A Night That Will Live On In Infamy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Florida: Mecca For Pool A$$holes

Never have I seen so many guys who profess to know all there is about pool but who actually know nothing. Here’s a warning: I expose jerks.

I recently had an encounter with an annoying chump who claims to be from Boston. You can bet he never spent much time in poolrooms up there, because, if he had, he certainly would’ve been kicked out of them.

I refer to him as an annoying chump because, first off, he’s a chump - everybody beats him. He’s annoying because of the tiresome litany of excuses he offers up explaining his pool play. It’s the tables, the cloth, the pockets, the cushions, the balls, the atmosphere, and the alignment of the planets that make him lose.

Then there is his repertoire of adolescent shark moves. He walks around the table while you’re shooting and manages to slide into your line of sight when you’re ready to shoot. He goes to an adjacent table between turns and bangs the balls around. He yaks constantly airing his list of complaints to anyone willing to listen. He never sits still; he never shuts up.

A new pool room just opened up down the road. Fittingly, it’s called Hammer Heads. Where else would the king of grammar school shark moves hang out? I went there to play in what was billed as a tournament for non-A players. What it actually was was a tournament for C players and A’s masquerading as B’s.

So, I win a few matches and lose one and come up against Boston Sharkie on the one-loss side. Now, if you don’t already know it, the cardinal rule when you’re playing against a chump who can’t possibly beat you is not to give him anything. This means don’t leave him any easy combos or caroms and don’t leave the nine hangin’ in the jaws because even a choke artist like Sharkey might manage to score in those situations.

Well, ignoring my own rules, I left Sharkie an unmissible carom. Then he managed to shit the nine in on the break. I’m behind but I come back and pocket a table length straight shot on the nine and follow with a run out from the two ball. Senor Chokee is starting to sweat. I know he’s done. He knows he’s done.

I guess there’s nothing so scary for someone who is sick of losing as the prospect of another public humiliation. So, to put it off, he started bugging me about the rack. He complained that I was not placing the one ball on the center of the spot. It was on the spot, just not dead center. Now, everyone I have talked to since then, witnesses and those who just heard about the incident, are in agreement that Sharkie is an asshole. Still, I tried to placate him. Unfortunately, when I placed the one dead center, upon lifting the rack the one would roll forward and the only way I could keep the rack tight was by nudging it forward a fraction. Time and again, he complained. I called for the tournament director to come over and straighten the chump out but he had stepped out of the building. Finally, I just scattered the balls and quit. Not admirable, but going farther in the tournament wasn’t worth having to deal with the shit head.

Hammerheads has an open 9-ball tournament on Tuesday nights. I'd play in that with its better class of opponents except for the fact that it doesn't end until 2 A.M. Too late for me. Sharkie most likely will pass that one up, too – he won’t want to expose himself to more public humiliation.

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.