpool-cue-tips" target="_top">tip</a> on it. A Le Pro
is a good choice of tip for a house cue. From consulting with those more knowledgeable, I've determined that among the following are the top choices for those who pride themselves with supplying their regulars with quality equipment.
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<a href="https://amzn.to/2YzS6Af"><img alt="" height="65" src="https://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/one-piece.jpg" title="One-piece cue" width="505" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://amzn.to/2YzS6Af">One-Piece Cues at Amazon >></a></div>
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<img border="0" height="1" src="https://www.lduhtrp.net/image-1879565-10565497" width="1" />
If they weren't so awkward to travel with, I think I'd be using a one-piece cue to this day.
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<br />Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-30002955979636548612012-01-27T08:34:00.000-08:002012-01-27T12:55:33.820-08:00Reaching Out: A Stroker Smith Adventure by Ace Toscano<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1UH1CdAHGO007uorM5sBPGw9ReQSo3_-7Gol3PT-8giPWFkCaEZ4POpC72WTRFbffgVU7SI3H0gAhrRfvnYaz2IS4bK5JJbGJLB1JQ6BzXWDdJRh_jADUJLD0oV5x9XqGg-hI/s1600/beer-garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1UH1CdAHGO007uorM5sBPGw9ReQSo3_-7Gol3PT-8giPWFkCaEZ4POpC72WTRFbffgVU7SI3H0gAhrRfvnYaz2IS4bK5JJbGJLB1JQ6BzXWDdJRh_jADUJLD0oV5x9XqGg-hI/s1600/beer-garden.jpg" /></a></div>This place was a huge step up from Dirty Harry's. As a procession of young women, full-flowering beauties, crossed his path, it occurred to Stroker that the joint was aptly named. The Beer Garden. One barmaid carrying three frosted mugs of lager, a fishbowl sized margarita and a basket of wings brushed against him and smiled as she made her way to an opening that led outside. It was a cool night, perfect for sitting in the open air. The bar buzzed with joy and good times and he was immediately happy for Peggy O'Neil. She deserved to work in a place like this.<br />
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She had tweeted that she'd be working, tonight, inviting her friends to come on by to "partay," and, although he realized her tweets were meant for a younger crowd, he wanted to check things out as well. He'd gone from seeing her three or four times a week to not at all. He missed talking to her. He missed seeing her. He missed her. He wanted to know how she was doing. Besides, there were a couple things he had to ask her. Like, why had she left her job at Dirty Harry's so abruptly, without notice? And why, after five sessions as his teammate, had she felt it necessary to drop out of pool league, too? <br />
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She had glossed over her reasons, on facebook, in sketchy terms, but he needed some specifics. Mostly, he wanted to know if Hughie was involved. Hughie, the terminally useless son of Dirty Harry, liked to refer to himself as the day manager, since it gave him an excuse to hang out at the poolroom in the afternoon and lust after the barmaids who worked days. Stroker was a regular at Dirty Harry's and it was his habit to relax at the bar for a couple hours following his practice session, reading a book while he nursed a beer or two. From this vantage point, he had come to know all he ever wanted to know about Hughie and his lecherous ways. But, he had allowed himself to believe that Hughie's depraved longings were manifested in drool alone and that the useless twit was basically harmless. Now, he had reason to suspect he had been mistaken.<br />
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They had been book buddies, Stroker and Peggy O'Neil. He being an avid reader, and she being a dedicated Dean Koontz fan, they always had something to talk about on days she was working. Right now, in fact, he was delivering for her perusal Koontz's latest graphic novel, Odd Is On Our Side. It would be his way of telling her that, though she had moved on, their book exchanges did not have to end. <br />
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He stopped short of the bar and watched as she chatted it up with a couple young guys while she drew their beers from the tap. She must have sensed him staring at her because she glanced left and spotted him. She seemed happy to see him. He was relieved. He had worried about invading her privacy, but that, evidently, was not the case because out she scooted from behind the bar with outstretched arms and enveloped him with a rib crushing hug.<br />
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That was Peggy. She'd always been an outgoing, openly affectionate kind of girl. Unlike, for instance, Donna, another one of Harry's girls who worked Tuesdays and Sundays. A quiet girl, working two jobs to support herself and her three kids, she had once confided to him that she didn't believe in hugging customers, even if it might lead to bigger tips, because she wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong idea.<br />
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Donna, also a reader, was into the Kay Scarpetta novels which was why Stroker was constantly on the lookout for them, he had a checklist in his wallet, when he toured the local used book outlets. Just the other day, he had found a signed copy of The Last Precinct at a church rummage sale down in Hudson. He had presented it to her earlier this day. She had thanked him, politely, of course, but without the enthusiasm he had expected. Something was bothering her. From her body language, it occurred to him that her despondence might be connected to Hughie's looming presence. Then, he noticed the bruising around her wrists. When he had asked her about it, she just shook her head and said it was nothing. <br />
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"It's gotta be something," he had said.<br />
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"She said it's nothing," barked Hughie. "Donna give him a picture so he can go home and whack off. You're a pervert, you old fuck."<br />
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Though a rather large young fellow, mammoth by most scales, Hughie's brain was about the size of a pea. Accordingly, he thought the only possible interest one person might have in another was carnal.<br />
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"It must be frustrating, Hughie, hitting on all these beautiful girls and always getting turned down. I can't understand it. Harry's a good-looking guy. How come you're so ugly?"<br />
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"Go fuck yourself."<br />
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"No, thanks," replied Stroker. "But, if I was you, that, probably, would be the way to go."<br />
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Hughie just glared. He would have liked to throw Stroker out on his ass, but he couldn't. The dim-witted "day manager" had tried once to give Stroker the boot rather than pay up on a super bowl bet. But he had been overruled by Harry, thereby establishing to everyone that Harry's idiot son was the manager of nothing and his only true functions were to look stupid and bother the girls.<br />
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Peggy guided him to a seat at the bar and they caught up while she worked. It was like old times. When he finally got around to asking her if Hughie might be the reason she had left the poolroom so abruptly, she said she really couldn't say since it had been Harry who helped her land this job at Donte's and she had promised him not to talk about her prior employment. Of course, that was all the answer Stroker needed.<br />
