The Rat Gets The Cheese

Like lab rats trained to navigate their ways through a maze, pool players can also benefit from repetition. Note that I said “can” benefit and not a definitive “will.” The exceptions, of course, and I’m sure you know someone who fits into this category, are those who bang the balls around meaninglessly, even on a daily basis. Practice must have some kind of purpose. The more purposeful, the more benefits a player will reap.

I got off on this tangent because, at 61, I find that I’m still improving. In fact, I came in second in a tournament last week, opting, at 1 AM, to split the pot with Mr. Hot Seat rather than play it out. He had beaten me in a hot seat match that went hill-hill and I really didn’t have the juice at that hour to do it again. Anyway, he’s better than me and one of the best players on the west coast of Florida. So, I found it satisfying when he later told me that he had never seen me play better.

Of course, I have played better, but that was 45 years ago and, as much as I hate hearing others talk about how good they used to be, I don’t like bringing up my former level of proficiency. I mean, anyone, even a refugee from the Moose Club can come into the pool room and start bullshitting about how good they used to be, true or not. In most cases, their stories are purely fabrications. I mean, you can tell by how a player looks when he’s playing, by his technique and form, even by his mannerisms, if he was ever an approximation of a pool player.

That being said, I really was a pretty good player at age 16. Straight pool being my game of choice back then in the early 60’s, I routinely ran 40 and 50 balls and might have run more except in games to 50 opponents normally didn’t want to pay for any added indulgence. To compare myself to that sharp shooting kid, publicly or just to myself, is a little depressing. I mean, right now, all that matters is how I play today. What would be the purpose of telling someone how well I used to play? Might I scare them into submission?

Anyway, it’s probably seven years since I took up the game again after a 38 year hiatus. I have friends who, regardless of how long it’s been since they played last, could step up to the table and play just about as well as they ever did. That was not the case with me. I stunk. But, I stuck with it and little by little I got better. I tried this and I tried that. You know how it goes.

Lately, I’ve been making it a practice to go to the pool room every day and shooting balls, even if it’s only an hour. Unless, I have someone to gamble with, I prefer to bang them around by myself. I concentrate on staying down, stroking through the ball and hitting my aim point. Based on recent comments, it seems to be paying off.

The Problem With Florida’s Pool Rooms

Well, it’s no secret – the biggest problem with Florida is old people. Sure, they bring their money when they come, but they also bring their declining health, their withered bodies, and their eroding mental faculties. Thanks a lot.

I have one friend who has endured constant pain for the last 5 years and several operations on his neck and spine as the result of one miserable old-timer’s inability to control his vehicle. The old geezer shouldn’t have been behind the wheel but no one in Florida has the guts to take a license away from an elderly person. The last time I had my license renewed, I went to the license bureau and, while I was waiting for my turn, I witnessed an exchange between an old man and the girl who was giving him the eye test. “Can’t you see anything?” she asked, exasperated. “No,” he answered. “Okay, okay,” she sighed. Then she cleared him for renewal. This is what we have to deal with.

I haven’t played golf in 6 years because the courses around here are littered with slow moving geezers who can’t play a round in less than 5 hours.

Well, as odds would have it, a certain amount of these fogies find their ways into the pool rooms. I was down Hammer Heads yesterday afternoon, minding my own business, banging the ball around by myself, when the guy at the next table accused me of slipping over to his table during his absence and stealing his cue ball. Now, this guy is a well-known asshole. The last time I was down there, a week ago, he picked up my friends cue case from a table where it was lying and threw it onto the floor because according to him it didn’t belong there. Now, I’m pretty sure this guy suffers from OCD. He can’t start playing before he puts all the surrounding furniture and knickknacks in their customary places. He even has to put all the TV’s on particular stations. He used to drop into DJ’s occasionally, but the players there soon got tired of his constant complaining nicknaming him McNasty.

Anyway, I told him I didn’t take his cue ball, and that I had no interest in it. I had been playing with a red dotted measles cb that the girl who handed out the balls had placed in the tray. I didn’t ask her why she did it. I didn’t care. But, old McNasty cared deeply. So, I traded cue balls with him to make him happy. Still, unconvinced of my innocence, he later complained to a friend of mine, Bob May, that I had stolen his cue ball. He oughta be locked up in a home some where.

And I Thought I Had It Bad

Call it karma.

A fly, pure and innocent, was buzzing around DJ’s pool room a couple months ago, enjoying the sights and smells and tastes, as flies often do, when it had the misfortune of landing on the table I was playing on. Automatically, almost instinctively, I slithered up to the table and with a quick, deft slap I killed my prey. I was proud. Not that long before, in similar circumstances, one of this bug’s brethren had landed on a bar table I was playing on. Without much forethought, I simply reversed my stick and bopped the bug into oblivion with the butt of my cue. That, however, had been a lucky shot – one in a million; this latest achievement had been a demonstration of speed of hand, a sign that at sixty-one I still had it.

All the glorious feelings dissipated next day when I was forced to deal with a fierce pain in my wrist that was aggravated by the tiniest of movements, like picking up my toothbrush. I nursed it for a couple days, the pain disappeared, and I eventually forgot all about it. Then I started lifting my weights again and before I knew it the pain in my wrist was not only back, it was much worse than it had been initially. Yesterday, at WalMart, I picked up a wrist stabilizer like the ones those suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome wear. Problems, problems.

Then, yesterday, I was contacted by Bloggers Unite regarding the Refugees Unite campaign. After reading some of the reference material, it became clear that there are millions of people out there who are suffering from real problems, problems that make mine look silly.

To learn more about the worldwide suffering of refugees, go here:



.

You Had Me At High-Low

It’s not like I’m the first guy who appropriated a line from the movie Jerry Maguire. My wife tells me that a wine-loving friend of hers in Montana has a t-shirt that sports the slogan “You had me at Merlot.” And it was that, of course, which got me to thinking along those lines.

Jerry Maguire ranks up there among my all-time favorite movies, with movies like Heaven Can Wait, As Good As It Gets, An American President, Dave, Shawshank Redemption, and Freeway, just to name a few. I’ve seen it at least ten times, probably more.

“You complete me,” “Show me the money,” “I won't let you get rid of me” – the movie contains memorable lines galore. “You had me at hello” has always been a personal favorite of mine so it’s with great pleasure that I introduce my latest pool t-shirt design. I think this one is number 7 in the series.



With Christmas coming, you'll probably want to order a dozen. You'll find them and other pool tees here.

Farewell to Uncle Franky

First my Uncle Nicky, and, now, three months later, I get word that my Uncle Franky, a/k/a Deuce Ricciotti, passed away this past Thursday. Uncle Franky loved a lot of things, like boxing, OTB, and, yes, even pool. There was a time when we would meet at the Peanut Shack, a small neighborhood gin mill on the outskirts of Dover, NJ, for the express purpose of shooting a little pool. Though Uncle Nicky was the legendary pool player, I heard from more than one source that Uncle Franky had been pretty good, too, in his day. Of course, he was much more widely known for his fighting abilities. When he was in his prime, and long afterward, no one would mess with him – NO ONE. Being Deucey Ricciotti’s nephew carried with it a lot of respect and prestige. And, in a way, even if he wasn’t standing there next to me, he was always offering me his protection. This has really been a sad year for me and my family up north. I’m glad that I did get to visit with Uncle Frank and talk to him a little bit when I ventured north for the 4th of July family get together, but right now it’s little consolation. Though gone, he will live on in my mind and my heart, and, now, on the internet. Feel free to leave a comment.

In and Out of the UPL

A friend of mine invited me to play on a team he was putting together for the Thursday night UPL league at Hammer Heads. On Thursdays, I usually play in the open 9-ball tournament they have at DJ’s Family Billiards in New Port Richey, but I hardly ever come in the money so I wouldn’t really be losing anything if I changed my schedule.

On the first night of the league, I showed up a little after 6:30 PM. A meeting was scheduled for 7 PM and I didn’t want to be late right off the bat. I needn’t have worried – the meeting didn’t start until after 8. Corey Deuel explained how the league worked, how fees were collected, how score was kept, etc. His sidekick, Tony D., also pitched in with explanations. Preeminent was the fact that players had to pay their yearly $20 UPL membership fee before they played. Weekly league fees were $8. I didn’t bother to ask where the $8 went.

