Different Strokes for Different Blokes

Happy New Year!

I realize it may appear that I’ve been neglecting my blogging duties, but it just ain’t so. I just haven’t had anything to say, and, in truth, probably still don’t.

I wish I could report that my game’s improving by leaps and bounds, but I can’t. Though I feel I am improving in various aspects, overall I’m still floundering. Which reminds me, a nice fellow named Tore offered some insightful advice as comments to my last post, so give them a read if you get the chance.

For Christmas, I decided to treat myself to a couple pool books – Play Your Best Pool by Phil Capelle and Essential Pool by Cranfield and Moy. I picked them up on the cheap via my
pool book web page. If you have nothing else to do some day, scope it out. You’ll find used books for as low as a penny. I kid you not! Of course, there are shipping charges. I’m thinking that if you sell a book for a penny, you have to be making something on S&H. Still, I find better bargains on pool books by buying them used through my site than I’ve ever found on eBay. So much for shameless self-promotion.

Anyway, the Capelle book isn’t something you can whiz right through. You have to take your time. After I read his take on the fundamentals, I went to work on the ol’ poke. After a couple weeks of that I gave up in disgust and moved ahead to his chapters on draw and follow. I’m still there. No sense moving on until I feel confident drawing and following the ball. At least that’s the way I figure it.

I also treated myself to a pair of Elephant Practice Balls. I bought them hoping they would help me sharpen my eye and I think they’re working. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I’ve been cutting back on pool room tournaments of late figuring no sense blowing the entry fees when I don’t pose the slightest threat of making it into the money. I’ve cashed twice in bar tourneys the last two weeks though that doesn’t mean much. When I win a couple in a row, I’ll take that as a sign I’m playing better.

I bet I’m not telling any of you who play on your local bar tour that bar 8-ball tournaments can be a pain in the ass. In addition to the inebriated entrants, there are the rules which down here vary from bar to bar. Instead of one foul ball-in-hand, they usually play a no-safe variation down here they refer to as honest effort. Unfortunately, no one has ever bothered to define “honest effort.” I interpret it as having to make an honest effort to pocket a ball on every shot. I can’t tell you how many games I’ve lost because I couldn’t bring myself to violate the rules and play safe. Rest assured, there are plenty of other guys who will lock you up without a moment’s hesitation. The people in charge seldom warn a guy about playing safe and I've never seen anyone penalized. If a guy plays me safe, he goes on a list of guys I’ll safe up if I get the chance. But, it’s just bullshit. Just Friday I missed a shot and inadvertently left my opponent a long angle shot on the eight with the cue ball frozen to the end rail. He made the shot and scratched and afterward swore that I had played him safe. I doubt he would have done much crying if he hadn’t scratched.

Anyway, I hope that someday I’ll be able to elevate my game to the point where I can actually compete with the big boys in the pool room. Then, I’ll be able to forsake most of the bar action. …I should live so long.

Brokeback Billiards

I’ve got to be honest with you: I have no wish to be known as a good bar box player. It’s my contention that if you can play pool on a regulation table you should be able to handle yourself on the small tables as well. In fact, as I recall, back when I could actually play this game I had a hard time missing on a bar table, even at times when a miss was in order.

In addition, as regards my playing now, I don’t think playing on the small tables is doing anything for my game. Yet, since there’s not much going on in the local pool rooms, I find myself playing in bar tourneys three nights a week. And that’s it. No mas, no mas. So, when I was recently invited to join a bar pool league, I declined. Most of my pals from the bar tour play every night of the week, including two nights, Mondays & Wednesdays, set aside for leagues. Guess they don’t have much going on at home.

Anyway, I was asked to sub this past Wednesday and, because it didn’t involve a season long commitment, I said I would. I won my four games so I don’t have to carry any guilt around for letting the guys down. But as far as the league experience goes, it’s not for me. Too much high-fivin’!

I come from the pre-touchy-feely generation. I don’t believe guys should be touching other guys except to shake hands when it’s appropriate or to knock someone on their freakin’ ass. I lost my appetite for bowling when it turned into a high fivin’ marathon. Not only did my fellow bowlers feel the need to celebrate their camaraderie after every frame, some wanted to touch hands after every ball! That’s ten frames, times two balls, times four other guys, times three games… God, it boggles the mind.