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Now, he was beginning to see the recent string of sudden departures, all attributed to extreme unreliability - Linda, Kim, Sharon, Carol, Dawn - in a different light, a light blackened by Hughie's hulking shadow.<br />
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Donna was a much better person than he was. Stroker couldn't imagine needing a job so badly that he would put up with one second of Hughie's bullshit. No fucking way. But, he didn't have kids to feed. Remembering the red rings around her wrists, his brain raced through a dozen murderous scenarios. <br />
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Huey didn't show on Sunday - he was probably too hung over from Saturday night, so, he and Stroker didn't cross paths till the following Tuesday. The encounter proceeded normally with Donna and Stroker discussing the books they were reading, Hughie becoming jealous because she was ignoring him and, consequently, spewing off some unflattering comments regarding his rival, the 65-year-old Stroker.<br />
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"Stay home and dial up a 900 number, then you won't have to drive all the way up here to bother Donna."<br />
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Stroker just stared back at the imbecile.<br />
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"He's not bothering me," offered Donna. Stroker appreciated it because it was so against her nature to speak up.<br />
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"Well, he's bothering me," said Hughie.<br />
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"Don't fret, Hughie," said Stroker. "Sooner or later some skank will wander in here who's so drunk and so desperate that she won't care how ugly and stupid you are."<br />
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That comment brought laughter from a few of the old timers who were sitting at the railing watching a heated one-pocket match between Charley Shantz and that young kid from Hawaii whose name no one could pronounce.<br />
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"Go fuck yourself," sneered Hughie.<br />
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"Like I said, that's the way I would go if I was ugly as you. Reduce your frustration." <br />
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Hughie had had enough. He came storming around the bar, vicious intentions smeared across his face. Stroker hopped off his stool and was ready for him.<br />
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"Get out," he commanded, punctuating his words by poking Stroker's chest with his index finger.<br />
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"Now, it's my turn - go fuck yourself."<br />
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"I said, 'Get out of here'." Again, he did his thing with the finger.<br />
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"I'm warning you, Hughie, do not touch me a-fucking-gain."<br />
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But, Hughie couldn't stop himself, now. He drove his point home one more time.<br />
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"Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here!"<br />
<br />
It was a practiced move that Stroker had used back in the day - dropping down, practically freefalling to one knee and then, before Hughie had the slightest inkling of what was about to happen, throwing a vicious uppercut to Hughie's scrotum, driving his nuts up to his throat.<br />
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Now, the plan had been to hop to his feet then whip around 360 catching Hughie on the side of his head with his elbow. But, Hughie foiled those plans by freezing in the doubled over position. As Stroker sprung to his feet, the back of his head, with considerable torque, caught Hughie flush in the face. There was an unmistakable cracking of bones and Stroker feared the worse for Hughie's poor nose. The momentum threw Hughie back on his ass and he remained on his ass as he frantically slid backwards in full retreat.<br />
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"Now, I'm only going to tell you this once. Get the fuck out of here, Hughie. I don't want to see you here again."<br />
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Hughie, his hand holding his nose, made a series of noises.<br />
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"What?" Stroker spat.<br />
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"He said 'he works here,'" one of the onlookers translated.<br />
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"No fucking more."<br />
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More grunts.<br />
<br />
"He said something about his father."<br />
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"Your father can manage without you. Now, get the fuck out before I finish what I started."<br />
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With that, Hughie scrambled to his feet and fled through the back door. <br />
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It took a few minutes for things to quiet down. When they had, Stroker climbed back onto his stool, sipped his beer, and then asked Donna, "Have you ever read any Lee Child?"<br />
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"I don't think so," she answered.<br />
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"I'll bring you some. I think you'd like him."<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">THE END</div>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-50851289093150981882011-12-06T05:21:00.001-08:002012-03-17T09:18:01.484-07:00Best Selling Pool/Billiards BooksWithout further adieu, here they are:<br />
<center><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: large;"> Best Selling Pool/Billiards Books as of 3/17/2012</span></center><center><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0812922417/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0812922417"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0812922417&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=0812922417" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
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1. The 99 Critical Shots in Pool: Everything You Need to Know... by Ray Martin<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0156027216/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0156027216"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0156027216&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=0156027216" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
2. Byrne's Complete Book of Pool Shots: 350 Moves Every Player Should Know by Robert Byrne<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0156005549/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0156005549"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0156005549&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=0156005549" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
3. Byrne's New Standard Book of Pool and Billiards by Robert Byrne<br />
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<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0470565535/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0470565535"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0470565535&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=0470565535" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
