An Honest Effort

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get Mad, Get Even

I’m not an “A” player. In fact, as a pool player, I hit my prime at age 16, about 42 years ago. But that’s another story. The point is that even though I can’t compete with the heavy hitters who dominate the local “A” tournaments – Monday night at Capone’s, Wednesdays at Stroker’s, Thursday nights at DJ’s in New Port Richey – I still want to compete. So, what’s open to me? There are a few handicap tournaments in the area, most notably at Capone’s on Wednesday nights. I venture up there every once in a while, but the powers that be have long had me confused with some bald-headed guy who can play and I wind up spotting my opponents 99% of the time. Several times, I’ve been told that the next time I come my rating would be lowered a notch, but it never happens. In fact, I went there a few weeks back. It was the first time I’d been there in a year. 2004 was a shit year for me. Two operations on my colon had me laid up from Spring through New Year. Anyway, when I showed up at Capone’s I discovered that I had been dropped from the computer. So what do they do? They start me off as a “plus one.” The idea of a handicap tournament is encouraging for guys like me; however, when you’re the one who has to win 6 games to your opponent’s 3, they’re no fun at all.

This leads me to the local barroom 8-ball tournament circuit. On the positive side, there’s no spotting anybody anything. But the negatives, for me, are overwhelming. For one thing, I grew up with a disdain of 8-ball. I was a straight pool shooter and couldn’t think of any good reason why I should play a lesser player a game where they could get lucky and beat me. Let’s face it, no chump is ever going to run 50 balls on you. A second negative is an offshoot of the setting – a lot of the guys you’re playing with have had too much to drink. But, the most negative of all the negatives are the crazy rules you have to play by.

Of all the ways you can play 8-ball, I prefer the “call-your-pocket” “ball-in-hand” game. Unfortunately, most of the bars around here opt for the “no safe,” “call-your-shot,” “honest-effort” version. The problem with this game, as you probably know, is that there are no commonly accepted guide-lines for judging an honest effort. I can’t tell you how many games I’ve lost because someone played me safe in the latter stages of the match.

Tuesday last, I was in a tournament at the bowling alleys down on old 54 playing this guy Ned (His name has been changed to protect the guilty – it doesn’t really have an “n” in it.) Anyway, at a critical juncture he cheated me by playing safe. Now, I distinguish between playing safe and trying a shot while being careful not to give away the farm if you miss. Let’s face it, no matter what rules you play by you have to use your head. But, Ned didn’t call a shot and he made no attempt to make a ball. He played an out and out safe. So, of course I got pissed off… again. I mean this kind of crap is par for the course. Later on, he tried to portray the shot as a lucky accident. “Wha’d’ya think, I’m freakin’ stupid?” I said to him. He never answered directly, but I’m pretty sure he does.

So, he cheated me and beat me. I won’t forget that and I’m actually looking forward to an opportunity to repay him in kind. That’s about all I can do.