The tournament waters here on the west coast of Florida have always been muddy. Now, they’re getting muddier.
With summer comes the increasing need of fat people to be served with air conditioning. I don’t know the dynamics, but fat people can’t tolerate the heat. This means that in a couple of the smoky dens of inequity that host bar tournaments opening doors to let out the smoke has ceased to be an option. Of course, if these establishments had invested in a couple smoke-eaters there would be no need to open the doors, but because of the cost of those appliances that is not an option. Consequently, I’ve stopped attending my usual Friday night tour stop. I quit smoking in 1990 and though I still have a better than average chance of succumbing to lung cancer, I'm trying not to tease the tiger. The fact that I will no longer have to play one very annoying woman who cheats like a grammar school bully only slightly mollifies the great sense of loss I am feeling.
Our regular Tuesday night stop at the bowling alley has been suffering lately from a dwindling number of participants. On top of that, a good friend of mine who I had introduced to the tournament recently got into a scuffle with one of the regular obnoxious drunks who hang out there and has been banned from returning though the drunk still drops in from time to time. I’ve stopped going there, at least temporarily.
But, hark, a new tournament with a guaranteed $250 added has sprung up down the line. First prize has been $200, second $100, third $60 and 4th $60 for the first two weeks it has been played. Unfortunately, there are rules problems. The first week with $200 at stake, incidences of “dirty pool” were rampant. So, second week, the owner decided to use BCA eight ball rules. Problem was he didn’t know them and when they were explained to him he didn’t like them. How can somebody who doesn’t know what constitutes a legal hit run a pool tournament? I may return there in a few weeks after they work things out, but, since it is officially the highest paying tournament in the area, including the three closest weekly nine-ball tournaments for A-players, there’s no telling what kind of players it’s going to attract.
Speaking of the “A” tournaments, there are guys who play every week who don’t have a prayer of getting into the money, yet they play because they think there’s some kind of honor in rubbing elbows with the better players. For me, there’s no honor in getting your ass kicked, so I’ve avoided playing in them. But, it’s getting to the point where they are starting to look good to me. If I could only elevate my game a couple notches… Crap!
Anyway, that’s how things are looking. I’ll let you know if things change.
H-B-S
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Howl. Lay. Loo. Yuh.
Yesterday, Friday, started off in the doctor’s office – a fun way to start any day. This time my numbers were good – PSA, H A1c, cholesterol, liver enzymes. “A superb example of the male species,” the doctor was thinking… or, something to that effect. I told him that one of my health advisors at Blue Cross Blue Shield had suggested I get a pneumonia shot and he agreed it was a good idea. “Well, give me one,” I said. “You’ll have to make an appointment,” he replied. Once upon a time, way back when, a doctor might have said, “Hold on, I’ll have the nurse give you the injection.” But now they’re too busy. You have to come back another day and, probably, pay for another visit. Anyway, that’s how the day started.
With the mail came our new auto insurance policy from Hartford/AARP - up another $100 from last year. Guess us safe drivers have to pay for all the stupid mistakes made by the demented silver horde who can hardly operate a car door let alone the other intricacies of automobile operation. This increase comes on top of a three fold increase in our mobile home insurance – THREE FOLD!!! Can you imagine? We have to pay the poor insurance companies for all of last year’s hurricane payouts. I didn’t collect anything. And, all of a sudden, the mobile home we paid $19,000 for in 2000 has a replacement value of $44,000. I feel so blessed.
Around 7 PM I got the idea of asking our neighbors to tape a show that was airing on TNT at 8. They had just switched from cable to satellite and told me they were not sure their VCR was hooked up. I went over and farted around for almost an hour trying to figure out how to record and wound up losing the satellite altogether which made my neighbor a little anxious. Thankfully, the satellite manual gave clear directions for turning the system on and, though I never figured out how to record, I did manage to leave with everything working as it had been. When I got home, it was five minutes to eight.
I usually leave for the Friday night bar tourney at 7:30 and the tournament usually starts at 8. I was late. I scrambled through the business pages of the phone book and finally found the bar’s listing. I called and was eventually connected to the tournament director and had her sign me up.
I arrived just in time for my first match and, as luck would have it, I was to play one of the better players. He’s a regular at one of the local pool halls who drops by figuring someone who can play on the big tables won’t have any trouble stealing the $100 first prize. He broke, made nothing, and I ran out. Next, I played a fellow who apparently had been drinking for several hours. Realizing that the only way I could lose was to accidentally sink the 8, I took my time and, after a sloppy 5 or 6 innings, emerged victorious. Next, I barely beat a gal who plays pretty decent. By and by, I beat a decent player for the winner’s side and eventually played him again for the tournament. I won. It was my first win since my operation in May of 2004. As Fast Eddie says at the end of The Color of Money, “I’m Back!”
Howl-Lay-Loo-Yuh!