4. Pool and Billiards For Dummies by Nicholas Leider<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0964920484/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0964920484"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0964920484&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=0964920484" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
5. Play Your Best Pool by Philip B. Capelle<br />
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<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B007CRX4SY/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B007CRX4SY"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=B007CRX4SY&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=B007CRX4SY" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
6. The Secret Art Of Pool by Mr Lee Brett<br />
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<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0736087257/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0736087257"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0736087257&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=0736087257" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
7. Pool Player's Edge - 2nd Edition by Gerry Kanov and Shari Stauch<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0964920492/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0964920492"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0964920492&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=0964920492" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
8. Capelle's Practicing Pool by Philip B. Capelle<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1585745391/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1585745391"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=1585745391&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=1585745391" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
9. Pleasures of Small Motions: Mastering the Mental Game of Pocket Billiards by Robert T. Fancher<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0736073876/ref=as_li_tf_il?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0736073876"><img border="1" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0736073876&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=aceshomepage03&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=as2&o=1&a=0736073876" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
10. Precision Pool, 2nd Edition by Gerry Kanov<br />
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</center>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-57820698216655506022011-09-15T07:00:00.000-07:002011-09-16T10:01:05.988-07:00The Pendulum Stroke: No Can DoOnce again, in exchange for polishing his shoes, the warden has given me access to his computer so that I can contribute to this month's edition of PoolSynergy. You can find links to all this month's posts <a href="http://www.poolstudent.com/2011/09/15/poolsynergy-23/">here</a> on the Pool Student's Blog. Now, let's get on with it.<br />
<br />
It makes so much sense, the modern pendulum stroke - back and through, back and through - that it, no doubt, should be the foundation of every serious pool player's game. <br />
<br />
It's rather simple, in theory. As you take your stance, with the tip of the cue just shy of the cue ball, your forearm should be straight up and down. From here, you draw the cue back then propel it (or, in pendulum language, "swing it") forward and through the cue ball. No unnecessary movements, just a simple, repeatable pendulum motion.<br />
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I've had this method explained to me by veteran players in the pool room. I've read about it in books. And, I've come across it on countless internet sites. Here's a blurb from a section on the stance at billiards.com:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwgy4MF2EFUdtcqRaErWru9SVN3CAFzDlovdaeN_wT0UX-YXAOpAxesGcncwm0_rZedWPsyVXwTTkt2631vUuJpAuqdLh8OMPT11GCwSP8j0dgCt58zSstH4niDdj0EV-a_IG/s1600/pendulum-motion-billiardsdotcom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwgy4MF2EFUdtcqRaErWru9SVN3CAFzDlovdaeN_wT0UX-YXAOpAxesGcncwm0_rZedWPsyVXwTTkt2631vUuJpAuqdLh8OMPT11GCwSP8j0dgCt58zSstH4niDdj0EV-a_IG/s200/pendulum-motion-billiardsdotcom.jpg" width="200" /></a><i>The back arm or more specifically the back hand placement on the cue is critical to your success. The correct place to grip your cue is the place where a line drawn from your elbow to your wrist points straight down to the floor. This is the hand position you want when the tip of your cue is within an inch of the cue ball. This pendulum thus created (elbow to wrist) can move freely forward and backwards. It also allows your bicep and triceps to be completely relaxed, until you take your stroke. It helps to practice this by getting in a shooting stance without a cue. Swing your elbow forward and backwards without dropping your shoulder. Relax your elbow while holding your shoulder firm. Gravity will show you the natural point straight down. You have created the pendulum. </i><br />
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Here are some pictures I found of players who have adopted this same form of address. Note the perpendicular position of their forearms.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBOFWVBZUbIgIxG9W8_uEmccPQwHZjnXjWkNYaeZL9LWLJcCu9onvB-i9qFaEa_3vDwB7Fl7R5rodM_63fm86htY1xt8aiUUNCLxbZkSQCfrbMPy7PxQyooqGoa1kjjp0OHku/s1600/archer-stroke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBOFWVBZUbIgIxG9W8_uEmccPQwHZjnXjWkNYaeZL9LWLJcCu9onvB-i9qFaEa_3vDwB7Fl7R5rodM_63fm86htY1xt8aiUUNCLxbZkSQCfrbMPy7PxQyooqGoa1kjjp0OHku/s320/archer-stroke.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBHBKVYAJPCRU0rNVS_aRC8E_rxslYgFxUcRsr4A8AUpkaQRmCEAaSRSBwNaeDa0brhVB2Kz-0ZxzBIt1maM2sfPqWqKr7fSx1wFSiZZQrLxiZOqtY-JN2ktm6N17gOu7-wRo/s1600/billiards-stance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBHBKVYAJPCRU0rNVS_aRC8E_rxslYgFxUcRsr4A8AUpkaQRmCEAaSRSBwNaeDa0brhVB2Kz-0ZxzBIt1maM2sfPqWqKr7fSx1wFSiZZQrLxiZOqtY-JN2ktm6N17gOu7-wRo/s320/billiards-stance.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4E5vievrqeRnr5A8zF_MUNyuwTy7KmLF_NJ-zSyXppMKhmu2kYOw9vhj_GhMf24_yHw-xzQ4BO_AvFa5PTp2fjzZ9GSJ15xWqdZ45r9Fn33gIulMg3y89AwlOJKptIVj2ZFA/s1600/Cliff-Joyner-stroke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4E5vievrqeRnr5A8zF_MUNyuwTy7KmLF_NJ-zSyXppMKhmu2kYOw9vhj_GhMf24_yHw-xzQ4BO_AvFa5PTp2fjzZ9GSJ15xWqdZ45r9Fn33gIulMg3y89AwlOJKptIVj2ZFA/s320/Cliff-Joyner-stroke.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Oh, if only this method would work for me. I'm telling you, I'd be one hell of a player. I mean, in theory, nothing is more important to your game than a straight and dependable stroke. And don't think I haven't tried it. I have - in countless practice sessions and at home leaning over the kitchen table with cue in hand. But, try as I may, I can never get the desired pendulum action to manifest itself in a straight and true stroke.<br />
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I guess the problem is I'm just not comfortable with it. Back when I learned to play, back in the 1960's, no one was espousing the pendulum method. Sure, people were using it - my Uncle Nicky, the best player in the town of Dover, NJ, was a stellar proponent of the pendulum stroke though he probably didn't know it by name - but it wasn't the prescribed way of stroking. In fact, the only guidance I ever received on the subject was from Mosconi's little red book, "Willie Mosconi on Pocket Billiards." Though Willie did speak of a pendulum action, meaning, I assume, straight back and straight through, he also included this dictum in the section on Follow-through:<br />