Speaking of God, the “give your neighbor the sign of friendship” hand holding is a big reason why I gave up church going.

If I win a game, tell me “Good game.” If I make a good shot, say “Nice shot.” That’s all I require. That’s all I want. If you feel the need to touch somebody, go console my opponent.

The Christmas Meucci: A Christmas Story by Ace Toscano

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hardly a boy, Santa. But thanks."

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

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

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

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

He was waiting.

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

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

I did. It was paint, alright.

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

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

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

"Lots of children," I added.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah... I guess."

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

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

"Yes?"

"You were crying."

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

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

"I do."

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

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

"Remember?"

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

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

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

"Praying?"

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

I couldn't for the life of me.

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

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

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

"And crying," I reiterated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END
© 1998-2005 by Ace Toscano

A Pool Poem: Mickey and the Wild Eight

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."

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.

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?"

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.

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

An Honest Effort

I’d been in the same fix before, too many times – playing in a 8-ball bar tournament where safes aren’t allowed and you’re expected to play some ball somewhere even if you have no reasonable chance to make it. In this instance, I was playing Barry, author of most of the rules we were playing by and the man who ran the tournament.

I actually had two possible shots, one a lot more possible than the other. The best shot I had was a kick made more difficult because I would have to spin the cue ball off the cushion in order to get it headed toward my ball which was frozen to the end rail. Making the shot even harder was another ball I would have to slide the cue ball by, plus the fact that rules would make it necessary to call rails and kisses. The other shot which may have been possible if I had been given 20 tries at it involved me hitting the edge of the object ball I could see and thereby bank it two cushions, end rail to side rail, into the side. Though it was highly unlikely that I could make this shot, it would have allowed me to send the cue ball around to the far end of the table where my opponent would be left with a difficult shot. If I missed the kick shot, I was dead. His two remaining balls were sitting along the end rail and the 8 was hanging in the side.

As I contemplated what approach to take, Barry appeared at me shoulder. “You have to try it,” he said. “Excuse me,” I said incredulously, somewhat annoyed that he had come over to break my concentration. “It’s the only shot you have,” he replied. “What’s the only shot I have?” I asked. “Kicking at the ten,” he said. “I could bank it two rails into the side,” I suggested. “Yes, you could,” he agreed. Of course, we both knew chances of that going were about nil.

So, to hell with it, I said to myself, and in the name of honesty gave the kick my best effort. I missed, left Barry an easy set up, and he ran out.

After that I won a few games and wound up playing Barry again, this time for 3rd place. The game comes down to the point where Barry has to run out or I’m going to win. He’s moving around the table pretty good when he screws up position. So, what’s he do? Rather than make an "honest effort" attempt to make a ball, he plays me safe and winds up beating me again. Man, was I pissed. First, the mother-humpin’ bastard looks over my shoulder to make sure I try some kind of hair brained shot. Then, when he gets a chance to show me what a stand-up guy he is, he cheats me.

I think I’ll be passing on those Tuesday night fiascos from now on. I hate bar pool tournaments anyway.

As for me and my game, I can honestly say I’m still getting better. I continue to work on my stroke and, when I remember, my eye-training exercises. Though I don’t have a chance, I’m thinking about playing in Rocky’s Monday Night $500-added open tournament up at Capone’s. Not that I’d have a chance against, Strickland, Morris, Saez, or any of the other sharpshooters, but there are a fair amount of chumps who enter and with a little luck I might slide into 8th place some day. Talk about your lofty ambitions. LMFAO.

A Key To A Better Stroke

Let’s face it, I’m no Willie Mosconi, just like A-Rod’s no Yogi Berra, or Mickey Mantle, or Derek Jeter, or Gary Sheffield. A-Rod is a perennial post-season choke artist al a Dave Winfield. I know post season play is not supposed to influence MVP voting; still, I hope he doesn’t get it. Give the MVP to David Ortiz, another guy who can get the big hit when it counts. ‘Nuff said about baseball. Back to pool.

