2009 Resolution Breakdown

No one said it was going to be easy – keeping my resolution to be more tolerant in 2009.

First came that old jerk-off who spilled a tray of balls on table number four at DJ’s. What an asshole! Then, last night, during our Boondocks team's first pool league match of the new year, I was put to the test again by the team from Cricketers in Port Richey.

In my first game of the night, I was playing this girl, the only female on their team. I missed a bank on the 8-ball into the side pocket and the eight came to rest about an inch beyond the side pocket and about 1/8” off the rail. My opponent managed to run out to the 8-ball, leaving the cue ball approximately in the center of the head end of the table. To me, it appeared she had three choices – she could try to cut it in the side (a shot I thought I could have made), she could try to run it down the rail to the corner, or she could have banked it cross side or cross corner. This is my frame of mind as she calls one of her teammates over to the table and confers with him. After a few words, he walks around the table and positions himself between me and the side pocket, screening me from the 8-ball. I get off my stool and lean out far enough to see what he’s doing. He’s making a lot of unnecessary hand gestures in close proximity of the 8-ball. My first thought is that he was going to put his hand on the point of the side pocket and depress it. Some players believe that this can give you a little more room on shots like this. However, I was giving them too much credit. Their plan was to move the 8-ball enough to make the shot into the side simpler. Despite all his gesticulating, her teammate punked out and called on a second teammate to take his place. He took up the same position, screening me from view, and I, again, was forced to leave me seat to see what he was doing. He continued the same tact, talking with his hands, moving his fingers all around the ball. When his critical move came, he was trying just to nudge the ball a fraction, he applied too much force and the 8-ball moved 3 or 4 inches. By then, I’d had enough. I went to the table, pushed aside the cue ball, and grabbed the 8-ball, declaring the game over. They bitched and I called them “fuckin’ cheats.”

That’s about as tolerant as I can get.

2009: The Year of Tolerance

High on my list of New Year’s resolutions is my intention to be more tolerant. Like, regarding that old guy, Tom, who came into DJ’s and dumped a tray of balls out onto table number 4 a few Thursdays ago, I will try not to utter the word “asshole” under my breath every time I see him. Hm… good luck with that. I mean, as far as I’m concerned, people who do that are assholes. I was in DJ’s another time when this other idiot did the same thing and thereby also offended my delicate sensibilities. I couldn’t keep myself quiet. “Where’d you learn that move?” I asked. “At the friggin’ Moose Club?” (No offense to the Moose out there, it was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment.) I can only imagine how Moulton Teasdale, the guy who owned the pool room where I grew up, would have reacted to someone doing that to one of his tables. Most likely, he would’ve made a few choice comments regarding the man’s intelligence and lineage, and then thrown the stupid mother ef’er out, suggesting strongly that he never come back. But that was yesterday…

Here, I had intended to move on to my second resolution, but writing about the first one has me so ticked off that I can’t think straight. How’s this? I resolve to be the same mean old son-of-a-bitch in 2009 that I was in 2008. If you don’t like it, shove it!

Ace's Christmas Story and Poem

The Poem: A Mean Man Named Ho
The Story: The Christmas Meucci

Merry Christmas Everyone!

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