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<i>... the player is in the same relative position at the backward and forward points of his stroke. At the backward point of the stroke the hand points down to the floor at approximately a right angle. At the forward point in the stroke, the shoulder is in about the same position: the elbow has dropped slightly, and the wrist moves forward. The cue is held as level as possible. </i><br />
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My friends and I read Mosconi's book so many times we could recite certain sections verbatim. And we studied the pictures in fine detail. As for me, when I stood at the table, I felt exactly like Willie looked in figure 7, if you know what I mean.<br />
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Here'a a picture of Willie addressing the cue ball. Note the position of his arm. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTG-7UgoEVmVNXIT147jyZ1lc0OSFJljCVcAIu0bD57rf-Yev8BxEyB_FlIXBfFR81vhZvu0RLI42RNwvMfjX-_EXVvBttFonu8ZKbFZBLx-eKjDsVfqfbrGdxy9YqKf_5321/s1600/mosconi-willie-stroke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTG-7UgoEVmVNXIT147jyZ1lc0OSFJljCVcAIu0bD57rf-Yev8BxEyB_FlIXBfFR81vhZvu0RLI42RNwvMfjX-_EXVvBttFonu8ZKbFZBLx-eKjDsVfqfbrGdxy9YqKf_5321/s320/mosconi-willie-stroke.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Obviously, to follow through from this position requires coordinated movements of the elbow, wrist and hand, much more complicated than those connected with your basic pendulum stroke. Still, somehow, back in the day, I managed to harness this piston like motion producing a stroke that was uncompromisingly straight in all situations. Unfortunately, after a 38 year hiatus from the game, the movements involved proved too intricate to recreate from memory. Hence, my current systematic lack of a coherent stroking philosophy.<br />
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Finishing up, I must note that, while Willie's method seems contrary to those currently espoused, you have to remember that he was primarily a straight pool player who sailed through racks with an economy of movement of the cue ball. Understandably, that required more finesse and touch than nine-ball, a game that often necessitates a more open and free-stroking approach. Now that I think of it, maybe that's my problem - I'm trying to survive in a nine ball world with an outmoded straight pool stroke.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3YuYtL2AXC4vWl_CqK8z_RR79YCWrFertsI_Ff9qrv2FxiWJNZQHufvt6OAF8vVk7sbvV7Mu06YFuLY4yN1B_G1oH4_zLI23ysQDci3J1-InYpXtaCSu3pOvLJpJ-D8EbzV2/s1600/poolsynergyLogo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="94" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3YuYtL2AXC4vWl_CqK8z_RR79YCWrFertsI_Ff9qrv2FxiWJNZQHufvt6OAF8vVk7sbvV7Mu06YFuLY4yN1B_G1oH4_zLI23ysQDci3J1-InYpXtaCSu3pOvLJpJ-D8EbzV2/s320/poolsynergyLogo.png" width="320" /></a></div>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-40452447740439990872011-09-09T12:09:00.000-07:002016-02-16T11:46:35.754-08:00Inside and Outside English According to Butt-Hole Bruce<b>Dumber Than Dirt and Twice as Grimy</b><br />
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It started out innocent enough – me and this guy, Bruce Ignatius "Big" Poozey, a/k/a Butt-Hole Bruce, one of those poolroom bull-shitters who never shuts up, were standing around the pool table discussing methods of shooting balls down the rail at an angle. Sometimes he aimed the forward edge of the reflection of the table light on the cue ball toward the trailing edge of the reflection on the object ball. Sometimes he went for the half-ball hit, blah blah blah. I, myself, prefer to aim at the point of contact and shoot. To each his own.<br />
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Anyway, at one point, I cut a ball left down the rail while applying right spin to the cue ball. “You put inside english on that,” he said.<br />
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“Outside,” I replied, calmly. I figured at this point that he hadn't been watching closely.<br />
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“No, no, no,” Big Poozey insisted. “If you hit that shot with right english, that’s inside English.”<br />
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Now, this wasn’t a big deal to me, but I knew what I knew and I wasn’t about to back down even though, by and by, he started getting downright ugly with his insinuations that I was the dumbest mother f’er that he had ever come across. Several times, in the course of his explanation, he took his stance at the table with his cue tip directed to the right side of the cue ball. “That’s inside english,” he’d say. Then, he would scurry around the table to where the object ball sat and frantically motion with his hand along the path the ball would take to the corner pocket. "The ball goes inside the rail and inside the pocket - that's why they call it inside english. I've been playing this game my whole life and I ought to know."<br />
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He carried on repeating his argument at least a dozen times and elaborating on it by insisting that if you cut a ball to the left with left hand english that was outside english. Of course, I insisted that he had it all ass backwards. Which he did.<br />
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Finally, the guy got worked up to the point – his face was purple and veins were popping out of his head - that he bet me his hundred to my fifty that he was right and I was wrong. I quickly agreed. Then he started looking around the pool room for someone to come settle the matter, but I didn’t want to get anyone else involved. I vetoed that idea and promised to bring a book the following day that would spell out the difference between inside and outside english. “I’ll bring a book,” I said. “If it agrees with you, I’ll give you fifty. If it agrees with me, you give me a hundred.”<br />
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“Go on the internet,” he said, still agitated. “See for yourself.” I didn’t bother – I knew I was right and he was wrong. When I got home I found a couple simple straight forward descriptions of inside and outside english, one in Phil Capelle’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Play-Your-Best-Philip-Capelle/dp/0964920484?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Play Your Best Pool</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0964920484" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" />, the other in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Essential-Pool-Complete-Course-Champion/dp/1585745006?ie=UTF8&tag=aceshomepage03&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Essential Pool</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=aceshomepage03&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=1585745006" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /> by Arthur “Babe” Cranfield and Laurence S. Moy.<br />
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In Capelle’s glossary he defined “outside english” as applying side spin on the opposite side of the cue ball than the object ball is traveling. Conversely, “inside english” was described as applying side spin on the same side of the cue ball as the direction of the cut shot. Essential Pool states basically the same thing, with illustrations. I put the books in the back of my car and carted them to Capone’s the next day.<br />