As our team gathered, I noticed that my friend had recruited more than the required 5 team members. In fact, there were at least seven. Before making my $20 commitment, I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be just a part time player. When I asked, my friend assured me I’d be playing every week. So, I anteed up and launched my UPL career. I didn’t play real well, but I did manage to win my match 47-30. Our leadoff man won by the identical score. After that, it was down hill. We lost the next three matches. My friend, who plays as well as me, sat out in favor of another member who couldn’t hit the rail. I left, unenthused.

Next day, I’m talking to my friend and he reveals that we are all going to have to sit out so that everyone gets a chance to play. The more I thought about it, the more unhappy I became and, ultimately, I decided I didn’t want any part of being on his team. I emailed him, saying I quit. First, I wanted to play every week. Second, I believe you should field your best team every week. And, third, his idea of giving everyone a chance to play regardless of how well they play is nice when you’re coaching little league, but it has no place in a pool league where teams are competing for money.

Hey, I only have so many Thursday nights left in me. Rather than waste my time making nice-nice with a couple mediocre players down Hammer Heads, I’d prefer to sacrifice myself to the sharks at DJ’s.

To Willie Nelson: Please Sing My Pool Song

Dear Willie,

If I may be so bold, it seems to me that this poem I wrote would make a great country song and NO ONE could sing it as well as you. So... check it out.

Mickey and the Wild Eight
by Ace Toscano

Don't play with little Mickey,
That pleasant Irish lad -
He's got a charming way of talking,
But his coping skills are bad.

I bumped into him at Chalkie's
Just the other day.
He offered me the wild eight.
I shot back, "Sure, let's play."

refrain
Stroke, stroke-stroke, stroke thru the ball.
Stroke, stroke-stroke, stroke thru the ball.
Keep your head down till the balls stop rollin' 'round.
And stroke, stroke-stroke, stroke thru the ball.

When he fell behind three to one,
He swore the table was at fault.
So we moved from two to three
Where I continued my assault.

Determined to expose me
To all his sharking tricks,
He vacationed to the men's room
Then moved the game to table six.

refrain

If you're seeking the worst table,
Table six is it.
It's just inside the entrance
And there's no safe place to sit.

Foot traffic rumbles back and forth
Through the ever-swinging door.
And everybody stops to chat,
"Who's winning?" "What's the score?"

refrain

Down two sets and dying,
Mick's attitude got meaner.
Then he choked as I hopped up -
T'was a concession misdemeanor.

He called me on it - I owned up
And offered him the game.
But, he kept on losing,
So, of course, my sharking was to blame.

refrain

Play ended with me three sets up,
But he only paid me two.
Next time he offers the wild eight,
I'll tell the lad, "Go screw!"


© Ace Toscano 2005

Best always,
Ace

Last Time I Saw Uncle Nicky

During my recent 4th of July trip to New Jersey, Bobby and I ran into Uncle Nicky at Rockaway Billiards. The proprietor was nice enough to snap this picture for us.



Then I snapped one of the Ricciotti brothers, Bob and Nick.



Bobby took one of Nick and me.



And Nick manned the camera for an artistic shot of me and Bob.



Though he was widely known for years as the best pool player in town, family and friends also appreciated his artistic talents. He could draw and paint, and in recent years he had taken up wood carving. On this particular day, while Bobby and I banged the balls around playing nine ball, Uncle Nicky amused himself by going through his repertoire of masse and trick shots. Sort of funny that nowadays this kind of play is referred to as “artistic” pool. In the midst of his routine, I managed to get a shot of him at the table. He liked performing for an audience, so I watched him for a while. He told me that he went down to Carmine's (a playground in Dover) every morning and hit golf balls. He was practicing his wedge shots. Can you imagine - 80 years old and still working on his game, still improving.



A few days later, I saw him again at the family picnic. Everything seemed okay. At one point, I went inside and found him in front of the tv agonizing over another frustrating Yankee game. When I got back to Florida, I remembered I had promised him a Sniper tip for his cue, so I stuck one in an envelope along with a short note and mailed it out. It seems that while I was wondering if he had received the tip and if he had put it on his cue, he was falling ill. Out of the blue, I heard he had been hospitalized. And then, suddenly, after a good day, things made a turn for the worse.

Uncle Nicky will be laid to rest this Friday. He will be sorely missed by those who counted on him, including his three children, several grandchildren and great grandchildren, his brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews and many friends, all of whom loved him very much.

My Family Reunion

We drove up to Jersey for the 4th of July. (For those of you who are curious, we spent $131 on gas and averaged 34 mpg. Not bad, if you ask me. We ran into a guy at a gas station on rt. 206 who was braggin' that his hybrid was getting 42 mpg. Shit - we're driving a 2003 Hyundai.) Anyway, I didn't get a chance to play a whole lot, but I did manage a couple excursions to Rockaway Billiards. Here's a pic of yours truly (right) with my two legendary uncles, Bob and Nicky.

Uncle Nicky, recently turned 80, can still entertain with his assortment of trick and prop shots. I personally witnessed a couple table length (object ball not on the rail) 90 degree cut shots. Bobby, an artist, doesn't play at all anymore but he still possesses the skills that made him someone to avoid back when we were kids. Somewhere out there is a picture he painted of a poolroom. Unfortunately, for me, his current work is abstract.

We played for a few hours one day - the bill was $31. OMG, I pay $5 for all day down here. Still, I enjoyed myself. Feel free to check out my vacation photos here.

Albert Osanna Gone

I learned this morning of the passing of a good friend of mine, Albert Osanna. Originally from St. Louis, in his day Albert had been quite a bowler as well as a pool player. In recent years, physical problems had made playing pool for an extended period of time impossible. Still, there was nothing he liked more than watching good players play and sitting around with his friends and talking pool. Having known Albert for the last several years, the thing that struck me most about him was his persistent good humor and his ability to see good in just about everybody. Many the time I'd rag on somebody only to have Albert interject that the guy was a pretty good Joe, anyway. Even in the midst of his last illness, he remained in amazingly good spirits and was always happy to have friends call on the phone or drop in. I never talked to Albert about religion, but from the emails he forwarded to me over the years I got the idea he was a believer. Ever the pessimist, I'd like an explanation for why nice people like Albert are taken away, while miserable old goats like me are allowed to carry on. Next time me and the guys get together, you can bet we'll be hoisting one to salute our good buddy Al.

Pics: Seminole Pro Tour Stop at Hammer Heads

I recently bought a new camera (a Panasonic DMC-FZ18) because I wanted to be able to take pictures at pro tournaments that wouldn’t disturb anyone with a flash. This weekend’s event at Hammer Heads in Holiday gave me my first opportunity to try it out. I have to confess that the DMC-FZ18 is a lot more camera than a guy like me needs. I’ll never take advantage of a small fraction of its capabilities. But I hope that, in time, I’ll be able to take some halfway decent pool pics. Here are a few of my first efforts.


Butch Kroft


The Break


Donny Mills' Follow Thru


Jason Ritchko


One Foot on the Floor


Once again, I have to congratulate Hammer Heads on being the most congenial of hosts - it's a great place to go if you want to watch a tournament.

Sharking Yourself: Watching Stocks Drift By

Speaking for myself, I prefer TVs in the area of the poolroom where I am playing be tuned to ESPN or a MLB game. I’m a big fantasy baseball player and I’m interested in the latest scores and the latest news. Distracting? No, I don’t get wrapped up in the action, I just passively glance at the screen now and then between turns. And, I’d like to think the majority of pool players are sports fans just like I am. Unfortunately, they’re not. Preferences in the poolrooms I frequent include soap operas, the animal channel and, God help us all, Fox News. To be honest, I like it when someone I’m playing has their eyes focused on the closed captioning during a match – they’re not into the game. But, it’s when opponents sit with their eyes glued to stock quotes as they slide across the screen, especially in the midst of today’s troubled market, that I get the urge to double up on the bet. How can anyone concentrate on a simple game of pool while their money’s going down the drain?