With the mail came our new auto insurance policy from Hartford/AARP - up another $100 from last year. Guess us safe drivers have to pay for all the stupid mistakes made by the demented silver horde who can hardly operate a car door let alone the other intricacies of automobile operation. This increase comes on top of a three fold increase in our mobile home insurance – THREE FOLD!!! Can you imagine? We have to pay the poor insurance companies for all of last year’s hurricane payouts. I didn’t collect anything. And, all of a sudden, the mobile home we paid $19,000 for in 2000 has a replacement value of $44,000. I feel so blessed.
Around 7 PM I got the idea of asking our neighbors to tape a show that was airing on TNT at 8. They had just switched from cable to satellite and told me they were not sure their VCR was hooked up. I went over and farted around for almost an hour trying to figure out how to record and wound up losing the satellite altogether which made my neighbor a little anxious. Thankfully, the satellite manual gave clear directions for turning the system on and, though I never figured out how to record, I did manage to leave with everything working as it had been. When I got home, it was five minutes to eight.
I usually leave for the Friday night bar tourney at 7:30 and the tournament usually starts at 8. I was late. I scrambled through the business pages of the phone book and finally found the bar’s listing. I called and was eventually connected to the tournament director and had her sign me up.
I arrived just in time for my first match and, as luck would have it, I was to play one of the better players. He’s a regular at one of the local pool halls who drops by figuring someone who can play on the big tables won’t have any trouble stealing the $100 first prize. He broke, made nothing, and I ran out. Next, I played a fellow who apparently had been drinking for several hours. Realizing that the only way I could lose was to accidentally sink the 8, I took my time and, after a sloppy 5 or 6 innings, emerged victorious. Next, I barely beat a gal who plays pretty decent. By and by, I beat a decent player for the winner’s side and eventually played him again for the tournament. I won. It was my first win since my operation in May of 2004. As Fast Eddie says at the end of The Color of Money, “I’m Back!”
Howl-Lay-Loo-Yuh!
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
The Color of Baloney
Speaking of the Color of Money, I caught scientology’s favorite son, Tom Cruise, on Oprah yesterday. No, I’m not an Oprah fanatic – it just happens to be on at 4 PM when I normally eat my dinner. Oh hell, yes it’s true - I am an Oprah fanatic. Oprah, please make my wildest dream come true – give me a brand new custom made cue. The one I’ve been playing with lets out a wimper every time I drive by Wal-Mart. Guess it wants to get back to its Chinese roots. No, Oprah, I don’t need a lifetime supply of insulin and syringes. I can handle the expense with what I make on my website. I don’t need you to pay my hospital bill. I’ve been gnawing away at that and it looks like it will wiped out in another couple months. But, girlfriend, I just can’t justify spending money on something frivolous like a pool cue. So, bring the dream bus, and take me to the cue mall.
Anyway, I’m no expert on scientology. All I know about it I learned from a guy who had risen to a pretty important position in the organization before becoming disillusioned, dropping out and catching Christianity on the rebound. But, that’s another story. What he told me was as a devout scientologist he had surrendered his will to a little demon who directed his life from a perch upon his shoulder. One day, he went to his friend’s house for dinner and the little demon was telling him that he ought to slip the boney baloney to his friend’s wife, right then and there in front of the friend, no less. That’s when he came to his senses and left the cult.
Anyway, when I see Vincent, I mean Tom Cruise, grinning wildly, apparently oblivious to his well documented string of ex-girlfriends, and proudly displaying the latest love of his life, this one barely thirteen years old, while at the same time explaining to Oprah what a wonderful person he is, I can’t help thinking that that’s his little demon talking.
Pool? Well, I dropped my wife off at the mall last Friday and went down DJ’s and played a couple $10 sets with this kid who spots me the wild eight. If the kid’s on, he should win, but he gets careless sometimes and loses focus and when he does I can beat him. No big deal either way, I figure. He’s always quick to let me know he’d rather be playing somebody for a couple hundred. But, on Friday he developed an attitude, complaining about me shitting in balls and saying I was trying to shark him by moving around when in truth I always try to get out of a guys way if I see I’m standing in his line of sight. I mean, if I lose, I lose. I don’t cry about it – I just pay up. Guess there’s no such thing as a friendly $10 game any more.
Friday night, I went to my regular gin mill tournament, got knocked to the loser’s side right away and then won four in a row before getting knocked out. I wasn’t playing that bad from what I recall, just not good enough. I didn’t bother going to the Tuesday night tournament at the bowling allies. Only eight people showed up last week and I didn’t think it was worth wasting the gas. It’s that time of the year when the less serious pool players are finding other things to do - playing baseball and golf, going fishing and camping. Me, I stayed home tonight and watched the second game of the Jeopardy finals. Till next time…
Anyway, I’m no expert on scientology. All I know about it I learned from a guy who had risen to a pretty important position in the organization before becoming disillusioned, dropping out and catching Christianity on the rebound. But, that’s another story. What he told me was as a devout scientologist he had surrendered his will to a little demon who directed his life from a perch upon his shoulder. One day, he went to his friend’s house for dinner and the little demon was telling him that he ought to slip the boney baloney to his friend’s wife, right then and there in front of the friend, no less. That’s when he came to his senses and left the cult.