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Well, as I pulled into the parking lot, there was the guy getting out of his car. I gestured to him to “hold it” and stay right there. Books in hand, I joined him at his car. “Let’s get this settled, now,” I said. “No need going inside. Here are the books.”<br />
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“Wait, now,” he says, before I even had a chance to open my books “let’s make sure we have this straight.”<br />
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“It’s simple,” I offer. “You said if you cut a ball to the left with right hand english that that’s inside English.”<br />
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“No, no, no,” he interrupted. “That’s outside english.”<br />
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“That’s not what you were saying yesterday,” I countered.<br />
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“I’ve known that my whole life,” he claimed.<br />
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It was obvious what had happened. Sometime after he made the bet with me, in his ongoing agitation, he had repeated the story along with his ridiculous theory to someone who had straightened his ass out. I later learned that he had cornered Dan, Capone’s resident instructor and expert, and grilled him for a half hour on the subject of inside and outside english. A pretty long discussion on a topic he’s known so thoroughly his whole life. Now, all of a sudden, he was claiming he had been right all along. “What happened,” he was trying to explain, “is you and I were betting on the same thing.” <br />
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“You’re backing out of our bet you fucking liar,” I said to him, remembering how ugly he had been the previous day. “You owe me a hundred.”<br />
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He continued his lying inside the pool room and I kept to the truth, saying “You owe me a hundred.” I promised him I’d remind him he owes me a hundred every time I ran into him from that day forward till the day I die. But, to be honest, and that’s what this is all about, some days I let him slide and don’t say nothing. Other days, I needle him. But, if his name ever comes up in conversation I feel beholding to tell this little story.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I’ve heard since about a friend who had a similar experience with this asshole Bruce – they made a side bet on a game, but, when the guy our welcher was backing came up a loser, he swore he had been betting on the other player. In other words, he changed the bet around just like he’d try to do with me. I’m sure, over time, he’s decided that this is the best course to take when backing out of a bet. And, I bet the line of people he’s beat out of money would reach from here to the backwoods of West Virginia where he hales from. <br />
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This is an ongoing saga. To put it succinctly, this guy made a hundred dollar bet with me, lost, then refused to pay. At first, he swore that I had misunderstood him and that he and I were actually betting on the same thing. After a couple weeks, he reversed that and started to put us on opposite sides of the original bet. Oh, yeah, and now he says I owe him money.<br />
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I saw him today up at Capone’s and immediately started chanting “Where’s my hundred?” He doesn’t like that. I could tell. That’s why I’ll keep it up. Anyway, when I was done playing and went outside he was waiting for me. “What are we going to do, Ace?” he asks. “You could pay me the hundred you owe me,” I said. Then he went off on a tangent about how long he’s been playing pool, blah blah blah. It was only me and him out there, no bystanders, so I kept saying “What’s the sense of this? I know you’re a liar and you know you’re a liar.” We went back and forth like that, me calling him a piece of shit, him calling me this, that and the other. He was speechless for a second when I mentioned that I'd been talking to other guys he fucked out of money, but only for a second. He was committed to the lie, now. That’s why he was compounding lie upon lie. A consummate pathological liar – he’s been doing this so long he has it down to a science -- he’s deliberately trying to behave as if his lies were true and he truly was the offended party. For show. Once in a while my degree in psychology comes in handy. Take it from me, this friggin’ guy is nuts.<br />
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As for the hundred dollars, I don’t even want it any more. If he gave it to me, today, I’d tear it up and flush it down the toilet. Then, I’d wash my hands real well. <br />
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There’s a lesson to be learned here -- don’t ever bet with Big Poozey.Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-16368768287963078422011-08-20T11:37:00.000-07:002014-03-08T12:38:31.065-08:00DJ's Hosts Second Annual Memorial TournamentAugust 18, 2011 - Once again DJ's Family Billiards remembered those of it's extended pool family who had passed away by hosting the second annual Memorial 9-Ball Tournament. Attendance of the event was once again high and people came from far and wide to honor their brethren.<br />
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Honored this year were Tommy Moses, Albert Ossana, New York Jimmy, Bob May, Cathy Gaynor, Greek Charlie, John Hall and Tommy Hill, all special to their friends and family and to all in attendance because they were so much a part of the DJ's scene.<br />
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Pros were encouraged to stay away this year, not because we don't enjoy their company, but because the idea of people with no knowledge of the honorees swooping in for a crack at the $200-added seemed contrary to the spirit of the occasion. Consensus is that things worked out better this way.<br />
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Taking first place was Billy Moses. Also, finishing in the top 3 were locals Phil and Monty. A total of eight places were paid out.<br />
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To fatten up this post I'll relate one somewhat amusing and controversial incident that was reported to me. It occurred during a match between Jim Oddy and Bobby Jones. After scratching, it seems Jim commented to Bobby, "That's the second time in a row I scratched in that very same pocket." Bobby then proceeded to 3-foul Oddy for the game and match with Jim complaining, "You were supposed to tell me I had two on me." Bobby's rebuttal, "You told yourself." Though, technically, Jim might have had a point. This wasn't combat, it was friends getting together to remember other friends. So, Bobby prevailed. I must interject here that Mr. Oddy, known intimately by legions of friends and fans on the gulf coast as "The Jazz Man," disputes the version of events I reported and called into question my journalistic acumen and integrity, which is somewhat astounding considering my stellar reputation in the world of journalism. He was only slightly miffed that I had misspelled his name and eagerly supplied me with the correct version. He also requested that I not mention him in my pool blog anymore which I take to mean any more than the once every six or seven years that is my current rate of mentioning him. Damn! And I was just getting ready to publish "The Day Oddy Was Crowned King." Now, I'll have to write something else?<br />
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The following pictures were taken by Charley Kutz who, by the way, finished one out of the money.<br />