Not that I’m not interested in the market. I am. To tell the truth I’ve got a considerable amount of change invested in the market. The key word here is “invested.” I’m not a day trader – I’m in for the long haul. When the market does bounce back, and it’s bound to, the funds and stocks I’m invested in will bounce back with it. I’m as confident in that as I am in the fact that sun will come up tomorrow. For the record these are the funds I’m invested in: DODFX, FAIRX, GABAX, MERDX, RYOCX, VEXMX, VFIIX, VFSTX, VTSMX and VWIGX. I did a lot of research before I made theses investments and I’m confident that in the long run they are going to do all right for me. I don’t have to watch the minute to minute or day to day fluctuations in price. In fact, I’ve developed the habit of checking the closing prices only once a week, on Fridays after the market closes.

So, to sum things up, if the competition is all wrapped up in the market or in the jabber of Fox New’s talking heads, I don’t mind a bit. In fact, I encourage it with some well placed comments of my own, like “goddamned liberals,” or “the market’s in the crapper again.” It’s a good thing if their minds wander away from the game – good for me, anyway.

So You Want To Work In A Pool Room

BITD, when you walked into a pool room, you could count on being greeted or ignored by a grizzled old timer who had pool running thru his veins and dripping from his pores. As I make my rounds thru the pool rooms of Florida, it's the cranky old farts and S.O.B.s that I miss most of all. Down here, every counter is manned (perhaps that's the wrong word)… behind every counter stands a woman. Now, I'm not one to lump all women together - in truth, they are as varied as the fishes in the sea - but many of those who find their way to the pool room, especially around NPR, FL, are of the same type. The things they do and say, the atrocities they commit, boggle the minds of serious pool enthusiasts who date back to the pool rooms of yesterday. What I am suggesting is that before a manager hires someone of any gender to work in his or her establishment, said manager should give the prospective employee a test. That way, maybe, their customers can be spared the agony of dealing with complete idiots. Toward that noble end, I have composed a sample test. Here it is:

1. When you hear the word "pool," you immediately think:
a) Chlorine makes me itch.
b) that's the opposite of "poosh."
c) it's a game played on a pool table with balls and cue sticks.

2. If a customer requests "different" chalk, you should respond:
a) that all the chalk is the same.
b) that you only have one color - blue.
c) by presenting them with the box of chalk and allowing them to pick their own.

3. A player who is playing on time brings back his tray of balls while you are busy on the phone talking to your daughter. What should you do?
a) tell him you will be with him in a second and keep his time running while you talk with your daughter.
b) start cursing at your daughter to show off your parenting skills.
c) set the friggin' phone down and take care of the customer.

4. Two regulars are gambling on the only table in use when a guy comes in with his girlfriend and his girlfriend's little brother. Which table would you put them on?
a) one right next to the gamblers so that people aren't scattered all over the place.
b) which ever one they want.
c) one as far away from the serious players as possible.

5. You have to deliver a pitcher of beer to a party on the far side of the room. Enroute, you approach a player who is in the midst of making a shot. What should you do?
a) squeeze past him, but try not to spill the beer.
b) say "excuse me" until he moves out of your way.
c) stay as far out of the way as possible.

6. A friend calls and asks you to reserve a table for him. What do you do?
a) Scatter balls on a table, and, if anyone asks, say it's occupied.
b) Tell people the table is reserved.
c) Tell your friend that you can't tie up a table for a nit.

7. When you hear terms like "one-hole" or "dirty balls," how will you react?
a) I've heard worse at other dumps I've worked at.
b) I will be offended and make a complaint.
c) Ignore them - I'm not that much of a sexual deviant.

8. You're scheduled to work, but you're sick. What do you do?
a) Go in anyway - you need the money. Keep sickness to yourself.
b) Go in and tell everybody how sick you are hoping to boost tips.
c) Find someone to sub and stay the hell home, so you don't spread your germs to everyone you come in contact with.

If you own or manage a pool room, feel free to use this test.

Oh yeah, the preferred answer for all questions 1-7 is c. Duhhhhh.

This all reminds me of one of my favorite riddles - Why does God give beauty queens one more brain cell than he gives horses?

So they don't shit during the parade.

Join My New Pool Group

I created a new group at blogcatalog.com called "Blogging Pool/Billiards." I recently discovered that posts at blogcatalog get good coverage from google so I thought it might be a good idea to join a pool group. To make a long story short, there weren't any. So, I formed my own. Now, I need members. Visit it here. Primarily a place for those who have pool blogs or sites, it will be a place to ask questions, discuss problems and observations, to swap ideas and to make announcements.

Otherwise, everything's good. I recently told someone somewhere that I would continue playing as long as I keep improving. Well, I have no thoughts of quitting yet. I've been playing almost every day and my game shows it. Of course, I can't fire in shots like I could when I was 16, but even that aspect of my game is getting better. The only thing standing in my way right now is the lack of players down here willing to play for a little something. I refuse to engage in matches where nothing's at stake. I'm convinced that kind of nonsense hurts my game more than it helps. Those who refuse to gamble are the same guys who wonder why they choke when they play in tournaments. "It's because you're not used to playing for anything!" I tell them. But, they won't listen and prefer to supply their own excuses. Anyway, like I said, I drive to the pool room (either Capone's or DJ's) every day and, unless I run into someone with a little gamble in them, play by myself for about an hour concentrating on the basic stuff - staying down, stroking thru the cue ball, etc. It's working.

Here's an item of interest for those in the market for a new cue:

John Bender Cues

John Bender, a friend of mine from NJ, and a cuemaker who has worked with Richard Black, is now making custom cues on his own. Visit his site and send him a message.

Getting the Most From Hot-Wirers

I wasn’t brought into the myspace community by a friend or acquaintance – I was brought in by a stranger who had hot-wired an image off my website and onto his profile page. When I tried to follow the link from awstats to the culprit’s page, I learned that I had to be a member to do that. So, I signed up.

At first, I reacted with vengeance. I renamed the hot-wired images so that those who were using them were left with empty image boxes on their pages. Then, I got a better idea. Since these folks were using my images without asking and without giving me any credit, I decided to add some promotional text to each hotwired image. In most cases, this amounted to my domain name – aceswebworld.com. Below is a partial list of sites currently carrying my modified billboards. Who knows, one day my brand might be as recognizable as Coca Cola or Campbell Soup.

Man Ray’s photo of Salvador Dali is very popular. Here are three sites currently tapped into it:
http://www.myspace.com/_wildrose_
http://www.myspace.com/nadiataijeron
http://z11.invisionfree.com/DeathRowInmates/index.php?showtopic=2686

From my pool photos these have been hijacked:
Savchenko's Billiards - http://www.myspace.com/redbluesbird
Laurel and Hardy - http://singles.meetup.com/1403/calendar/6519976/
Rat Pack - http://www.myspace.com/graceb1980
Rat Pack - http://myspace.com/chriscorleymitchell
Corner Pocket by Steve Mills - http://www.myspace.com/narkosis1113

Many prefer to spruce their sites up with pics of their favorite musical artists. Here are 3 Rolling Stones fans:
http://www.myspace.com/ellonnora
http://www.myspace.com/thegreekcanadian
http://pahuljica88.blog.hr/

An Amy Lee/Evanescence fan:
http://www.imonline.nl/darknessdevil

One Dean Koontz fan:
http://www.myspace.com/tigerrr

And here are a couple hot-wirers whose guarded pages forbid access:
http://www.myspace.com/straightouttacompton18
http://www.ete-donta.splinder.com/

The following sites are freeloading small pics, 50 pixels wide. They’re too small to work on really, so, I haven’t changed them. If I had originally converted them to gifs, I could animate them now; but I didn’t, so I can’t. Live and learn.

Nirvana - http://myspace.com/danthemanmusicfan
Nirvana - http://www.myspace.com/jumble_of_junk
Green Day - http://www.vibeflog.com/manupx/p/21257512
Green Day - http://gd.best.fan.sblog.cz/+%3E_dvd_international_supervideos/
Dale Jr. - http://community.foxsports.com/blogs/tylerhead24/2007/07/09/Nascars_First_Half
Janis Joplin - http://www.myspace.com/ellyvt3
Tupac Shakur - http://www.nexopia.com/profile.php?uid=2726160
Jerry Garcia - http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=62718472

Bob May’s One-Rail Kicking System

My friend, Bob May, worked out this system one day after becoming fed up with losing too many games because of missed kicks. Suffering from the same problem, I took immediate interest when one afternoon he offered to share his knowledge with me, free of charge. Since then, I’ve not only improved my kicking, but I’m pocketing more balls off the kick. Before, I go too far, I have to emphasize Bob’s view that to become an expert you have to put in the practice. In certain situations, you will have to apply a little natural or reverse English – the more you practice, the better your feel for these shots.

