GEAR: What’s in your case and why?

PoolSynergy's theme this month calls for their esteemed network of pool bloggers to examine their cue cases and explain, if they can, the odds and ends they carry around in them. The topic struck me as one that wouldn’t strain my limited mental resources, so I decided to contribute to the discussion. You can find the complete list of contributors at The Tip Jar, the site of this month's host Samm Diep.

Before I get to what’s in the pockets and pouches of my 3/7 Instroke cue case, let me say a quick word about pool cues in general – they ain’t magic wands. Frankly speaking, I played the best pool of my life, back in the 60’s (that’s 1960’s, not the 1860’s), with a spruced up one-piece house cue. Of course, I never played badly back then, but, if I had, I never would have thought of using the cue as an excuse. I mean, it was straight and it had a tip on it – what more could a guy want?

Back then, strangers carrying their own cues would occasionally invade our suburban New Jersey pool room, but we were not terribly impressed by their lacquered finishes or their fancy inlays – I guess we didn’t get it. Fact is we viewed these intruders with more than a little suspicion. Figuratively speaking, we were all dressed up in jeans and in came these guys decked out with more ruffles than Little Lord Fauntleroy. Know what I mean?

Anyway, fast forward to when, after a 38 year layoff, I started playing again back in 2000. I soon discovered there wasn’t one decent stick in the game room of the old fogies’ trailer park where I reside. So, I went shopping. Finding Kmart was out of their quality implements, I boogied down to Sports Authority where I found a stick for twenty bucks. It wasn’t all that but it was plenty good enough for a guy who could barely hit a rail. By the time I realized it was a piece of crap, I had been carrying it to the local pool room for over a year with no pangs of conscience whatsoever. When I did decide to upgrade, I went online and bought myself a $55 Players cue stick. I still have it, somewhere. I used that for a few years and, then, graduated to a $200 Falcon sneaky-pete. I liked that stick well enough, but, for no good reason, a year later I decided to get myself a custom made Josey sneaky which I’m still using. With it, I carry two other sticks: an ASKA break-jump cue I found on ebay and a 1990's vintage Meucci. I hardly ever use the Meucci; I just carry it around.

All that said, I’m still a firm believer that if a person can play, he or she should be able to make do with any kind of stick, including a broomstick. But just like golfers who invest in $5,000 clubs and still can’t break a hundred, there are a zillion poolplayers out there with $2,000 cues who can’t hit a rail. To each his own. Moving on…

There’s chalk in my case, plus a magnetic chalk holder. Chalk generally isn’t an issue at area pool rooms, but our local bars usually opt for that cheap gooey stuff they sell in Wal-Mart. If you want to use Master Chalk, you better bring your own. The danger, then, is that someone will hijack your chalk and claim it as their own. I had returned to my place at the bar after winning a match in our local bar tournament one night, when a guy came charging over and asked, “Did you take the Master Chalk that was on the back table?” I reached in my shirt pocket, flashed the chalk at him showing him the name sticker I had placed on the bottom of the cube and stated simply, “It’s mine.” Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Because I’m a bit of a germaphobe and don’t like sharing chalk with people who are sniffling and sneezing and otherwise snot-filled, I occasionally pull out my magnetic clip-on chalk holder. Of course, this is mostly a symbolic gesture since the infected one’s germs are crawling all over the balls, the rack, the rails and the cloth. That reminds me – it’s time for my flu shot.

I like a slick shaft and I carry several items that contribute to that end. I have talc in a plastic bottle and talc in a Slyde-Rite bag. I’ve got one of those blue scouring pads. I’ve got the Smooth Micro-Burnishing system plastic squares. I’ve got a few pieces of 2000 grit sandpaper, plus a leather pad and a couple small pieces of cloth for wiping down a dirty cue. I’m usually too lazy to dig one of these rags out of my case and opt instead to use my handkerchief. I know there are those who are of the opinion that you should never sand your shaft. I suspect they are afraid that repeated sandings can transform a shaft into a crooked, pencil thin wand. Good luck with that. Me, I’m a sander and a scourer. If, somewhere along the line, my shaft becomes too thin or crooked, I’ll get a new shaft or, more likely, a new cue.

I also have a steel version of the cue tip sander we’re all familiar with. More like a file, it works great, never needs new sandpaper, and, if necessary, could probably double as a parmesan cheese grater. The Porper Cut-Rite tool comes in handy to shave the sides off mushrooming tips.

Thinking about it, I could probably get by with just the talc. Plus, a little sandpaper. And, maybe, the file and those Micro-Burnishing squares. The Porper tool comes in handy, too. Hell, I might as well keep it all – that’s what those compartments are for.

Another Milestone

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Christmas Meucci: A Christmas Story by Ace Toscano

(Here's an Xmas tale from the side-pocket of my mind.

It began like any Christmas Eve. I had a little too much eggnog at the office party and I'd spent a little too much time in the supply closet with Tina, the accounting department's administrative assistant. By the time I arrived home I was wasted, so I laid down for a nap knowing full well that when I awakened the entire room would be filled with gifts. That's how my Christmases went.

When I awoke, the room was indeed filled with presents, most notably the new pool cue, a Meucci Gambler, I had been hoping for. Also present was a package, a large red one, that I hadn't been expecting. It was Santa himself. He was sitting on my sofa, leaning forward, his head in his hands, obviously distraught about something. Oh, and one more thing, his white gloves were soaked with deep red blood.