If you’ve read my previous entries, you have probably determined that I am more or less obsessed with pool vision and the importance of seeing the balls in relation to the pocket. Daily I bemoan the fact that I’ve lost that ability and regard it as the main reason I can’t recapture my form of 40 years ago. A recent streak of losses, however, has caused me to take a closer look at my stroke. I was immediately forced to admit that it was atrocious. However, while my efforts to improve my vision have only been mildly successful, there seemed no reason why I couldn’t build an effective stroke and thereby eliminate misses on easy shots.

When I first learned how to play, back when I was a kid, the only guide I had to proper stroking was Mosconi’s little red book. Consequently, my stroke was somewhat like his, at least it incorporated all the elements he talked about, some of which are contrary to current philosophies.

For example, a couple years ago I actually had to bring the little red book (Willie Mosconi on Pocket Billiards) to the pool room to prove a point. One of the resident experts insisted that at the moment of contact the forearm should be straight up and down at a 90 degree angle from the upper arm. When I told him that was contrary to what Mosconi had once espoused, he announced in front of the entire pool room that I didn’t know what I was talking about.

As a matter of honor, I went home, found the applicable passage and made it a point to bring the book to the pool hall next day. Of course, the local expert would not admit he had been wrong. It wouldn’t have been good for his image.

The paragraph I was referring to is on page 35 of the 1968 edition. It reads, “By comparing Fig. 23 (page 34) with Fig. 5 (page 19), you will note that the player is in the same relative position at the backward and forward points of his stroke. At the backward point of the stroke the hand points down to the floor at approximately a right angle. At the forward point of the stroke, the shoulder is in about the same position; the elbow has dropped slightly, and the wrist moves forward. The cue is held as level as possible.” Figure 23 shows Mosconi with his cue drawn back. Figure 5, which is often misinterpreted, is a depiction of his position after the stroke with the cue ball on its way.

As a young lad, I studied that book relentlessly. When I took my stance at the table, I could feel that I was in the same position Mosconi had been in in the various photos. And I had, if I do say so myself, one helluva stroke. It was perfect; and it never broke down. Whether I was on the rail or stretched the full length of the table, it was always true. And when I put stuff on the cue ball, it danced. Unfortunately, after a 38 year lay off, my stroke was gone.

I had no choice but to start from scratch, but my heart wasn’t really in it. So, what I settled for was a tentative poke that wasn’t consistent with my former way of stroking or with the new theories I have been exposed to. What the hell, I figured, since I couldn’t see the balls anyway, what difference did it make. Well, I was wrong.

Like I said, because I was missing too many easy shots I had to admit my stroke was the problem and I started working on it. The first thing I concentrated on was keeping my upper arm still while working my forearm with that desired pendulum action. I also focused on following through on every shot, noting in particular the location of my grip hand, near my right breast, at the conclusion of each shot. And, because I frequently caught myself tightening my grip during the shot, I worked on maintaining a light grip with the thumb and first three fingers.

I found that my stroke was straightest when the thumb was straight up and down, so I incorporated that into the mix. My stroke was coming along but it still wavered during the follow through, veering to the left or right. Then I started keying on the lead edge of my right hand and the bottom knuckle of index finger. When I stroke, I feel that part of my hand and knuckle gliding along the path and driving the cue through the cue ball. It works… for me. My stroke in 100% better than it was just a few weeks ago. How do I know? I’m playing better. I’m not missing those easy shots, and I’m getting better action on the cue ball. If you’re having trouble with your stroke, try keying on the knuckle and the leading edge of your grip hand.

Pigeons, White Rats and You

A word of encouragement from the world of experimental psychology…

As a psych major back in the 1970’s I was well indoctrinated in the virtues of positive and negative reinforcement as well as the influences on behavior of various reinforcement schedules. In regards to my personal pool development program, however, I think the simple act of making a good shot or winning a match is all the reinforcement I or anyone will ever need.

Still, there is one fact I recall from my school days that I still find encouraging. It regards this basic tenet of learning: The probability that a task will be performed correctly increases with the number of attempts a subject makes. In other words, the more we try something, the better we get at it.