Anyway, when I see Vincent, I mean Tom Cruise, grinning wildly, apparently oblivious to his well documented string of ex-girlfriends, and proudly displaying the latest love of his life, this one barely thirteen years old, while at the same time explaining to Oprah what a wonderful person he is, I can’t help thinking that that’s his little demon talking.
Pool? Well, I dropped my wife off at the mall last Friday and went down DJ’s and played a couple $10 sets with this kid who spots me the wild eight. If the kid’s on, he should win, but he gets careless sometimes and loses focus and when he does I can beat him. No big deal either way, I figure. He’s always quick to let me know he’d rather be playing somebody for a couple hundred. But, on Friday he developed an attitude, complaining about me shitting in balls and saying I was trying to shark him by moving around when in truth I always try to get out of a guys way if I see I’m standing in his line of sight. I mean, if I lose, I lose. I don’t cry about it – I just pay up. Guess there’s no such thing as a friendly $10 game any more.
Friday night, I went to my regular gin mill tournament, got knocked to the loser’s side right away and then won four in a row before getting knocked out. I wasn’t playing that bad from what I recall, just not good enough. I didn’t bother going to the Tuesday night tournament at the bowling allies. Only eight people showed up last week and I didn’t think it was worth wasting the gas. It’s that time of the year when the less serious pool players are finding other things to do - playing baseball and golf, going fishing and camping. Me, I stayed home tonight and watched the second game of the Jeopardy finals. Till next time…
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Snookered Brainwave Award
DJ’s down in NPR has an all day special that allows one to play from opening until 7 PM for a scant $5. Not a bad deal for those who have the time. Unless I run into someone willing to play a couple cheap sets, however, I am usually content to play a half hour or so by myself. All I want to do, really, is get a feel for the Simonis cloth which is very unlike what I play on in the bars or in the game room of the fogey farm where I live and practice.
So, I go down DJ’s yesterday and at first glance it seems that only three of the eight tables are in use. Picture a three row arrangement with three tables in each row, then pluck out one of the corner tables. That’s DJ’s. Anyway, I point to table three and ask if could play on it. No, says the blond, that’s so-and-so’s table. “Where is he?” I ask. Playing on table two with Joe Shmoe, she replies. “So, I can’t play there.” No, he paid for the table, so it’s his.
I look over at table 5 and notice a case laying on it. “What about table 5?” I ask. “That’s taken.” It seems that whoever had taken it, had paid his five bucks and scrammed. Balls were racked up on table 8, but the dude who was in control of that table was sitting at the bar watching television. To make a long story short, I don’t like to play on the center table where you’re surrounded by tables on all sides with no place to lay your stuff or on the table by the door where you’re too often interrupted by people walking in or out not to mention the glare. So, I didn’t play and spent a couple hours shooting the shit about pool, health and cigarette smoking. It’s one thing to let guys play all day for five bucks, but to let them control two tables for the duration is nuts. Theoretically, you could take control of the whole place for forty measly dollars.
Speaking of which, thanks to a couple fortuitous two-rail kick shots, I came in second in Friday night’s gin mill tourney. There was a low turnout, so my prize was only forty bucks, just enough to buy DJ’s for an afternoon. I am playing better, but improvement is still a gradual thing. My shot-making, especially, is a lot better. Plus, I’m trying to use my head more.
So, I go down DJ’s yesterday and at first glance it seems that only three of the eight tables are in use. Picture a three row arrangement with three tables in each row, then pluck out one of the corner tables. That’s DJ’s. Anyway, I point to table three and ask if could play on it. No, says the blond, that’s so-and-so’s table. “Where is he?” I ask. Playing on table two with Joe Shmoe, she replies. “So, I can’t play there.” No, he paid for the table, so it’s his.
I look over at table 5 and notice a case laying on it. “What about table 5?” I ask. “That’s taken.” It seems that whoever had taken it, had paid his five bucks and scrammed. Balls were racked up on table 8, but the dude who was in control of that table was sitting at the bar watching television. To make a long story short, I don’t like to play on the center table where you’re surrounded by tables on all sides with no place to lay your stuff or on the table by the door where you’re too often interrupted by people walking in or out not to mention the glare. So, I didn’t play and spent a couple hours shooting the shit about pool, health and cigarette smoking. It’s one thing to let guys play all day for five bucks, but to let them control two tables for the duration is nuts. Theoretically, you could take control of the whole place for forty measly dollars.