I watched him for the longest time, not knowing if he realized I had awakened. Certainly, I was curious, but beyond that I became extremely uncomfortable, especially when his sobbing gave way to uncontrollable weeping. I feigned a coughing fit and punctuated it with a few, "Oh brothers," until, finally, Santa turned my way.

"I know you're there, Michael," he said. "You don't have to cough."

"It's just my throat," I said lamely, grabbing my Adam's apple to illustrate.

"Keep it up," he said, "and I'll take back the stick. You know what Santa thinks of liars... don't you?"

He was alluding to the dry Christmas of 1954 when I had told that whopper about Lorraine Fish. I had been 7 at the time. "Don't remind me," I said.

He wiped the tears from his face, then blew his nose. "Don't give me reason to."

"Well... uh... I was trying to get your attention... I felt funny, awkward, watching you cry. I didn't think you realized I was awake."

"That's more like it," he said. There was a trace of a smile on his lips. "You're a good boy, Michael."

"Hardly a boy, Santa. But thanks."

"Don't kid yourself, Michael. You're still very much a boy... which is why... why I still come round to see you each year."

I took a moment to look around the room. I scanned the walls, the tree, all the ornaments, and, of course, the gifts. I checked out everything except Santa's blood-soaked gloves. I could feel his eyes on me.

"Something on your mind, Michael?" he asked.

"Oh, nnn..." He lowered his brow disapprovingly. "Well, yeah."

He was waiting.

"Well, I was wondering about all the blood... on your gloves."

He glanced at his hands, looked up at me, then back at his hands again. I watched closely as the corners of his mouth curled up ever so slowly until he broke into the brightest grin. Then he exploded into a fit of that uproarious laughter he's noted for, the kind that can't be duplicated by any dime-store imposter. It almost subsided a couple times, only to rise up again with more ferocity. Finally, he laughed himself out. He looked at his gloved hands front and back, then extended them towards me. "Last minute wagon work, Michael," he said. "It's paint." He read my skepticism. "Go ahead...," he said, laughing again. "Smell!"

I did. It was paint, alright.

Santa chuckled. "Well, Michael" he mused, "you always have had a grim imagination."

"Oh?" I observed. "I didn't realize that."

Suddenly somber, Santa rose to his feet. "It's not really important. But what is important is that I get on my way. Lots of stops to make."

"Lots of children," I added.

"Yes, lots of children," Santa agreed, as he made a move toward the fireplace. He pointed to the cue case protruding from my stocking. "Custom made," he said.

"Thanks," I said. "Thanks for everything. It was nice seeing you again. I mean, I expect you to come every year, and it's always obvious on Christmas morning that you've been here - but as far as actually seeing you... it's been a long, long, time."

"I suppose so... though I do see you every year, and sit with you a while."

"I didn't realize that. I guess I figured..."

"That I was in too much of a hurry?"

"Yeah... I guess."

"Well, I'm not... not for you or any of my special children."

Santa surveyed the room as if taking a final inventory. Then, something occurred to me. "But, Santa?"

"Yes?"

"You were crying."

He nodded. "Can't help that. I'll try not to wake you next year."

"You don't mean you cry every year!"

"I do."

"Oh... I didn't know that." I thought about that a few seconds, then asked, "Why, exactly?"

Santa thought hard about my question. It seemed as if he were debating whether or not it would be wise to confide in me. "Because I remember, Michael."

"Remember?"

"Yes, remember. I remember the first time we actually spoke. That night..."

"Oh, yeah," I said. All at once, I felt a surge of emotions, though I couldn't pinpoint their source. "I was crying, wasn't I?"

Santa sat down beside me and set his hand on my knee. "And praying."

"Praying?"

"Yes, praying... Don't you remember?"

I couldn't for the life of me.

"You were praying for God to take you away from here. You wanted to be with Him."

"No kidding," I said, a little embarrassed. "Praying to die. Pretty heavy stuff for a kid to be thinking about."

"Indeed," agreed Santa, "pretty heavy."

"And crying," I reiterated.

"And crying," confirmed Santa. "Do you remember why, Michael?"

"Oh...," I said, thinking aloud. "The old man, probably. He probably beat the hell out of me for something or other. Right?"

"That's right. He beat you because he caught you tossing a piece of tinsel into the air."

"Tinsel... Yeah, he did a lot of hollerin' and screamin' about tinsel... It was a touchy subject for him."

"... and he kicked you a few times, and smacked you, and chased you up the steps, screaming and flogging you with his belt and promised to give you more of the same if you stepped one inch out of your room... I probably shouldn't be telling you all this. Forgive me, Michael."

"It's okay, Santa. Really! I mean, no big deal. Stuff like that happened lots of nights."

"But, that..." said Santa, almost crying again, "that was my night. That was Christmas Eve." He composed himself. "Anyway, I heard you praying, and came down to see you, to tell you I cared about you."

"And you promised you would come back to see me every year. I do remember that," I recalled, triumphantly.

"And, I do. And I will," said Santa.

I thought about that for a long moment. "Jeez, Santa... I'm thirty-seven years old, now. Maybe..." I don't know why, but as the thought entered my mind, I began to cry. "Maybe, I'm too old for Christmas."

That's when Santa put his arms around me. "No, no, no, Michael," he said softly. "You'll never be too old for me."

THE END
© 1998-2005 by Ace Toscano