I have applied this dictum to my pool game and am convinced that it easily transfers to our beloved game. A case in point: I devote much of every practice session to working on shots that are a problem for me, for example, long shots from various angles where the object ball rides the rail to the pocket. Not long ago, these shots were virtually impossible for me. During a recent session I pocketed 10 of them in a row. More than anything, I attribute my improvement making these shots to my repeated practice. During every session, I set aside time for them, even when I have other shots to work on.

(A note: I have to admit that I lost a recent match because I missed a shorter version of this very shot. Unfortunately, it’s hard to practice “not choking.” I’m hoping entering more competitions will produce the desired effect.)

Of course, the results of this kind of practice can be amplified by the degree of concentration you bring to the table. I, for instance, make careful note of my perceived contact points on the cue and object balls and follow the cue ball’s path to the object ball on every shot. When I miss, I make adjustments. I believe that this kind of applied practice will allow you to advance at a faster rate.

One last observation: I believe the reason there are so many lousy golfers in the world is directly related to the fact that for the most part they avoid working on their weaknesses. They go to the range, flub a few shots with the clubs they can’t handle and quickly switch to the clubs they have confidence in. Because of this, Uncle Jimmy, the family golf nut who has a closet full of golf outfits and a couple thousand dollars worth of golf clubs, couldn’t break 120 if his life depended on it.

Thankfully, most pool players are smarter than golfers.

Good luck and good shooting.

One-Eyed Jack and the Magic Eye Patch

Though I haven’t been posting too much lately, don’t take that to mean I haven’t been shooting pool. I have been. And, I’ve been playing pretty well. Yes, though I’m pushing 60, I am still improving.

Most recently, I came in 4th place, one spot out of the money, at the “A” nine-ball tournament at DJ’s two Thursdays ago. Considering the caliber of some of the players, that’s about as good as I can ever hope to finish. Likewise, I finished third at the big $250 added 8-ball bar tournament at Classic’s. As I predicted several weeks back, the money attracts all kinds of hot shots, one who’s been on the pro tour.

The latest boost in my play has to be credited to the eye patch. I started wearing it around the house a few weeks back hoping it would encourage my dominant eye to be more dominant and thereby eliminate the problem I have zeroing on object ball contact points. It may have helped in this regard, but honestly speaking I forget to put it on most days and therefore haven’t given it a true test. When I wear the patch, my wife calls me One-Eyed Jack.

Anyway, more significant is the fact that I’ve been wearing the patch while practicing my long straight shots. Nothing will point out faulty alignment quicker. When you can start popping in those long straight shots one-eyed, you can be pretty sure you're in line. Hopefully, when you remove the patch the good alignment will carry over to your other shots. It has for me. I was missing a lot of shots and blaming them on my vision. Now, it’s apparent that at least some of those misses were due to bad alignment.

Another thing I’ve been doing involves the use of a small disk (see earlier entry on my aiming device), about the size of a silver dollar. The disk has a single line through its diameter. In order to help me visualize the contact point on the cue ball, I place the disk flat on the table between my bridge hand and the cue ball. The line on the disk must be placed at the same angle as the object ball to the pocket. Looking at the lead edge of the disk helps me locate the contact point on the cue ball. At least that’s my theory. And you can’t argue with success.

A few weeks ago I mentioned my latest pool story, Remembrance of Ignominious Things Past. In an example of cross-promotional brilliance, I redesigned my pool t-shirt. It has the familiar flaming 8-ball image on the front, and on the back it states pool rule 6: “When you bet and lose, YOU HAVE TO PAY! Otherwise, people might think you’re a freakin’ scumbag.” Be the first on your block to order one.

Farewell To The Tennessee Rambler

Last Saturday, July 6th, men and women of the cloth (the green cloth, that is, preferably Simonis) gathered to bid farewell to our friend and fellow pool shooter James. Five years away from his native Tennessee was enough and he’s now looking forward to returning to all the gang back home.

More than anyone else, James is responsible for what has come to be known as the Florida Barroom Tour. He not only found the tournaments, some in little hole-in-the-wall beer joints, he also spread the word.

He’s made a zillion friends down here all of whom are now lamenting the fact that tournaments will never be the same – not as lively, not as enjoyable. He leaves here owing no one, but being owed by everyone. That’s just the kind of guy he is.