Speaking of which, thanks to a couple fortuitous two-rail kick shots, I came in second in Friday night’s gin mill tourney. There was a low turnout, so my prize was only forty bucks, just enough to buy DJ’s for an afternoon. I am playing better, but improvement is still a gradual thing. My shot-making, especially, is a lot better. Plus, I’m trying to use my head more.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
60's Revisited
Tuesday night – The Bowling Allies on old 54. As soon as I got out of the car I heard the music but it registered in my brain as loud juke box. It wasn’t until I walked inside that I realized we were going to be treated to live music in the form of this old dude (by old I mean my age) armed with an electric guitar and a microphone. His repertoire consisted of 60’s and 70’s vintage stuff. If it had been played by some virtuoso, say like Eric Freakin’ Clapton, it might have been an enjoyable accompaniment to our pool playing. Unfortunately, Eric Clapton he was not and it didn’t take long before his playing began to grate on me. When he finished a number and some of the crowd started clapping, I would inject, “Please, don’t encourage him.”
One guy, one voice, one guitar – this formula never appealed to me. I remember guys, supposedly friends, back in the 60’s who used to pack their guitars around with them wherever they went and who with little or no encouragement would start strumming and picking and playing for you nonstop their entire catalog. Shear torture! And that’s the mood this guy put me in.
To lighten the moment, there was an old couple – they looked like escapees from the Beach Boys nursing home – who got off their stools several times and danced. I mentioned to one of my fellow players that the guy looked like he had taken one acid trip too many. My friend quipped, “It was probably a half a trip, because he went and never came back!” Funny guy.
Anyway, none of this has anything to do with me getting home by 9 o’clock. For one thing, I had an unlucky draw. First game I had to play Toe Knee (I think that’s how you spell it). He’s the best player on the barroom tour and he counts on winning a couple tournaments a week as his income. The only thing that keeps him from competing against the “A” players in the poolroom tournaments is heart, which he apparently has none of. He would sooner travel 100 mile to steal some bar tournament than travel five miles to the local poolroom for some action with the big boys. If only I could shoot like I could in the 60's…
Anyway, he broke and made nothing. I ran 6 balls, safed myself up, and missed. Then, as you would expect from the best player in the tournament, he ran out. Next, I played a guy who wasn’t too good and I won a battle of endurance. My third and last game went almost exactly like my first game and my opponent ran a wide open table.
As usual, I went home swearing not to go back until they start playing ball in hand. Being able to play safe would certainly improve my chances, especially since I have so much trouble running out.
Oops, gotta go. It’s time for my yogic eye exercises. If they help at all, I’ll let you know.
One guy, one voice, one guitar – this formula never appealed to me. I remember guys, supposedly friends, back in the 60’s who used to pack their guitars around with them wherever they went and who with little or no encouragement would start strumming and picking and playing for you nonstop their entire catalog. Shear torture! And that’s the mood this guy put me in.
To lighten the moment, there was an old couple – they looked like escapees from the Beach Boys nursing home – who got off their stools several times and danced. I mentioned to one of my fellow players that the guy looked like he had taken one acid trip too many. My friend quipped, “It was probably a half a trip, because he went and never came back!” Funny guy.
Anyway, none of this has anything to do with me getting home by 9 o’clock. For one thing, I had an unlucky draw. First game I had to play Toe Knee (I think that’s how you spell it). He’s the best player on the barroom tour and he counts on winning a couple tournaments a week as his income. The only thing that keeps him from competing against the “A” players in the poolroom tournaments is heart, which he apparently has none of. He would sooner travel 100 mile to steal some bar tournament than travel five miles to the local poolroom for some action with the big boys. If only I could shoot like I could in the 60's…
Anyway, he broke and made nothing. I ran 6 balls, safed myself up, and missed. Then, as you would expect from the best player in the tournament, he ran out. Next, I played a guy who wasn’t too good and I won a battle of endurance. My third and last game went almost exactly like my first game and my opponent ran a wide open table.
As usual, I went home swearing not to go back until they start playing ball in hand. Being able to play safe would certainly improve my chances, especially since I have so much trouble running out.
Oops, gotta go. It’s time for my yogic eye exercises. If they help at all, I’ll let you know.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
“Let me count the ways.”
“How do I lose thee? Let me count the ways.” ~ Billy Shakespeare
How did I get eliminated from last night’s tournament? By being stupid. After being shoved over to the losers’ bracket by Dan the Man in my first match, I strung 3 wins together and was looking pretty good, especially since my fifth game was against a nice young lady of moderate abilities.
I scratched on the break, but that caused no damage and I took the lead sinking six of my low balls to her two high balls. I had almost run out but I missed a semi-easy 45 degree cut on my next to last ball. Then she missed a shot leaving me snookered at the far end of the table. We don’t play ball in hand, just honest effort, so I wasn’t compelled to hit my ball but I tried to masse the cue ball around one of her balls and wound up kicking the eight into the corner pocket. Adios, bye-bye, fare-the-well.