Here’s Bob’s formula:

(Cue Ball Track Origin) (Object Ball Baseline Location) = Long Rail Target Point
Or,
(CBTO) (OBBL) = LRTP

See the illustration. Note the method Bob uses to mark the rails. The long rail from which the kicking tracks originate is numbered one thru 8 with each number corresponding with a diamond. After number 8, which actually is the corner pocket, the tracks continue around the corner on the short rail with each diamond increasing in value by 2 (10, 12). The locations on the baseline (here represented by red numbers) are similarly divided. On the target rail, the diamonds are numbered 8, 16, 24, 32 (side pocket), 40, 48, etc.

Here’s the process for kicking in the 9-ball that sits nearest to the corner pocket in the upper left of the illustration:
1. Obtain a value for the OB. In this case, it is 3.
2. Obtain a value for the Cue Ball Track. Estimate the track, then move to the nearest diamond. In this case, the nearest point of origin would be the corner, for a value of 8.
3. Plug your numbers into the formula, then multiply. The product, 24, indicates your target on the kicking rail.
4. Because the CB seldom lies directly on the track, you must here employ the distance method of aiming. Here, you must sight along the track thru the target to a secondary target, a point 8-11 feet beyond the table.
5. Stroke the CB firmly, center ball, at the secondary target.

If this method was only applicable to balls frozen to the foot rail, it would still be valuable; however, the beauty of it is that it applies to all balls in all locations. The baseline, here the foot rail, moves freely to wherever the ball you want to kick at lies. Just remember, you have to adjust the numbering of the long rails accordingly, as the junctures of baselines and long rails are always numbered zero.

Work on this a while and soon you’ll be kicking like Bobby – he’s one kicking s.o.b.

No Joy in Poolville

Stroker had won the Friday night tournament at Boonies, but he was feeling less than jubilant as he made his way home on Highway One. Never had an eighty dollar win left him feeling so down. But, it wasn’t about the money, he told himself as his old Rav 4 roared on, it was about playing well; and he hadn’t played well at all. He’d dogged too many shots – two straight-in shots on the eight in the last game alone. It was a miracle that he had won, a cosmic joke.

The gloom persisted through Saturday and Sunday leading Stroker to suspect there was more behind these feelings than his clumsy victory at Boonies. He thought back to Thursday night. His second place finish at Chalkie’s had left him equally dejected. Thanks to a series of breaks, he had beaten Leapin’ Larry and Fast Eddie, two players he normally wouldn’t have a chance against and only a miss on an easy cross-side bank of the nine against Deek Nettles had kept him out of the hot seat.

“So, you think that’s it, a missed easy cross-side bank on Thursday night has caused you to feel depressed for the next five days.”

“It’s depressing – I used to be so good at banks.”

His weekly court-ordered visits to the shrink had been part of the plea agreement his lawyer, Anthony J. Rotundo, had negotiated following assault charges that had nearly put him in the pokey. Stroker still couldn’t believe the big deal they made over his whacking some nit in the head with his cue. “He accused me of cheating,” he had said to the judge at his arraignment. But that didn’t seem to matter. Anyway, he was enjoying the time he spent with Dr. Colleen Mathers. She was a good kid, and plenty smart.

“So, you came in first in one tournament and second in another, two events which might make a person feel somewhat pleased with himself, but, for you, this has all been overshadowed by a missed bank…”

“A missed easy bank,” he corrects. “It was dead in the side.”

“… a missed easy bank, and this has left you feeling depressed.”

“That’s about it.”

“And there’s nothing else?”

“Well …”

Until a few days ago, the S-train had been chugging along unimpeded. Stroker’s dream of recapturing his boyhood form, after a 40 year lay-off, had still seemed achievable. Sure, he had just turned 60, but he was still improving, still moving forward with his game, chug chugguh-chug chugguh-chug. Then, he missed that shot against Deek and he had had what he interpreted as a major revelation. He had been kidding himself. He would never again be a player. He would never be more than a freakin’ bum. His comeback was over, fizzled, kaput. He was at the end of the line.

“So, the missed, easy, dead-in-the-side bank triggered for you a revelation that you…”

“That I am done. There isn’t going to be a comeback. I’m never going to be able to play any good and all the time I’ve been working on my game, trying to get back in stroke, all that time, I’ve only been fooling myself. I’m a chump – nothing more. I’m gonna have to live with it.”

“And, to be a chump…”

“Is to be nothing, nobody, a pimple on the ass of the world.”

She let that hang there for a good long while. Either she was considering the gargantuan proportions of what he had just said, or she wanted him to. You never knew with this broad.

“Of the pool world,” she finally added.

“Huh?”

“To be a chump in the poolroom is to be nothing, nobody, a pimple on the ass of the pool world.”

“I’m not following,” said Stroker.

“I think you do.”

“I said I don’t, Colleen. I wouldn’t say I don’t if I did.”

She smiled. Something he had said must have struck her as amusing.

“Well, let me put it this way: some people believe that the person we think we are is nothing more than the sum of the roles we play. Do you follow that?”

“No. What’s that – Scientology?”

She laughed. He liked to make her laugh. “Take me, for example…”

“Now, Colleen...”

“I’m a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother…”

“And a shrink.”

“And a therapist. My behavior in each of these roles is very different. When I am with my parents or with my husband, I am a very different person than when I am here with you.”

“I should hope so.”

She smiled. “And the same is true for you. You are not just Stroker, pool player. You are more than that.”

“Not really. I mean, I know what you’re getting at and, if you want to look at yourself that way, go ahead, but me, I’m Stroker Zambini, every minute of every day – Stroker Zambini.”

“And you’re never Stroker Zambini the son.”

“Not any more. My mother and father are dead.”

“And the part of you that was their son?”

“Died with them… I hope.”

“Why’s that?”

“Forgetaboutit, Colleen. I don’t wanna go there. I’m sixty years old, for Christ’s sake, too old to be crying about that crap.”

“But, you’re father not only beat you, you said he brought to your home an atmosphere of fear.”

“Yeah, but you know what? It dawned on me one day that I coulda run away from all that and I never did.”

“When you were five or six years old? I don’t think running away was an option.”

“Hey, I knew a lot of guys who ran away – to Florida, California, NYC – guys who had it a lot better than I did. They ran away just for the hell of it. But I never thought of it. I can’t understand that.”

“Fear, perhaps.”

“Huh?”

“Perhaps, you didn’t run away because you were afraid of what your father might do when he caught you. That would be understandable.”

“Nope, I don’t think so. I just never thought of it. Anyway, it’s too late now, so let’s forget about it.” She wouldn’t, he knew, but he could hope.

“What about your role as a father? Didn’t you tell me you have a daughter?”

“Let’s not go there.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t seen her in over twenty years.”

“Why?”

“She was kidnapped by aliens.”

“And…”

“Check with the aliens.”

“You’re being uncooperative, today, for some reason.”

“Is that going into the report?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Look, Colleen, I didn’t whack that guy in the head because my old man beat me or my mother never hugged me or because I haven’t seen my kid in twenty years – I whacked him because he dissed me. He accused me of cheatin’. He’s lucky I didn’t friggin’ kill him. You can’t let people get away with shit like that.”

“He dissed you.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“So, you had no choice.”

“No choice.”

“It was a matter of honor.”

“Damn straight… Is that going in the report?”

“If I think it’s important.”

“Is it?”

“It could be… Tell me, Stroker, are you a chump and a nobody to your wife?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! My wife doesn’t care anything about pool, except that it keeps me out late and makes me breathe in second-hand smoke."

“So, in the role of husband…”

“Listen, Colleen, what the hell does it matter?”