Below is a portrait of James at the party as he studies a game in progress. In the background is one of the many admirers who attended the soiree.





The party was hosted by Chris and Jim. Chris and James have been on the first place team in their pool league the last few years. I’ve had a few rule and procedural disputes with her at tournaments and therefore have always avoided contact with her or her sharp-shooting spouse. However, they proved at the party, once and for all, that they’re much better people than I am. Not that that’s anything to brag about; the way I figure it, three out of four people you pass on the street are better than I am. Check that - my wife says it's more like 99 out of a hundred. Anyway, in their case it is significant - they are much, much better and nicer. The party was great. We had a little tournament in the garage - I think I came in third – and I hear that some of those straight-shooting animals were still pocketing balls at four in the morning, long after the older fellows were home and in bed.

Perfect Alignment

The planets were lined up just right, I had a good draw, I got a few good rolls, and I might’ve been a little lucky because for the second time in about 6 weeks I won the Friday night stop on the local bar room tour. Top prize was ninety bucks instead of the usual hundred because of a sparse field, I guess.

Like I have said, my friend James is moving out of Pasco County and back to Tennessee in a couple weeks, so my participation as a regular on the bar tour is about to come to an end. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met a lot of nice people on the circuit, as well, of course, as more than a few slugs. It’s the game they play that I’ve had enough of. It looks like pool, it even smells like pool, but to me it just isn’t pool. It’s sort of like comparing miniature golf to that game Tiger Woods plays, if you know what I mean.

I mean, sure, I’ve won a few tournaments but I’d be much more pleased with myself if I entered an ‘A’ tournament and won a match or two. If you want to be a pool player, you gotta play pool.

So, after James leaves I’ll be performing my wizardry in the pool halls of Pasco County. At least, that’s the plan. I might sneak back to the bars once in a while, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

And there are other forces at play here, like I don’t smoke. Sure, there’s a lot of smoking in the pool rooms, too, but most of the pool rooms around here have smoke eaters and other types of ventilation. This is not the case with the beer joints. They could give a shit about your lungs. I quit smoking back in 1990 and I like to kid myself into thinking my odds of getting lung cancer have gone down. It’s hard to kid yourself when after a night of pool playing you come home with aching lungs.

Then there’s the fact that I don’t drink. I haven’t had so much as a beer since I was diagnosed a diabetic back in 2000. I’ve been told I can have an occasional beer with little consequence, but, the way I look at it, if you’re not gonna get bombed why drink at all. I do feel obligated to buy something when I’m out, so I’ll usually buy myself a water or a diet cola. (Note: I didn’t endorse any particular brand of diet cola because as of now I haven’t received that $50,000 check.)

That’s about it. I’m still practicing about an hour a day, working on my stroke and my shot making, and I’m still wearing the eye patch over my subdominant eye hoping to make my dominant eye more… dominant. Is it doing any good? I don’t really think so; not yet anyway. But, I’m a stubborn mother f’er - I refuse to give up.

The Horror!

I just got back from my practice session over at the clubhouse. My sessions usually run the same – they start off with a couple of racks of straight shots, corner to corner, long-ways across the table. After I start poking them in (and, unfortunately, I do mean poke) with regularity, I switch to angle shots, placing the object ball just off the rail three diamonds up table from the corner (one diamond south of the side). After each shot, the object ball is placed back in this spot. I start this progression with the cue ball along the opposite side rail, one diamond north of the side. If I make the shot first try, I move the cue ball north one diamond and progress around the corner and along the end rail one diamond at a time till I’m shooting a straight in shot. If I miss along the way, my penalty is that I can’t move on until I make two in a row. When I complete this, I reverse everything so that I’m cutting in the opposite direction to the opposite corner… if you know what I mean. Sometimes I tell myself that I’m going to make up a chart and keep track of how many shots it takes me from day to day so that I can see if I’m actually improving, but I forget about it almost immediately. Next, I shoot some spot shots from both sides of the table varying the location of the cue ball. Then, I start playing nine ball by myself, setting the balls up in different formations, or just throwing them out on the table at random.