Dumb, huh? But I always try to take something away from a match like that, so maybe next week if I’m in a fix like that I’ll remind myself “Whatever you do, Dumb-Ass, don’t make the eight-ball!” There’s a better than 50/50 chance that I’ll forget.
Anyway, aside from the lapse in concentration, I was playing pretty well – making shots and playing pretty good position. If only…
I haven’t been making many entries here because I’ve been preoccupied with my web pages, adding new ones, revising the old ones – it’s a never-ending process. The verdict still isn’t in on whether my switch over to pooldawg.com was a good move or not. They’re nice people and they offer a wide selection of pool cues and accessories, but they’re new to most online shoppers who seem to be a little wary of shopping with someone they don’t know. Take it from me, they’re standup people and you can buy from them with confidence. Besides! What the hell do those geeks at amazon know about pool? Nada! I wore myself out trying to explain to them that Le Pro tips come in different diameters.
I made a new aiming device the other day and remembered a step I didn’t include in that entry. Before you draw your lines you have to sand around the center hole to remove all the rough spots and ridges left from the cutting process. If you don’t, the disk will move around every time you shoot a ball off it. I practice the same shot sometimes 30 times without ever having to readjust the disk.
Not much more going on except I’ve been trying to get to the poolroom more often. I mean, pool should be played in a poolroom not in a bar. From my place it’s the same distance to Capone’s in Spring Hill and DJ’s in New Port Richey. I’ve been going to NPR mostly because it’s close to where my wife works and I can stop and pick her up on my way home. Capone’s is a nice place too. They host a lot of tournaments and give us a chance to watch the pros. It’s nice to watch guys who know what they’re doing. It reminds me of how I used to… Well, truthfully, I never got to be quite that good.
How did I get eliminated from last night’s tournament? By being stupid. After being shoved over to the losers’ bracket by Dan the Man in my first match, I strung 3 wins together and was looking pretty good, especially since my fifth game was against a nice young lady of moderate abilities.
I scratched on the break, but that caused no damage and I took the lead sinking six of my low balls to her two high balls. I had almost run out but I missed a semi-easy 45 degree cut on my next to last ball. Then she missed a shot leaving me snookered at the far end of the table. We don’t play ball in hand, just honest effort, so I wasn’t compelled to hit my ball but I tried to masse the cue ball around one of her balls and wound up kicking the eight into the corner pocket. Adios, bye-bye, fare-the-well.
Dumb, huh? But I always try to take something away from a match like that, so maybe next week if I’m in a fix like that I’ll remind myself “Whatever you do, Dumb-Ass, don’t make the eight-ball!” There’s a better than 50/50 chance that I’ll forget.
Anyway, aside from the lapse in concentration, I was playing pretty well – making shots and playing pretty good position. If only…
I haven’t been making many entries here because I’ve been preoccupied with my web pages, adding new ones, revising the old ones – it’s a never-ending process. The verdict still isn’t in on whether my switch over to pooldawg.com was a good move or not. They’re nice people and they offer a wide selection of pool cues and accessories, but they’re new to most online shoppers who seem to be a little wary of shopping with someone they don’t know. Take it from me, they’re standup people and you can buy from them with confidence. Besides! What the hell do those geeks at amazon know about pool? Nada! I wore myself out trying to explain to them that Le Pro tips come in different diameters.
I made a new aiming device the other day and remembered a step I didn’t include in that entry. Before you draw your lines you have to sand around the center hole to remove all the rough spots and ridges left from the cutting process. If you don’t, the disk will move around every time you shoot a ball off it. I practice the same shot sometimes 30 times without ever having to readjust the disk.
Not much more going on except I’ve been trying to get to the poolroom more often. I mean, pool should be played in a poolroom not in a bar. From my place it’s the same distance to Capone’s in Spring Hill and DJ’s in New Port Richey. I’ve been going to NPR mostly because it’s close to where my wife works and I can stop and pick her up on my way home. Capone’s is a nice place too. They host a lot of tournaments and give us a chance to watch the pros. It’s nice to watch guys who know what they’re doing. It reminds me of how I used to… Well, truthfully, I never got to be quite that good.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Resisting the Urge to Quit
Well, my aiming device hasn’t been doing me much good. Two Fridays straight, I got knocked out of a local tournament because I missed easy shots on the 8-ball. I say “easy” meaning they would’ve been easy 40 years ago. Right now, nothing’s easy. I swear to God, I can’t see the contact point on a straight in shot. Mind boggling! Sometimes I think somewhere along the line someone put a curse on me. I mean, I stare at the balls but can’t for the life of me see them in relationship to a pocket. Once upon a time, this was all automatic. I’d glance at the object ball and immediately see the contact point. Then, I’d look at the cue ball and visualize it at the same angle as the object ball. Then whack, I’d pocket the ball. How does one go about losing the ability to get the pool balls facing a pocket? I’ll never know. What I do know is that it gets awfully frustrating, losing week after week to players who can barely hold a cue. Sure, the bar rules are crazy, but the rules only matter when you miss.