“Your relationship with your wife…”

“I mean, I’m 60 years old. I’m not going to be around very much longer, and nothing we say here is going to change that.”

“Nowadays, it’s not uncommon for people to live to ninety and beyond. You could…”

“Not this people.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s not in the genes, kid, not in the genes. I’ve had two operations on my colon and the doctor says I’m lookin’ at another one. I’ve got sugar diabetes. And, now, all of a sudden my doctor says I’ve got high blood pressure to boot. I’m falling apart, girl.”

“What’s this about another operation?”

“Oh, I had a colonoscopy a few weeks back and that’s what the doctor said.”

“And you never mentioned it.”

“My wife and I talked about it. She went with me.”

“I mean, you never mentioned it during our sessions.”

“Dying’s not something I like talkin’ about.”

She sighed. “It’s precisely those things you don’t like talking about that we should be working on.”

"You're a good kid, Colleen, but you just don't get it - your best years are coming, mine are gone. That's just the way it is. Now… know what I think we should be working on?"

"Yes, I'd love to know what you think we should be working on."

"Long straight-in shots… and maybe my banks."

"Well, I doubt that I can help you with that."

"Just my luck."

The End

© 2007 by Ace Toscano

Your Pool Bag of Tricks: #1

Here’s a handy item you might want to add to your cue case – a can of lighter fluid. Have you ever found yourself in a match with someone who was way too deliberate, way too slow? You know, a guy who stands over a shot for an eternity before he finally pulls the trigger. Well, here’s a remedy I’ve discovered. Squirt some lighter fluid on his socks, hit them with a lit match, then stand back. That sucker will not only pick up speed but he’ll start moving in ways you never imagined.

At War With The Sopranokovs

It’s like this:

I woke up Saturday to find all 150 of my web pages were suspended – and offline.

There were a couple emails in my inbox from my web host, ruskiehost.com, warning me of complaints made by the Data Center concerning phishing content on a couple of my pages. Supposedly, these pages were designed to gather personal information from clients of Wells Fargo and Bank America. I had been given one hour to delete said material from my account or face the consequences. Since the email came in during the wee hours, I had no chance to respond and, like I said, when I woke up it was already a done deal – my account was suspended and I had no access to the files.

For someone in the internet business, even in a small way like me, to be down for an extended period of time can be devastating. Not only do you lose business, but you’re search engine rankings may suffer and there’s the risk of being dropped from other types of listings. In other words, all the work you’ve done to promote your website can go down the toilet quicker than white powder when the cops hit the door.

Since I never actually saw the web pages in question, I have to assume they were of the type that are tied to those phishing emails the old geezers are always falling for. You know, “Your Wells Fargo Info Needs To Be Updated.”

I quickly emailed ruskiehost.com telling them that I had no knowledge of the files in question – that I hadn’t created them and certainly hadn’t uploaded them to the server. Of course, they already knew that. Not only did their logs reflect the intrusion of someone hacking into my account, they also had a hand in it.

Allow me to digress. Over the last few months, I had grown increasingly dissatisfied with ruskiehost.com's service. Most recently, it had annoyed me that my stats were not being updated every 24 hours as was promised. It had become necessary for me to email tech support and request a stats update every time I wanted one. It is not a coincidence that just two days before the planting of the files and my subsequent suspension, I had sent another such email adding the comment that “this is getting old.”

In due time, Boris – my contacts have names like Vlada, Natasya, and Boris leading me to believe ruskiehost.com is a front for the Russian Mafia and their illegal online activities – replied that he had updated my stats; but, he apparently didn’t leave it at that. There’s an old Russian proverb: If they complain about the service, kill them. Boris was trying to kill me.

For good reason, ruskiehost.com made no effort to help me straighten up the mess. Finally, after a few hours of frustrating intercourse, I decided to change web hosts and to transfer my domain registration. Eager to sign me on as a client, the firms I contacted were extremely helpful and by Monday my site was up and working again.

My passwords are changed and I’m completely separated from ruskiehost.com, now, but I feel far from safe. It seems inevitable that I’m going to get hit again; and I’m not sure I have the energy to deal with it. Guess if I want to make a few extra bucks, I better sharpen up my pool game.


_________

S, HBD, LD

$20 Pool Rap

Once again, a work of art based on my real life poolroom experiences.

Picture me onstage, my pants on the verge of falling down, one hand on the mike, the other on my crotch.

$20 Pool Rap

Pardon me for stinkin'.
Wha'zactly wuz u thinkin'?
Axin' me to play,
When I sez to u no way
'Less u givin' me duh 8.
I'm talkin' to u straight.
Butchu jus’ wanna jump me,
Cut me up n thump me,
Not givin’ up a spot,
Jus’ stealin’ whad I got.

Cry. Cry. Whine. Whine.
I got duh heart.
I got duh dime.
U got no heart.
U got no balls.
Ur super-chump,
‘S how it falls.

Nickel sets r ‘bout ur speed,
Five bucks, sucker – chickenfeed.
I bump duh bet up to ten,
N ask u for the 8 again.
Butchu ass jus’ walk away,
Sayn u n me cannot play,
Meanin’ not-a-thing to me -
I’m duh prey, the pursuee.
I resink into my groove.
While u plan to make a move.

Cry. Cry. Whine. Whine.
I got duh heart.
I got duh dime.
U got no heart.
U got no balls.
Ur super-chump,
‘S how it falls.

Twenny down, u start to cry.
As chumps do, u wonder why.
Must be that I’m a thief –
A cunning weasel brought you grief.
U’ll get even if I play u checkers.
Get straight, sucker, bite my pecker.
More heart than me? That’s pretty funny.
The way you whine over a little money.
I’m jus’ a guy who likes a game.
Ur a loser! Now, who’s to blame?

Cry. Cry. Whine. Whine.
I got duh heart.
I got duh dime.
U got no heart.
U got no balls.
Ur super-chump,
‘S how it falls.


© Ace Toscano 2007

Remembering One Vet

He lived in a township 20 miles southwest of Dover, NJ, the town I grew up in, and for the longest time I knew him only by name – Mickey DeMatteo. A weight lifter, wrestler, and high school football player, he was widely known as a tough guy. Though I can’t recall his face, exactly (it’s been more than 40 years), I do remember the first time I met him. I was standing outside Teasdale’s poolroom when he approached.
“Hey, you’re Ace, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Thought so. I saw you play once. You’re good.” Then he added, “I’m Mickey DeMatteo.”
“Lookin’ for someone to play?” I asked.
“No thanks,” he answered. “You’re way too good for me.”
He was a solid dude, but not as fierce looking as I had imagined. We stood there together for several minutes, watching traffic and spitting on the sidewalk, before he spoke again.
“Ever try to spit like this?” he asked. I watched as he opened his mouth, curled back his tongue, and flexed his chin. Out, from under his tongue, squirted two little streams of water. “See that?”
“Yeah.”
“Come closer,” he beckoned. He wanted me to look into his mouth.
“No way!” I said. I wasn’t an idiot.
“I won’t gob on you,” he said. “Swear to God.”
So I moved closer. He wanted me to see these two little holes that were in the watery area under his tongue. I did.
“That’s where it comes out. Watch.” Squirt, squirt. “See? Neat, eh?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. I was somewhat awestruck, not because he was shooting saliva out of those two little holes, but, rather, because here he was in the flesh, Mickey DeMatteo, mythical tough guy, talking to me as if we’d been best friends forever.
I never saw or spoke to Mickey again after that day, but I never forgot the lesson he taught me about the unreliability of preconceptions. I was saddened when a few years later I learned of his death. He’s remembered on The Wall by his proper name – Mario Frank DeMatteo. Look up his name for me next time you visit DC.

Bisecting Boxes: A Different Way to Sight In Object Balls

Having trouble zeroing in on the object ball? Can't see the contact point that, once struck, will send the object ball along the desired trajectory? Maybe the principle of Bisecting Boxes will help bring things into focus for you.

Imagine lines drawn at 90 degree angles from the long and short rails to the edge of the object ball. (See illustration) Close the box by drawing lines from the adjacent points on the rail to the point of intersection at the targeted pocket. The desired path of the object ball coincides with a diagonal line that bisects the box. The line also cuts through the object ball clearly indicating the desired contact point.