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That's me on the right chatting with Bill Jones, Sr.</div>
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Adrian!</div>
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David</div>
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Jeff Miller with Billy Moses</div>
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Jordan (L), Bryan (R)</div>
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Kari & Rachel</div>
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One of many spectators</div>
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Toni Moles and Billy Moses</div>
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Billy Jones (f) with Dirty Bob (b)</div>
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Williams wrassle-ing with the computer</div>
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More eye candy</div>
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The tournament was cosponsored by <a href="http://www.aceswebworld.com/">AcesWebWorld.com</a></div>
Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-55569606281491502612011-08-15T07:00:00.000-07:002011-08-15T19:39:14.420-07:00Ten Poolroom Things That Make Me Grumble<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9T4VMaFwDaLdZqOdaeuN8m2VrcTpNdLmI2Tzt93h09Nv7uLmk1G09dxYR6sLD9L3eAquXvB2TQ0yHMo3p_iqXongKyOG3OC5FTNAhrdUgiUUBrHlLB567b2SSTauYi4VaE1xh/s1600/measle-cue-ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9T4VMaFwDaLdZqOdaeuN8m2VrcTpNdLmI2Tzt93h09Nv7uLmk1G09dxYR6sLD9L3eAquXvB2TQ0yHMo3p_iqXongKyOG3OC5FTNAhrdUgiUUBrHlLB567b2SSTauYi4VaE1xh/s1600/measle-cue-ball.jpg" /></a></div>Once again, I’ve had the good fortune to be invited to participate in Pool Synergy by Samm (Diep) Vidal. Not only is Samm one of the foremost ambassadors for the game of pool, she’s a beautiful person inside and out, and, more importantly, she’s kind to old people, like yours truly. This month's theme is “10 Things.” My offering is below.<br />
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To check out all of this month’s contributions, visit Samm’s site <a href="http://www.pooltipjar.com/2011/08/10-things-ps-host/">The Tip Jar</a>.<br />
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Now, honestly speaking, I’m not one of those “give me lemons, I’ll give you lemonade” kind of guys. Give me lemon and I’ll probably throw up on your shoes. Here are ten of the many things that make me grumble:<br />
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1. <b>Duck Hunters.</b> These guys are all about the bling. Though they never open their mouths, it’s obvious by the careful way they put together their exquisite Wal-Mart cues and tiptoe around the table that they are working very hard to create the impression that they know what they’re doing. They scatter balls around the table making sure that most of them are within two or three inches of a pocket. Then, they proceed to whack them in with authority – bang, bang, bang. They never shoot up or down the table, only across it, limiting the length of their shots to three or four feet. If, through misfortune, they are left with a long shot, they shoot it very softly so that, after they miss, it will be close enough to the hole to bang in. Their biggest fear is missing. I call these nits duck hunters.<br />
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2. <b>The Overcut Justification.</b> I have a hard time holding my tongue when a player responds to a missed shot by observing, “Can you believe it? I overcut it!” Please! Do you really think overcutting is somehow more honorable than undercutting? You missed the shot. It doesn’t matter if you missed to one side of the pocket or the other. A miss is a miss.<br />
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3. <b>The Position Excuse.</b> Another lame reaction to a miss. “I was too worried about getting position.” Duh. That’s a great excuse for missing. Of course, if you don’t worry about getting position and, consequently, are left with a difficult shot that you also miss, then you have a different excuse. Then you can say, “I should have worried about position.” Don’t be a nit. Controlling the cue ball is a necessary component of every shot. Using it as an excuse is like a golfer saying, “I drove into the lake because I was too worried about my second shot.” It makes no sense. Don’t be a wussy.<br />
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4.<b> Past Glory Imagined.</b> When I was young blah blah blah… I used to blah blah blah… You’d think that, back in the day, pool rooms were lined with top-notch players. Sorry to break this to you, but they were not. Listen up, you guys. You. Make. Me. Laugh! You were never a great pool player. The way you trounce around the table, poking holes in the cloth with your stick and bumping your head against the lights attests to that fact. Even if, over the years, you lost your eye or your stroke, you couldn’t have lost all feel for the game. If you want to impress me, quit telling me fairytales about games you played or shots you used to make and start shooting.<br />
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5. <b>Philosophical Opposition to Gambling.</b> “Want to play a couple cheap sets? Twenty dollars a set?” I ask. “Oh, no,” says the man. “I don’t believe in gambling.” Por favor. Let’s be honest, here. You aren’t opposed to gambling; you’re opposed to losing. Take up croquet… or shuffleboard. Scratch that – even the old fogies around here play shuffleboard for money. Pool is like poker; it’s supposed to be played for money. Where do you think the term “money ball” came from?<br />
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6. <b>Measle Cue Balls.</b> I’m guessing they make watching pool more interesting for spectators. However, practically speaking, one of the main advantages I have over younger players is my knowledge of the game which includes what I know about english. If someone takes me aside and asks me a question about how to do this or that with the cue ball, I’ll give them an honest answer. But that’s a lot different than letting everyone in the house see what you’re putting on the cue ball. I’m nobody’s coach. I’m nobody’s teacher. If you want to learn something from me, it’s going to cost you.<br />
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7. <b>Excuse for Missing #99.</b> “The damn english threw that ball off line.” No, Melvin, you threw the ball off line. If you apply english to the cue ball, it’s going to throw the object ball one way or the other. That means you have to make allowance for this throw when you aim. If you miss, don’t blame the english – blame yourself. What’s so hard about saying these two words straight out, “I missed.”<br />
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8. <b>Aiming Systems.</b> You can tell when someone’s been spending too much time reading online spiels when they come up to you and ask “What aiming system do you use?” That’s like asking someone in the diner, “What kind of eating system do you use?” "Well, I put the food in my mouth. I chew it. Then, I swallow it.” In regards to aiming, forgetting about english and throw, there’s only one point on the object ball that directs it along your desired target line. And, considering the roundness of the cue ball, there’s only one corresponding point on it that, when delivered to the object ball’s contact point, will send it along that desired path. All other theories about aiming, with their half-ball and quarter-ball hits and ghost images, are at best, confounding, at worse, baloney.<br />