What’s my next step? Well, I’ve set my little disk on a table with the center line aiming for the corner of the table. Along the path to the corner, I’ve centered a poker chip. What I’m going to do is spend several minutes every day meditating on the angles and the lines. Sort of the way those 60’s hippie freaks used to study candles, except there’s a method to my madness. Hopefully, in time something will jell. I’ll let you know.
What’s my next step? Well, I’ve set my little disk on a table with the center line aiming for the corner of the table. Along the path to the corner, I’ve centered a poker chip. What I’m going to do is spend several minutes every day meditating on the angles and the lines. Sort of the way those 60’s hippie freaks used to study candles, except there’s a method to my madness. Hopefully, in time something will jell. I’ll let you know.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
The Pool Thing: A Homemade Aiming Device
Before I start yappin’ about the trouble I have seeing the pool balls, I want to make one thing clear – it has nothing to do with my age. Truth is whatever went wrong with my eyes went wrong 40 years ago.I started hanging out in the pool room, Teasdale’s Billiard Academy in Dover, NJ, when I was about 12 years old. Far from being a natural, my progress as a player was slow. Then, when I was around 14, old Tizz showed me a book he had picked up from his supplier. It was Mosconi’s little red book. Well, I bought it, and read it, reread it, and reread it again. When I should have been doing schoolwork, I was studying the book. For me, even more important than the knowledge the words delivered were the secrets revealed by the pictures. For hours, I’d pose in front of this long mirror my parents had in the dining room. I tried to duplicate exactly the position Willie had adopted for one of the pictures. Eventually, I got it down, all of it – the stance, the stroke, the position and angle of his head, the attitude of his eyes. And my game improved at a startling rate.
By the time I was 16, I was consistently running 40 or 50 balls, spotting working stiffs 15 or 20 to 50 points, and beating them mercilessly. For you younger readers, let me tell you – back then, straight pool was the game of choice, at least up north. If you came into our pool room and found 12 tables occupied, they’d all be hosting a game of straight pool. Personally, I liked straight pool, or “points” as we often called it, because, first, you could measure your progress as a player simply by keeping track of how many balls you ran, and, second, unlike 8-ball or 9-ball where you can lose because of an unlucky break, there wasn’t much chance that a lesser player was going to pull a 50 ball run out of his back-side.
Anyway, I was playing pretty good. Then a couple things happened. Me and Tizz had a falling out for one thing. I used to open up with him 6 days a week. I’d help him take the covers off the tables and roll them up. In exchange, he’d let me practice for free for a half hour. I did this for a couple years. One day, I had been practicing for about 15 minutes when someone came in who wanted to play, so I quit practicing and went on time. Well, the next day, remembering that I hadn’t used my full half hour the previous day, I practiced for 45 minutes. When I was finished and brought the balls up to the counter, Tizz says, “Don’t think I wasn’t keeping track of the fucking time, you fucking thief.” I was crushed. In the years I’d been helping him, he had never so much as said a cross word. Now, all of a sudden he was all over me. I called him a few choice names and walked out. I felt betrayed. Getting yelled and screamed at was something I had to put with on a daily basis at home, but I thought of the pool room as a safe zone. It wasn’t any more. I quit going. In the months following, guys told me he had been asking about me and he wanted me to drop by so we could clear up the “misunderstanding,” but I never went. And, of course, my game suffered. There was a Spanish pool room up town where I played once in a while, but winning money there could be unhealthy. So, I just quit playing.
A couple years passed, then I heard Tizzie was selling the pool room, so I dropped by one day. I tried playing but couldn’t make a simple shot. At the time, and even now, I attributed my inability to see the balls on the glasses I had started wearing during my lay off. I never believed that I really needed glasses, but the high school doctor had sent home a slip after giving me one of those dumb-ass eye exams and, yaduh yaduh yaduh, within weeks I was wearing specs.
I know, lots of guys wear glasses and play great pool. Unfortunately, they didn’t help me a bit and, in fact, somehow thoroughly screwed me up. My best guess is they loused up my depth perception and maybe my peripheral vision, too. What I do know is I went from being able to spot the contact point on an object ball that was a half mile away to not being able to line up a hanger.
I tried to stage a come back but gave up in frustration after a few months. Then, a period of about 37 years went by, I moved down here to the sunshine state, and for one reason or another decided to take up the game again. Well, my pool vision had not improved over the years and I quickly discovered that the mysterious malady that had struck way-back-when persisted. I still couldn’t sight in the balls and, as a result, couldn’t play worth a crap.