This principle applies to all shots. If you have been having trouble sighting object balls, the next time you're practicing try visualizing the box and the bisecting diagonal line to the target. With practice, it will become second nature. Your shot-making will improve exponentially.

© 2007 Ace Toscano

Still Tinkering: The Ungolf Grip

Sometimes the smallest revision can have a huge effect. Like when Shakespeare revised the soliloquy from “To exist or not to exist…” or when Springsteen dropped “Born in New Jersey” in favor of “Born in the USA.” The same principle applies to pool. Since I’m far from happy with my game, I’m always tinkering with the various elements of it. Recently, I stumbled onto a little something that has had a significant positive effect. It involves the grip.

I know, most of the books are in agreement that the cue should be held with the first three fingers. Nonetheless, for some reason, I always felt uncomfortable about giving my index finger a dominant role. In fact, at times, I even went so far as to eliminate it completely. Why? Well, during the many years when I wasn’t playing pool, I was playing golf. One of my favorite golf books, Six Days To Better Golf, made a big point about the harm the index finger could do to your golf swing. And the advice proved to be sound. Unconsciously, I had been applying the same principle to gripping the cue.

I was rereading Ray Martin’s 99 Critical Shots the other day, when his instructions for gripping the cue made me pause. I immediately picked up my practice cue, carried it to the kitchen table where I practice my stroke, and began stroking with a grip that, rather than deemphasize the index finger, was dominated by it. It felt right. Later, when I hit the table for my practice session, I was pleased to learn that this new grip produced a much crisper stroke and more solid hits. Please note, it’s not a death grip, just a grip that’s dominated by the index finger.

Unlike some revelations that fail to stand up to the test of time, the benefits of my new grip have proved to be no fluke. And all aspects of my game – shot-making, position, speed of stroke – reflect the improvement. Just goes to show, sometimes the smallest change can produce monumental effects.

CSI: Poolroom

Jimmy De Jesus and Rowdy Bryant were still playing nine-ball on table one as Tizzie worked his way around the poolroom covering up tables, collecting house cues and stooping down here and there to pick up fallen pieces of chalk.
“Make that the last set, guys,” he said as he set the last cover down on the counter beside the two combatants and carried the box back to the storeroom.
“Jeez, Tiz,” complained Rowdy, “I’m in the middle of a come back.”
“We can see the end tomorrow. It’ll be like a cliffhanger.”
“C’mon,” pleaded Rowdy, “Just one more set.”
“No. I gotta get out of here.”
Tizzie didn’t mention that he hadn’t seen Bob Casey and Mary in four days. It wasn’t like the old couple to stay away like this. And tonight they hadn’t been there to watch the 9-ball tournament. He couldn’t remember the last time they had missed a Thursday night. As soon as he locked the doors, he was going to head over to their trailer to see what was up.
Jimmy D cut the eight into the side sending the cue ball four rails around table for a straight-in shot on the nine.
“Lucky bastard,” growled Rowdy as he swept the nine down table with the side of his stick. “Next time, I want the eight, you hustlin’ piece of shit.”
“You must be kiddin’,” laughed Jimmy D. “I’m not givin’ you eight o’ anythin’.”
“Ask Teasdale! He’ll tell ya – you’re sposed to give me the eight. Right, Tiz?”
“You’re supposed to play better,” answered Tizzie as he collected the balls and placed them in their tray.
“See,” said Jimmy D. “I tol’ you – no eight!”
Tizzie rolled out the cloth. “Don’t let the door hit yous in the ass.”

* * * * *

The light was on in the trailer and he could hear the TV, but no one was answering his knock. Again, Tizzie pounded the door with his fist. “Bob. Mary. It’s me, Tizzie. Everything okay in there?”
As he pounded, he noticed that the door almost caved in from the force. Without hesitating, he drove his shoulder thru the door. He was engulfed immediately by the putrid smell of death. “Oh, my freakin’ God.”
Covering his nose with a handkerchief, he entered the living room. Bob sat alone on the sofa. Before him on the coffee table were two empty bottles of vodka and one half full.
“Guess you’re off the wagon, eh, Bob?”
Bob turned his head slowly, squinting as though through a fogged up windshield.
“What’s going on, Bob? Where’s Mary?”
“Oh, Mary,” sobbed Bob. “My beautiful Mary.”
Tizzie made his way through the kitchen and down to the bedroom. He didn’t want to look, but he had to. There on the bed lay Mary. Maggots were swarming on her face. As he turned away, repulsed, his eyes stopped on a photograph that sat atop the dresser. It pictured a young couple laughing, their arms lovingly wrapped around each other as they huddled beneath a beach umbrella. A signature moment, he thought as he made his way back to the living room.
“My beautiful beautiful Mary,” repeated Bob. “How is she?”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this,” said Tizzie as he picked up the phone, “but she’s starting to lose her looks.”

Hammer Heads: An Eye for the Ladies

One good thing about being old is that, even if you're not mechanically inclined, you've had so many cars with so many problems that you develop a kind of sixth sense about car trouble. Otherwise, I might never had made it down to the Ladies Spirit Tour 2007 season opener at Hammer Heads Billiard Lounge in Holiday, FL today (Sunday, Feb. 18th)

After readying myself, a time consuming chore in and of itself, I kissed Uppy (the former Sarah Uppington-Smythe of the New England Uppington Smythes) and ventured out to the carport and our not yet one-year-owned previously used Toyota Rav4. It's been a good car for us, not even a hiccup since the day we brought it home. But, today, it was unresponsive to the twist of the key. Old hand that I am, I didn't panic - I reached for the hood release, gave it a yank, climbed out of my formerly reliable steed and raised the hood. I glanced at the battery and there it was - corrosion... on the ground side. I fetched a pair of pliers from the shed along with an assortment of files and returned but found the nuts on the terminal clamp stubborn and uncooperative. Undaunted, I started hammering on the clamp with the pliers, producing a chalky greenish white drizzle. Returning to the driver's seat, I again turned the key and was blessed with the sweet sound of engine music. I really am a genius, I said to myself. It took a mere ten minutes for me to disconnect the clamp, clean it and the terminal with my assorted files, and reconnect them. At last, I was ready to start out.

I arrived at Hammer Heads in plenty of time. I immediately caught up on Saturday's action. I learned that scintillating Az personality Pool Hall Maven, a/k/a "Amazin' Trace" and her traveling partner Shanna "The Red Tide" Lewis had suffered two losses on the opening day and were out of the tournament. Cheer up, fans, because as I was leaving late Sunday afternoon both were tearing up the opposition in the 2nd Chance tournament. Since they had both decided to stay around to support their fellow players, I figured the least I could do was stick around, too. So, I did.

I saw Rachael Abbink eliminate last year's Spirit Tour Player of the Year Debbie "High Altitude" Schjodt. Schjodt had previously been knocked over to the loser's side by the always tough Jeannie Seaver. Seaver went on to defeat Miynki Sakai to advance to the hot seat match where she would meet Bonnie Coats who won a nail biter against local favorite and tour standout Tracie Hines. Sakai was later dealt her second loss by Tamara Rademaker.

With her back up against it, Tracie Hines next faced Abbink, the potentially dangerous player who had eliminated Schjodt. Though Hines went on to win the match 7-1 it was not without it's drama. Up 3-0, she was racking the balls for the fourth game when she caught her nail on something and started shaking it like it was on fire. I caught up with her after the match, congratulated her on her victory, and asked about the nail. "It really hurt," she admitted. "Did it affect the outcome of the match?" I asked. "No," she replied. "I don't think so."

About then, I had to leave as I knew Uppy would be serving up Ravioli Lasagna at 4 PM sharp. It's an interesting recipe she got from Real Simple. You spread some sauce on the bottom of a lasagna pan, then lay down a layer of large frozen Ravioli. (We bought a 3 lb. bag of Celentano Cheese Ravioli for that purpose.) On top of that you spread a package of frozen spinach, then another layer of ravioli. You top that with the remaining sauce and mozzarella, cover with foil and bake at 350 for a half hour, then uncovered for another 10-15 minutes. It was great and as I was downing it and watching the Daytona 500 on the tube, I thought to myself, "It's been a very good day."