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9. <b>Sharking.</b> Nothing irks me more than sharking. Whether you do it out of nervousness or by design, sharking reduces you to the rank of sleaze ball. I’ve read some extensive online articles on the subject which go into minute detail. My definition is somewhat simpler: If you are not sitting perfectly still, and completely quiet, you are, to a greater or lesser degree, sharking.<br />
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10. <b>Chum.</b> No, I’m not referring to a buddy or a pal. I’m referring to the chopped up fish that fishermen throw overboard to attract game fish. We all know locals who enter pro tournaments when they come to their house because it gives them the opportunity to play with the likes of Johnny, Earl or Rodney. God bless them, I say. When watching one of these matches, I wish the local good luck and hope someone hangs up a nine ball for him or her so they get to win at least one game. When the tournament’s over and the pros go on their way, everything should return to normal, everyone should reassume their normal role, but, unfortunately, that’s not always the case. Some of these local entrants forget the reality, that they were in the tournament just for kicks, and start strutting around like bona fide pool stars. Like, by entering the tournament, they’re deserving of our utmost respect. Sorry, boys, you aren’t pros, you aren’t near-pros, you aren’t even semi-pros. You are chum – just food for the big fish.<br />
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</div>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-77599886751879440832011-06-30T19:28:00.000-07:002011-09-09T12:33:40.161-07:00Ace's Pool Rap II - Thinks He Knows It<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/9MlBUkgaNNw" width="425"></iframe><br />
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Thinks he knows it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Doesn't know shit.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Cuz his yap's<br />
Fulla crap,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Oughta close it.</div><div><br />
</div>Thought he knew all there was about pool,<br />
Like the dean of some whack billiards school.<br />
But his shit was all wrong,<br />
The stench was too strong -<br />
The dim-witted hillbilly fool.<br />
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Then, bang, he's on the next table,<br />
Working on preserving the fable.<br />
He gave me no cherce,<br />
Calling natural reverse.<br />
When I told him, the bitch got unstable.<br />
<br />
Thinks he knows it.<br />
Doesn't know shit.<br />
Cuz his yap's<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Fulla crap,</div>Oughta close it.<br />
<br />
Worked his dumb ass into a sweat.<br />
Then he wanted to make me a bet.<br />
Found he was wrong<br />
Sang a new song.<br />
And the asshole ain't paid me yet.<br />
<br />
He figured I'd just let him slide.<br />
Couldn't find any places to hide.<br />
Verbal abuses,<br />
Half-assed excuses,<br />
I'm not givin' the dude a free ride.<br />
<br />
Thinks he knows it.<br />
Doesn't know shit.<br />
Cuz his yap's<br />
Fulla crap.<br />
Oughta close it.<br />
<br />
<br />
Copyright © 2011 by Ace Toscano. All rights reserved.<br />
<br />
Art sometimes imitates life. Not to say that my writings are art, just that many of them are based on true life experiences, the emphasis here being on "true."<br />
<div><br />
</div>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-41402804918856509422011-06-27T06:30:00.000-07:002011-09-09T10:21:59.566-07:00Pool Room Psycho: A Short Story by Ace Toscano<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFsV5DLsBJaybEUy62ld37dcH6Q60QaRf-iGYk61VFAjI7xL9X99Cvp0OOmXpatleuohV4t_5lHl4uArS6W8MENODnb2xjWqcSg0HX7NQAoPjUsBXvvGXO9hUUQEuEYy69vdHn/s1600/tn_psycho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFsV5DLsBJaybEUy62ld37dcH6Q60QaRf-iGYk61VFAjI7xL9X99Cvp0OOmXpatleuohV4t_5lHl4uArS6W8MENODnb2xjWqcSg0HX7NQAoPjUsBXvvGXO9hUUQEuEYy69vdHn/s1600/tn_psycho.jpg" /></a>If a guy studied culinary arts, would every one he ran into later in life embody a collapsed soufflé or some other cooking catastrophe? Stroker wondered because he had studied psychology back when he was in college and, ever since, his world had been invaded by one wacko after another. A reap what you sew kind of thing, he figured.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Golfers drove him crazy with their <a href="http://home.earthlink.net/%7Eacetoscano/golfslowplay.html">ritualistic behaviors</a>, time-consuming pre-shot routines and idiotic superstitions which was why he had tossed out his clubs a dozen years ago in favor of the more serene game of pocket billiards.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Not to say the pool room was exempt from the intrusion of a variety of mental cases. It wasn’t. But, with a little luck you could avoid them most of the time. Of course, there were exceptions who would not be ignored, who insisted on getting in your face, nitwits who forced you to deal with their lunacy. Like Chris “O.C.” Delaney. O.C.D. had a compulsion that required everything in the pool room to be in its proper place – chalk, cues, stools, bridges, racks, ashtrays, TVs, everything. One day, not too long ago, he claimed that, while he had been circling the room noting the placement of various objects within his purview, Stroker had appropriated a bridge from his table transferring it to the table where he was playing. Stroker, who had been playing by himself, and who never used a bridge anyway when playing by himself, just looked at O.C. Delaney and said, “Are you out of your fucking mind, asshole?” And that was the end of that afternoon’s therapy session. No charge.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Early on in his working life, Stroker had driven cabs and limos, his income relying to a large extent on tips, so he was always conscientious about taking care of the girls who worked the counter at the pool room figuring a tip was one way of making their days brighter. He’d started off giving them a buck a day which seemed reasonable since he never ordered anything to eat and was spending less than two dollars on time. But the more he thought about it, a dollar tip seemed pretty paltry seeing as this was the 21st century and you couldn’t get much of anything for a buck. So, he raised it to two, boosting it to three or four on occasion. He tried not to be predictable, remembering back to psychology studies indicating intermittent schedules of reinforcement produced the best results. Then, at Christmas, he’d hit each girl with a ten. For this attention, he didn’t expect much in return, just a thanks and a smile. That was reward enough.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Whenever he hit Cookie, his favorite of all the girls, with a deuce she’d tell him he made her day. C’mon, he’d say, with two bucks? I wish it was more. Then, she’d say, really that’s the first I got today. Seems like most of the other dudes stiffed her on a daily basis.