But, this time I didn’t quit. I decided to work on my game and try to get my eye back. Toward that end, I made an aiming device that I use when I practice. If you are having similar problems, maybe you would like to try it.
I haven’t named the device, but when I misplace it I ask my wife if she’s seen my “pool thing,” and she usually knows what I’m talking about. So, let’s call it that – the pool thing. It’s made from an old cost wheel, a souvenir of my days as a double-knit maven for McGregor-Doniger. Any similar device will do. I’ve seen circular slide rules and I recently found something similar in a second-hand shop that was made to calculate “Radiacs,” whatever the hell they are.
Anyway, typically, these things are made up of two or three plastic discs centered over each other and held together with a metal grommet. What I do is carefully cut around the grommet with a razor knife, being careful not to make the resulting hole any larger than necessary. Next, sand the edges of the holes, smoothing out all the nicks and notches made by the knife. When this is complete, what I have are two or three discs with holes at their center. The one I find most useful is about 3 ½ inches in diameter. I’ve made a few lines across it with a Sharpie – one exactly through the center, and two parallel with it that approximate the width of a ball. These lines, of course, are to help me sight in the object ball when I place it on the disc. The balls, you’ll discover, rest nicely in the grommet hole.So, I aim the lines at a pocket, and shoot balls off the disc and into the pocket from different angles. Though my “pool thing” has not produced any miracles for me, it has helped quite a lot and might help you more. If you’re having trouble seeing the contact point, why not give it a try. What do you have to lose? And if one day we should lock horns and you wind up beating me, that’s okay too. I’m trying to learn how to be a gracious loser.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Get Mad, Get Even
I’m not an “A” player. In fact, as a pool player, I hit my prime at age 16, about 42 years ago. But that’s another story. The point is that even though I can’t compete with the heavy hitters who dominate the local “A” tournaments – Monday night at Capone’s, Wednesdays at Stroker’s, Thursday nights at DJ’s in New Port Richey – I still want to compete. So, what’s open to me? There are a few handicap tournaments in the area, most notably at Capone’s on Wednesday nights. I venture up there every once in a while, but the powers that be have long had me confused with some bald-headed guy who can play and I wind up spotting my opponents 99% of the time. Several times, I’ve been told that the next time I come my rating would be lowered a notch, but it never happens. In fact, I went there a few weeks back. It was the first time I’d been there in a year. 2004 was a shit year for me. Two operations on my colon had me laid up from Spring through New Year. Anyway, when I showed up at Capone’s I discovered that I had been dropped from the computer. So what do they do? They start me off as a “plus one.” The idea of a handicap tournament is encouraging for guys like me; however, when you’re the one who has to win 6 games to your opponent’s 3, they’re no fun at all.
This leads me to the local barroom 8-ball tournament circuit. On the positive side, there’s no spotting anybody anything. But the negatives, for me, are overwhelming. For one thing, I grew up with a disdain of 8-ball. I was a straight pool shooter and couldn’t think of any good reason why I should play a lesser player a game where they could get lucky and beat me. Let’s face it, no chump is ever going to run 50 balls on you. A second negative is an offshoot of the setting – a lot of the guys you’re playing with have had too much to drink. But, the most negative of all the negatives are the crazy rules you have to play by.
Of all the ways you can play 8-ball, I prefer the “call-your-pocket” “ball-in-hand” game. Unfortunately, most of the bars around here opt for the “no safe,” “call-your-shot,” “honest-effort” version. The problem with this game, as you probably know, is that there are no commonly accepted guide-lines for judging an honest effort. I can’t tell you how many games I’ve lost because someone played me safe in the latter stages of the match.
Tuesday last, I was in a tournament at the bowling alleys down on old 54 playing this guy Ned (His name has been changed to protect the guilty – it doesn’t really have an “n” in it.) Anyway, at a critical juncture he cheated me by playing safe. Now, I distinguish between playing safe and trying a shot while being careful not to give away the farm if you miss. Let’s face it, no matter what rules you play by you have to use your head. But, Ned didn’t call a shot and he made no attempt to make a ball. He played an out and out safe. So, of course I got pissed off… again. I mean this kind of crap is par for the course. Later on, he tried to portray the shot as a lucky accident. “Wha’d’ya think, I’m freakin’ stupid?” I said to him. He never answered directly, but I’m pretty sure he does.
So, he cheated me and beat me. I won’t forget that and I’m actually looking forward to an opportunity to repay him in kind. That’s about all I can do.
This leads me to the local barroom 8-ball tournament circuit. On the positive side, there’s no spotting anybody anything. But the negatives, for me, are overwhelming. For one thing, I grew up with a disdain of 8-ball. I was a straight pool shooter and couldn’t think of any good reason why I should play a lesser player a game where they could get lucky and beat me. Let’s face it, no chump is ever going to run 50 balls on you. A second negative is an offshoot of the setting – a lot of the guys you’re playing with have had too much to drink. But, the most negative of all the negatives are the crazy rules you have to play by.