Of course, the most important part of my session involves practicing the shot or shots that caused me to be eliminated from the previous night’s tournament. Oh, God, I hate to think about it. I beat some good players last night but wound up missing an easy shot along the rail that would have left me with a straight in shot on the eight in the side. The Horror! Unfortunately this kind of thing is all too common. I’m pretty sure the problem lies with my stroke or with that series of spastic gyrations I call a stroke. I’m determined to make my stroke better. Today, I consciously exaggerated my follow through on every shot. I think I’m on the right track.

Anyway, my good buddy, JP, is moving back to Tennessee in a couple weeks and with him gone I can’t see myself going to very many bar tourneys anymore. I played with the A-players at DJs in New Port Richey this past Thursday. I didn’t expect much of myself and wasn’t disappointed. The eventual winner blitzed me in my first match. And after jumping to a 2-0 lead in my second match, I made the mistake of waking my opponent up and paid the price as he came back and ran three games on me. Still, I had more fun than I would have at the bar tournament down the road. Who knows, someday I might actually win a match.

Bowling for Dollars

First, here’s a picture, taken on my trip north, of me and Uncle Nicky. Like I said, Nick Ricciotti was the best player in town when I was a kid, the guy the road players always played. He held his own sometimes, and other times he was out-matched, like when Miami came to town and beat everybody playing jacked-up one-handed. What a player he was! Still, Uncle Nicky was good and, though he doesn’t play often, he still is.



Tuesday night, I passed up the big money down the line and returned to the bowling alley. Frankly, there are a nicer bunch of guys at the bowling alley. Besides, they don’t let you draw numbers down on Hwy 19, and that kind of crap always makes me suspicious, especially when I wind up getting matched up against the best players. Anyway, I came out on top on the loser’s side and might have won the whole thing if it wasn’t for some bad luck in the finals. The bad luck was that my balls were tied up and I couldn’t get a shot.

Last night was two and out in Tarpon Springs. But all wasn’t lost – on the long drive home I conceived another of my little pool stories. It’s called Remembrance of Ignominious Things Past.

Another Kind of Hell

We went up north to Jersey for the 4th of July. I got to play a little pool but before I get into that let me tell you about the trip which was highlighted by the flight from hell. Granted, those who were aboard the ill-fated flights of 9-11 were truly on flights from hell. Mine was a different kind of hell.

A little advice – there’s an outfit that bills themselves as Delta Song. Avoid them like a poolroom full of drunken cheats. Not only were we a couple hours late going and coming, but no one could tell us why. While waiting for our return flight, flight 1991, to leave JFK they changed gates 3 times and had us running around the terminal like headless poultry. In the end, they switched back to the original gate. With the flight due into Tampa after midnight, I had hoped to take a little nap during the flight. The two screaming infants in the seat in front of me made that impossible. Finally, an off-duty flight attendant volunteered to sit with the mother of the two brats and tried to quiet her brood. No luck. Me? Unable to sleep, I decided to play trivia on the screen that was mounted on the back of the seat in front of me. Then the off-duty flight attendant had the attendant on duty instruct me to stop hitting the screen so hard because it was disturbing her. “Are you kidding me?!?,” I responded as the attendant showed me her ass. “Tell her to shut up those frigging babies!” She had no answer for that, just a “screw-you” shrug. Headline: Delta Song Hits A Sour Note.

Anyway, while up north my friend Lee Bender introduced me to his brother John, a fine pool player in his own right who is presently exploring the world of samsara. For some time, John has been gearing up to launch his own custom cue business. Good news for us. Not only has he inherited the woodworking gene from his father, he is also a good friend of Richard Black. I’ll let you know when he starts production.

I also got a chance to accompany my uncles, Bob and Nick Ricciotti, to the poolroom in Succasunna. We played for a couple hours and had a nice afternoon. One difference between here and there is that in NJ pool and golf cost almost the same to play. Here, you can take advantage of the afternoon special and play from opening till 7 o’clock for a flat $5 or at some places $2 an hour.

I returned Wednesday night, rested up Thursday, and last night decided to go down to the local bar tournament again despite the smoke. First game I broke and ran out but it was all down hill from there. I blamed it on jet lag.

Picking & Choosing

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

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!

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…

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.

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.

“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.

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.