When I find out the final results of the tournament, I'll post them. Meanwhile, I'm looking forward to catching the girls at Hammer Heads again on April 28-29, and at Capone's in Spring Hill on September 8-9 and November 3-4. Check out their site at www.ladiespiritour.com.

Immortality Awaits You

Being a writer of sorts, I never know where my next inspiration will spring from. The inspiration for this verse sprung from a recent experience in the poolroom.

A Nit With No Name
by Ace Toscano

Bounce your cue against the floor.
It only makes me bear down more.
Laugh out loud, sneeze, snort and snore -
Let loose your entire repertoire.
You can sigh and moan and curse your luck.
My pov? You dogged the duck.
And when you see I'm on the hill,
Recommence your sharking drill.
Too bad, these moves won't help you none.
It's clear by now the battle's won.
No doubt, you nit - you're done, done, done.

© Ace Toscano 2007

More Pool Poems

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.

Touchy Feely

Ever since I took the game back up again four or five years ago I’ve been more or less obsessed with loss of my shot making ability and my practice sessions have been geared to improving my play in that area. Recently, however, after losing yet another match because of my inability to control whitey, failing to execute easy position on the nine and instead leaving myself with a difficult shot, I decided to start working on improving my touch.

My buddy Al informed me that touch is very much like shot making – once you lose it, he said, you never get it back. But I’m a hard one to discourage. Besides, my shot making has improved a lot since I started my comeback. Of course, there’s still a lot of room for improvement, but I’m not missing as many “easy” shots as I used to. I take heart in the fact that even though I’m nearing my 60th birthday, I am still getting better.

So, a major focus of my recent practice sessions has been position play and cue ball control. I start just by hitting the cue ball, trying to make it travel two diamonds farther every shot until it’s made three trips lengthwise across the table. Then I work on stop shots and follow, trying to follow shots of different lengths one diamond, two diamonds, and farther. It seems to be working. I’ve been winning more games and matches.

I recently started playing in a local 8-ball bar league. Bar pool, as you probably know, is significantly different from pool room pool. The rules down here are berserk: no safes allowed; ball in hand behind the head string after a scratch; and players, regardless of the situation, are bound to make an “honest effort” at making a ball. You can imagine the fudging that goes on in this area. My play has been inconsistent. I was 12-0 after the first 3 weeks, but am about .500 since then. Not that I’ve been playing badly, though I did make a couple bad choices. It just seems that I haven’t been getting my share of the breaks. You know, an opponent misses and accidentally safes you up, and other things like that.

Anyway, we’re cruising along in first place because even while I’ve been floundering my teammates have been wreaking havoc upon opposing forces. Here’s a picture of The 8-Ball Posse:

Left to Right: Jeff, Billy, Ace, Boogie

The Way I See It

There are a few things going on in my pool world. First, as I approach my 60th birthday, I can happily claim that I am still getting better. For some reason, of late, my shot making has improved significantly. Not that I’m making a lot of outrageous shots, I’m just making a lot more shots that I should make. I don’t know if it’s a natural progression or if I’m doing something different that has led to the improvement. I have made changes to the way I visualize my shots – focusing on the path or channel the object ball will follow on its way to the target, finding the point on the backside of the object ball what would place the cue ball in that channel, then delivering the cue ball to that point. In the method I was using before, I seemed to spend more time staring at the object ball hoping the contact point would magically appear.

I’ve also shortened my stroke by gripping the cue about 6 inches to 8 inches behind the balance point. Speaking of the grip, I’ve been consciously trying to restrict my index finger’s involvement. It seems too much index finger throws my stroke off line. I guess my other keys regarding the grip are “light but firm.”

In other news, I’m playing in a pool league. Friends at the local beer hall asked me to sub the first week of the season, then, when they discovered one of their members had gone missing, invited me to join the team. After 3 weeks, I’m still undefeated and we're in first place. That could change seeing as so much luck is involved in bar style 8-ball and we haven’t played the best teams yet. Still, I’m having fun and have discovered that second-hand smoke isn’t as thick on week days as it is on tournament nights.

And, I've cashed in the last two 9-ball tourneys I've entered, the Wednesday Night handicap tourney at Capone's and the Thursday night open at DJ's, finishing third in each. Old codgers of the world unite!

Another Day, Another Doll

I played in the handicap tourney up at Capone's last Wednesday. I won a few matches then lost to a couple young phenoms. Anyway, as I was leaving, Rocky mentioned that he was hosting the Women's Florida State 9-Ball Championship this past weekend. So, on Sunday afternoon I tore myself away from the miserable Bucs game and took a ride up to Spring Hill to see some of the action. By the time I got there, the field had been reduced to eight and within a few minutes it was down to six. When I left Maria Catalano, a sharp shooting Brit, was locking horns with Debbie Schjodt, a veteran of the Spirit Tour who has been sizzling of late, in the driver's seat match. The way it looked, the loser was going to have their hands full playing Jeannie Seaver who was racing through the losers bracket. And the final match promised to be a real battle. But, like I said, I had to leave (my sugar was getting low) and I don't know who eventually won. In addition to the prize money and the glory the winner was to earn a spot in the U.S. Open. Anyway, the three girls I mentioned - Catalano, Schjodt, and Seaver - put on a much better show than those pitiful Buccaneers.

I've been playing pretty well lately and, except for the fact that I've made too many careless mistakes, I'm pretty happy with the way my game is coming along. At least it's still coming. Last Thursday, I managed to miss a nine-ball that was laying in the jaws of the pocket otherwise I would've beaten Fast Eddie, one of the better players around here. That would've been a first. The cueball was up table and frozen to the rail, but I still should've made it. Damn!

Ravens, Scum Sucking Dogs and other Varmints

Hey, what’s right is right. Know what I mean? Now, I hate to blow my own horn but I was the first to create web pages dedicated to billiards literature, billiards art and photos of celebrities shooting pool. I began accumulating these various collections back when my web world consisted of the free pages that came with my earthlink account. When earthlink informed me that my pool pages were attracting too much traffic, I set up my own domain and signed on with a webhost. All my pool pages can be accessed via my pool home page: Ace's Web World - Pool and Billiards.

Well, I was surfing around the other day and came across someone else’s page that was being promoted as the home of photos of celebrities playing pool. Wanting to see how this page stacked up against mine, I soon discovered that instead of providing a unique collection of photos the owner of that page had simply copied every photo on my site and was presenting the collection as his own. There’s a word for this – STEALING. Certainly, I do not own rights to these photos – I didn’t take any of them myself – but, in addition to coming up with the idea of presenting pictures of celebrities shooting pool, I did accumulate, crop and edit the collection. It is mine. If the varmints at Ravencues.com wanted to share these pictures with visitors to their site, all they had to do with provide a link to mine. Please, don’t bother going to their site – I’d hate to reward them with even the slightest increase in traffic.

I guess from now on I’ll have to be more vigilant.

Stop Ramblin', Stop Gamblin'

Well, I was discussing the recently reported upheaval at the IPT qualifier up at Capone’s with someone who had a better view and he confirmed that the squabble started over an obvious bad hit. I reiterated my opinion about those who don’t fess up to bad hits and he added that that’s one of the reasons he refuses to gamble. The other reason, he said, that he does not gamble is that he doesn’t need the money. Here we go again.

I don’t gamble because I need the money, I gamble because to me playing pool and not gambling is a lot like jumping in bed with a beautiful naked woman and not having sex.

But, there is an overabundance of people down here in Florida who are afraid of losing a few bucks. Maybe their fixed incomes need fixing. Or, maybe their old ladies are holding the purse strings. Either way, you can imagine the sinking feeling I get in my gut every time I enter the pool room on a Saturday afternoon and find no one to play but the funsy brigade.

Of course, for me, the major thing about betting a few bucks is that it forces me to apply myself. Otherwise, I just bang the balls around as though it doesn’t matter because, actually, it doesn’t. But, everybody isn’t like me. Some guys do not need money for motivation. The sheer joy of beating somebody is motivation enough. For that reason, these guys like to lock horns with players they know they can pound – the lousier their opponent, the more they like it. Wee, what fun! Me, I’d rather lose twenty bucks than waste my time playing someone who can’t hit a rail. Must be my Jersey background.