Of all the ways you can play 8-ball, I prefer the “call-your-pocket” “ball-in-hand” game. Unfortunately, most of the bars around here opt for the “no safe,” “call-your-shot,” “honest-effort” version. The problem with this game, as you probably know, is that there are no commonly accepted guide-lines for judging an honest effort. I can’t tell you how many games I’ve lost because someone played me safe in the latter stages of the match.
Tuesday last, I was in a tournament at the bowling alleys down on old 54 playing this guy Ned (His name has been changed to protect the guilty – it doesn’t really have an “n” in it.) Anyway, at a critical juncture he cheated me by playing safe. Now, I distinguish between playing safe and trying a shot while being careful not to give away the farm if you miss. Let’s face it, no matter what rules you play by you have to use your head. But, Ned didn’t call a shot and he made no attempt to make a ball. He played an out and out safe. So, of course I got pissed off… again. I mean this kind of crap is par for the course. Later on, he tried to portray the shot as a lucky accident. “Wha’d’ya think, I’m freakin’ stupid?” I said to him. He never answered directly, but I’m pretty sure he does.
So, he cheated me and beat me. I won’t forget that and I’m actually looking forward to an opportunity to repay him in kind. That’s about all I can do.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Down at the Y
Though this is my pool blog, I have no intentions of making it a chronological presentation. In other words, I’m going to skip around a bit. Still, I thought I might start off by describing my initial contact with the game of billiards.
It occurred in the late 1950’s in Dover, New Jersey, at the old red brick YMCA building which sat on the corner of Bergen and Rt. 46, across from the park known locally as the Dover Commons.
I had never put those four letters – Y-M-C-A – together until I was introduced to the Y by a young friend, Marty Sullivan. Marty lived downtown and because of that he amused himself with a variety of activities that were new to me, a lad who spent most of his free time in seclusion fishing or thinking about baseball. He spoke of the Y with such excitement I couldn’t resist his invitation to join him one day after school.
And he was right. The Y was a great place. The people who worked there were friendly and welcoming. It was nice to have a place to go to where you didn’t have to worry about people lifting their noses at you or ordering you to get lost. If you were a member of the Y, you belonged.
We’d go there everyday after school and amuse ourselves by shooting hoops, playing chess or ping pong, and occasionally by taking our turn at the pool table.
To be honest, I wasn’t terribly gifted as an athlete and little Marty (I call him that because at that stage, when we were in grammar school, I was one of the tallest kids in our class and Marty was one of the shortest) would beat me as often as not. Pool was no different. There is no pool gene. I was later to find out that my Uncle Nicky was one of the best players around. Still, I just plain stunk.
I remember one of the older guys telling us one day that the secret to making a shot when the object ball is froze to the rail is to aim straight through the center of the cue ball to the point where the ball and the cushion make contact. I occasionally resort to this technique, even today.
Anyway, I didn’t have the fever for the game I would later develop – at that stage of my life, playing pool was just something to do.
It occurred in the late 1950’s in Dover, New Jersey, at the old red brick YMCA building which sat on the corner of Bergen and Rt. 46, across from the park known locally as the Dover Commons.
I had never put those four letters – Y-M-C-A – together until I was introduced to the Y by a young friend, Marty Sullivan. Marty lived downtown and because of that he amused himself with a variety of activities that were new to me, a lad who spent most of his free time in seclusion fishing or thinking about baseball. He spoke of the Y with such excitement I couldn’t resist his invitation to join him one day after school.
And he was right. The Y was a great place. The people who worked there were friendly and welcoming. It was nice to have a place to go to where you didn’t have to worry about people lifting their noses at you or ordering you to get lost. If you were a member of the Y, you belonged.
We’d go there everyday after school and amuse ourselves by shooting hoops, playing chess or ping pong, and occasionally by taking our turn at the pool table.
To be honest, I wasn’t terribly gifted as an athlete and little Marty (I call him that because at that stage, when we were in grammar school, I was one of the tallest kids in our class and Marty was one of the shortest) would beat me as often as not. Pool was no different. There is no pool gene. I was later to find out that my Uncle Nicky was one of the best players around. Still, I just plain stunk.
I remember one of the older guys telling us one day that the secret to making a shot when the object ball is froze to the rail is to aim straight through the center of the cue ball to the point where the ball and the cushion make contact. I occasionally resort to this technique, even today.
Anyway, I didn’t have the fever for the game I would later develop – at that stage of my life, playing pool was just something to do.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Blast Off
I remember my dying father's fond reminicsences of younger days when he could roll down the window of his car and spit out onto the road. During his last weeks and days, he could hardly summon enough strength to get a bead of spittle from his lip to his chin. Though I would like to start my blogging experience with a blast out the car window, I'm afraid it's more of a dribble that won't make it to my chin.
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