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.

60's Revisited

Tuesday night – The Bowling Allies on old 54. As soon as I got out of the car I heard the music but it registered in my brain as loud juke box. It wasn’t until I walked inside that I realized we were going to be treated to live music in the form of this old dude (by old I mean my age) armed with an electric guitar and a microphone. His repertoire consisted of 60’s and 70’s vintage stuff. If it had been played by some virtuoso, say like Eric Freakin’ Clapton, it might have been an enjoyable accompaniment to our pool playing. Unfortunately, Eric Clapton he was not and it didn’t take long before his playing began to grate on me. When he finished a number and some of the crowd started clapping, I would inject, “Please, don’t encourage him.”

One guy, one voice, one guitar – this formula never appealed to me. I remember guys, supposedly friends, back in the 60’s who used to pack their guitars around with them wherever they went and who with little or no encouragement would start strumming and picking and playing for you nonstop their entire catalog. Shear torture! And that’s the mood this guy put me in.

To lighten the moment, there was an old couple – they looked like escapees from the Beach Boys nursing home – who got off their stools several times and danced. I mentioned to one of my fellow players that the guy looked like he had taken one acid trip too many. My friend quipped, “It was probably a half a trip, because he went and never came back!” Funny guy.

Anyway, none of this has anything to do with me getting home by 9 o’clock. For one thing, I had an unlucky draw. First game I had to play Toe Knee (I think that’s how you spell it). He’s the best player on the barroom tour and he counts on winning a couple tournaments a week as his income. The only thing that keeps him from competing against the “A” players in the poolroom tournaments is heart, which he apparently has none of. He would sooner travel 100 mile to steal some bar tournament than travel five miles to the local poolroom for some action with the big boys. If only I could shoot like I could in the 60's…

Anyway, he broke and made nothing. I ran 6 balls, safed myself up, and missed. Then, as you would expect from the best player in the tournament, he ran out. Next, I played a guy who wasn’t too good and I won a battle of endurance. My third and last game went almost exactly like my first game and my opponent ran a wide open table.

As usual, I went home swearing not to go back until they start playing ball in hand. Being able to play safe would certainly improve my chances, especially since I have so much trouble running out.

Oops, gotta go. It’s time for my yogic eye exercises. If they help at all, I’ll let you know.