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He never went to grad school which was probably a mistake inasmuch as he might have learned there how best to handle the various mental deviants he had later been confronted with. Like that day when he was returning the balls and Cloey whispered to him through clenched teeth, a look of mortal terror on her face, instructing him to look down the bar to the guy playing the video game. He’s the devil, she said. Giving you a hard time? Stroker asked. No, I mean it. I looked into his eyes and I could see it. He is the devil. What should I do? Jeez, I don’t know, said Stroker. Look in my eyes. What do you see? She leaned forward and peered into his orbs for a long couple of seconds. Finally, after considerable consideration, she said, Green. Thank God, he said, bidding her a swift adieu. That was the last time he saw Cloey. She was canned. He didn’t ask why, but he suspected the devil had a hand in it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tina was one of those gals who called everybody Sweetie, Sweetheart or Honey, something he got used to in time. Most days he’d counter with a Darling or Sweetie Pie of his own and they got along pretty good. But, sometimes, when he hit her with a deuce she’d make a big thing about it and wrap her arms around him and give him a big squeeze which made him feel a little uncomfortable since it was just the smile and thanks he was shooting for. You don’t have to do that, he said one day. I’m not paying for your services. Well, this must have pissed her off because she wouldn’t take his money for a couple weeks forcing him to leave his tip laying on the counter while she lit out for the far end of the bar. Eventually, things returned to normal and when she started squeezing him again, he knew better than to open his mouth.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Regrettably, Tina moved on and was replaced by Jill who was so proud of her bosom she exposed as much of it as she could on a regular basis. She, too, was a Sweetie, Honey, Sweetheart kind of girl, but not in a friendly way, in a way that made Stroker a wee bit uncomfortable, like she was hitting on him and his sixty-four year old frame. Same with her hugs and squeezes. In particular, he didn’t like the way she ran her fingers up and down his arms. He thought of telling her but he realized she was just trying to be sexy and he didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t working. One day, he walks up to the counter and she looks like someone ran a hot poker up her hoo-hah. Something the matter? he asked. I’m having a panic attack, she announced. He had a vague idea of what she was going through having experienced, once upon a time, something similar behind pot and pcp. It seemed that blabbing was closely linked to her panic because she was carrying on non-stop, talking about medication and prescriptions she couldn’t get refilled because enough time hadn’t passed since her last refill and that the only reason she ran out in the first place being that she had loaned some pills to her girlfriend who, apparently, also benefited from their effects. I don’t know what to do, she cried. Call the doctor’s office again, Stroker suggested. Tell him you really need the pills. Worst he can do is say no. But she wasn’t listening. Now, she was saying how her roommate brought a couple guys home to the apartment in the middle of the night and she woke up and saw one of them standing over her and I started thinking maybe she wasn’t having a panic attack after all. Maybe, it was justifiable panic. Anyway, Stroker zigged while she zagged, and left her to her own devices. That was the last time he saw Jill.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Jill was replaced by Heather “The Sharpshooter” Remington, a young lady with pro tour aspirations as her nickname, premature as it might have been, indicated. It took a week or so before her name popped up on his facebook wall and he realized that she was already one of his facebook friends. This was added incentive for him to be nice to her, so when he found out she was selling sculptures of poolplayers like Johnny Archer and Earl Strickland on the internet, he critiqued her website since web sites, especially, pool web sites, were his business.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He saw a couple problems right off, the main one being that not once in the text, in the code or in the meta tag description or key words was the word “billiards” used. There were references to pool sculpture and pool art and pool prints made from the preliminary sketches, but, unfortunately, that wasn’t going to cut it. Search engines, in general, associated the word "pool" with those pits Jethro Beaudine used to refer to as cement ponds, and not with the game of pocket billiards. Next day, Stroker mentioned this to Heather figuring he’d give her the benefit of his expertise. Just google “pool art” he told her and you’ll come up with a bunch of stuff about swimming pools. You have to use the word "billiards." Unfortunately, she was not at all receptive to his input. Her friend who was working on the site was an expert, blah blah blah. And, he knew all there was to know, blah blah blah. Some expert, thought Stroker, whose site drew more traffic in a day than hers would in six months. But, he didn’t say another word on the subject. He just went home, got on facebook and unfriended her.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It must have taken her a couple weeks to realize he had unfriended her. It seems another of his fb friends mentioned a link he had posted which she soon discovered wasn’t available to her. Tough. Up until then, things had been going as smooth as always – Stroker leaving her a couple bucks, her responding with thanks and a smile. But, suddenly, she had developed a nasty attitude and was giving him the cold shoulder, and showing no gratitude whatsoever, which was okay with him since he had made up his mind to stiff her hence forth. Then, he noticed that others were paying a lot of attention to their interactions, like they were making sure he didn’t do or say something improper. It didn’t take him long to realize what that was about – hell knows no fury. Of course, there was no basis for these suspicions, but the fact that anyone could even momentarily give credence to anything this whacked-out broad would say was beyond reason.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the three weeks he had known her, she had moved on from the pool art website, to eBay auctions, to <a href="http://www.poker.aceswebworld.com/">Texas Hold’em</a>, to betting on the dogs, to hemp fashions, all with the same intense enthusiasm and lack of results. It finally dawned on him that she just might be bi-polar and, surprise, off her meds. Just his luck.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Meanwhile, ads kept popping up on his facebook page inviting him to pursue a graduate degree in psychology online. No thanks. He wasn’t interested, but he was considering taking a cooking course, maybe Soufflé 101.</div>Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-34902431244308993972011-05-25T21:16:00.000-07:002011-05-25T21:16:34.328-07:00The State of Pocket Billiards in Florida in the 21st Century: A Reading by Ace ToscanoSo... I'm not the most agreeable guy in the pool room, or the most patient, or the most tolerant. And, I'm definitely not the nicest. Still, I pride myself in being blunt and honest. That, I hope, will be my legacy.<br />
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For more pool and billiards literature, visit my <a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/storiesandpoems.html">pool and billiards literature</a> page.Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10660261.post-43166824417421085502011-05-25T09:57:00.000-07:002011-05-25T09:57:17.067-07:00Old Sharkie's Deathbed Revelation: A Reading by Ace ToscanoHere's my second reading. I'm still working on my delivery.<br />
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More to follow. You can find all my pool writings on my <a href="http://www.poolandbilliards.aceswebworld.com/storiesandpoems.html">Pool Literature</a> page.Ace Toscanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18433967395156016839noreply@blogger.com2