Anyway, at DJ’s Thursday night 9-ball tournament, I won my first two matches, beating a couple guys I have no business beating, and wound up playing one of the local stars for the driver’s seat. I lost, then lost the match for second place 4-3, but wound up finishing third, the first time I ever finished in the money there. No big payday, but it was a symbolic milestone. Maybe, I am getting better.

In case you’re interested, I added 8 paintings to my Pool in Fine Art collection. Check it out if you get the chance.

Going Going Gone

Still too many distractions keeping me from playing and it’s obvious to those who see me play. I was up on Williams 3-0 in a race to 4 in last Thursday night’s 9-ball tournament and managed to lose. That’s the second time that happened to me in a month. Hopefully, after I sell my mother’s townhouse (if anybody out there is interested in living in Hackettstown, NJ, I just lowered the asking price to $319M. Six months ago they were selling for $350M.), I’ll be able to settle the estate and get back to what’s important.

For those of you who visit my pool pages , I’ve recently added eBay links to most of the pages including the cue pages. Go, for example, to the Schon cue page, then scroll down to the eBay display and you’ll see all the Schon cues currently at auction. Not a big money-maker for me, but a convenience for my visitors.

I’ll let you know if the pool fairy grants me any wishes.

Can’t Win For Losing

Someone said “Lawyer” and the pool hall conversation immediately drifted off course. After a few general derogatory comments were made, I saw an opening and decided to thrill the boys with my personal tale of woe. I told them about this sleaze bag New Jersey attorney I had gotten myself involved with while trying to settle my mother’s estate. I explained how, after I had concluded that rather than helping me get things done he was standing in the way, I fired his candy ass and asked him to return what I had coming of my $1500 retainer. I didn’t hear from him for two months, so I sent him another letter asking him to return what I had coming. He responds to this by sending a trumped up bill to my new lawyer in which he claims that I have not only used up my $1500 retainer but that I owe him another $1500 on top of that. Boston Bobby started shaking his head. “You never get that back – the retainer. They figure some way to get it.” Then he relates a story of how he had been arrested once on an aggravated assault charge only to have the charges dropped later when the star witness finally admitted she had misidentified him. Even though he had been a thousand miles away at the time of the alleged assault and the case had never gone to court and the charges were eventually dropped, he wound up paying $25,000 in legal fees. That, obviously, was a much better sleaze-bag-lawyer story than mine.

Time to Quit – Watching the Second Hand

My wife was watching public television the other day… it’s not something I encourage, but I have to live with the fact that our tastes in TV occasionally diverge. If I get up from the sofa to take a leak, you can bet that by the time I get back she will have grabbed the clicker and not only will she have switched to something to her liking but she will have become so engrossed in it that it will break my heart to make her switch back to what we were watching before my bladder call. Anyway, she was watching public TV and she heard someone say that four hours of second hand smoke is equivalent to smoking 17 cigarettes. Right away, this gets me to thinking about bar tournaments.

I haven’t been playing in as many as I used to. In fact, lately, I’ve only been playing in one, the Friday get-together at the Hay Loft. A few Fridays back a rumor was circulating that the owner was going to invest in smoke eaters. This was very good news for me who quit smoking back in 1990 so that I wouldn’t have to spend my last moments choking on phlegm. True to their word, the management did purchase four or five contraptions that run like your average ceiling fan and look like spinning black donuts. Unfortunately, they have no effect whatsoever on smoke. I still have a hard time believing that anyone with half a brain would waste their money on such crap. But, alas, somebody did. And that was it for me – I made up my mind not to go back.

So, without bar tourneys, I’m going to be limited to playing pool where it was meant to be played, in pool rooms. The main consequence of this is that I now have to resign myself to not winning, not coming in the money, and to not having a chance. Such is life.

Of course, this can be expensive. With this in mind, I’ve been working on my websites with renewed vigor, hoping to increase revenues enough to compensate for my losing ways. In my latest undertaking, I believe it took me two or three days to complete, I gathered together all the bios I have written – music bios, sports bios, literary bios, art bios – and christened the little corner of the internet they occupy Ace’s Bio-Farm. Will it have an effect on overall visits to my site? Who the hell knows?

As far as my game goes, considering I haven’t been playing as much as I should, I’m not playing too bad. I’ve been doing eye exercises using two ping pong balls on a string while I’m watching TV and I actually think I’m seeing the balls a lot better. I doubt that I’ll ever be able to see them like I could when I was a kid, but I am seeing a lot of shots that I wasn’t seeing before. My stroke – now, that’s another problem.

Another Milestone

No, I didn’t run 100 balls. Friday, June 23rd was my 59th birthday. I celebrated by going out to breakfast with my wife and by zipping over to the Hay Loft after supper for the regular Friday night 8-ball tourney. Luck was on my side most of the night and I managed to come in second. The prize was $45. Not bad considering there were only 15 entrants and the entry fee is $5.

But let’s get back to the big FIVE NINE. Next comes the big SIX OH. Do I feel any different? No. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m basically the same guy I was 10, 20, 30 and 40 years ago. Have I reassessed my life? No, again. Enjoying the good life, messing with my web pages and playing pool are still my primary pursuits. As far as shooting pool goes, though I haven’t been playing much lately – settling my mother’s estate has taken a lot more time and energy than I had expected – I’m still convinced not only that I’m getting better, but that one day I may once again be classified as “damn good.”

As far as playing goes, I’ve pretty much limited myself to Friday nights at the Loft and Thursday nights at DJ’s in NPR. The former, I win occasionally, the latter, never. Last week, Earl Strickland showed up. Had I won a match, I might have got to play Earl but as usual I went two and out. Playing Earl isn’t as bad as you might think. He does a lot of conceding. He conceded one game after missing the three ball. I guess he thought he was playing Johnny Archer or something. Anyway, Earl or no Earl, I have a better chance of getting hit by lightning twice than I do of winning at DJ’s. But the guys down there are almost bearable, so I go.

Speaking of Johnny Archer, I caught him and Corey Deuel in a match up a Capone’s a few weeks back. Archer was on the hill but lost focus and let Deuel come back from 4 games down. I was surprised by how much missing they both did. It seems the pros have as much trouble on the Diamond tables as we amateurs. The pockets don’t suck the balls in like they do on the Brunswicks; no margin for error.

Anyway, once my mother’s place gets sold most of my work will have been done. Hopefully, then I’ll be able to rededicate myself to what matters – playing pool.

Life Goes On

I’ve been away for a few weeks. Had to fly north. My mother passed away on March 11, 2006 due to complications following what was supposed to be a routine heart valve replacement and a single bypass. If the surgeons are to be believed, their part went well. It therefore appears that she fell victim to poor aftercare. Two outfits I would like to warn you about in this regard are Kessler’s and Merry Heart. I wouldn’t let these people watch my dog… if I had a dog. They definitely aren’t getting anywhere near my cat. But mom’s gone and speculating on how things might have turned out if she had received the same kind of care Bill Clinton or David Letterman received after their heart surgeries will not bring her back.

Anyway, her passing not only left me in a state of mystification, but also brought me a bushel of responsibilities. Attending to those is what kept me up north. When things reached the point where I thought my presence was no longer required, I came back home.

Obviously, I had no time for pool but I did run into a couple of my boyhood pool shooting buddies. One still plays, the other traded in his cue for a guitar. Hope he doesn’t miscue.

I flew home on the 6th of April and next day, Friday, looking for something different to do, I went to one of my favorite bar tournaments. Miraculously, I finished second, just a shot away from splitting the pot. As it was, 2nd paid 50 bucks.

Also, as a reward for breaking my ass those five weeks, I decided to treat myself to a new cue. Nothing fancy, just a Falcon Sneaky-Pete I found on my website. No wrap, just wood to hold onto. I’ve played with it a couple times since UPS dropped it off - it hits pretty good. Of course, I won’t be taking it to the bars – I’ll save it for the pool room.

Five weeks is too long to go without shooting. Not only is my stroke all screwed up but I can’t remember what it is I’m supposed to be keying on. Lost without a compass. I’m hoping it will come back to me.

To all my pool shooting friends, thanks for your kind thoughts and prayers.