My Buddy, Billy Johnson, Gone

We were kids together, Billy Johnson and me. We drank beer, chased girls, laughed and joked, sported around town - we had fun.

We grew up, but we stayed in touch. We fished, we bowled, we shot a little bar pool up at Hunky Hall.

One time we were out in a boat up in Lake Hopatcong, drifting with live bait, herring, when I hooked into a good one. It was one of those fish that you don't realize you have on the line until you start reeling in. When it got close to the boat, we both saw that it was a huge rainbow trout. Billy grabbed the landing net and got ready to net the fish, but as soon as it saw the boat it turned and ran and snapped my line. Over the years, whenever I recalled that day, I would tell Billy it was his fault I lost the fish. He'd swear at me, but I'd claim that he had deliberately sabotaged my attempt at making angling history. Of course, eventually, I'd reluctantly admit that it was my fault the line had snapped because I had the drag set too tight. A fact I'd conveniently forget the next time I brought the subject up. I like to kid him like that and make him laugh.

But, seriously, when it came to being a friend, he was one in a million. Whenever I moved, I called Billy. Yeah, he used to work for a mover but that didn't obligate him to supervise all my moves. Still, he never said no, never complained that his back was sore, never made any excuses, he just showed up.

One time, we were in pretty desperate straits without a place to live. Billy took us in. He didn't have a lot of room, not with him, his wife and kids already sharing a small apartment, but that didn't matter. He gave us shelter.

Billy left us last week. Cancer. It was much too soon. He deserved more time on earth. More time with his family, his friends, with me.

I miss him.

I set up a Giving Page with the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in his Memory. 

The Best One-Piece House Cues

I'm often asked about house cues. People think that just because I grew up and learned how to play using a house cue that I might be some kind of expert on the subject. I'm not. But, I can tell you one thing - you can play just as well with a good house cue as you can with a couple thousand dollars of exotic wood and inlays. What you need is a cue that's straight, one that's relatively well-balanced, and one with a good tip on it. A Le Pro is a good choice of tip for a house cue. From consulting with those more knowledgeable, I've determined that among the following are the top choices for those who pride themselves with supplying their regulars with quality equipment.

One-Piece Cues at Amazon >>

If they weren't so awkward to travel with, I think I'd be using a one-piece cue to this day.

Reaching Out: A Stroker Smith Adventure by Ace Toscano

This place was a huge step up from Dirty Harry's. As a procession of young women, full-flowering beauties, crossed his path, it occurred to Stroker that the joint was aptly named. The Beer Garden. One barmaid carrying three frosted mugs of lager, a fishbowl sized margarita and a basket of wings brushed against him and smiled as she made her way to an opening that led outside. It was a cool night, perfect for sitting in the open air. The bar buzzed with joy and good times and he was immediately happy for Peggy O'Neil. She deserved to work in a place like this.

She had tweeted that she'd be working, tonight, inviting her friends to come on by to "partay," and, although he realized her tweets were meant for a younger crowd, he wanted to check things out as well. He'd gone from seeing her three or four times a week to not at all. He missed talking to her. He missed seeing her. He missed her. He wanted to know how she was doing. Besides, there were a couple things he had to ask her. Like, why had she left her job at Dirty Harry's so abruptly, without notice? And why, after five sessions as his teammate, had she felt it necessary to drop out of pool league, too?

She had glossed over her reasons, on facebook, in sketchy terms, but he needed some specifics. Mostly, he wanted to know if Hughie was involved. Hughie, the terminally useless son of Dirty Harry, liked to refer to himself as the day manager, since it gave him an excuse to hang out at the poolroom in the afternoon and lust after the barmaids who worked days. Stroker was a regular at Dirty Harry's and it was his habit to relax at the bar for a couple hours following his practice session, reading a book while he nursed a beer or two. From this vantage point, he had come to know all he ever wanted to know about Hughie and his lecherous ways. But, he had allowed himself to believe that Hughie's depraved longings were manifested in drool alone and that the useless twit was basically harmless. Now, he had reason to suspect he had been mistaken.

They had been book buddies, Stroker and Peggy O'Neil. He being an avid reader, and she being a dedicated Dean Koontz fan, they always had something to talk about on days she was working. Right now, in fact, he was delivering for her perusal Koontz's latest graphic novel, Odd Is On Our Side. It would be his way of telling her that, though she had moved on, their book exchanges did not have to end.

He stopped short of the bar and watched as she chatted it up with a couple young guys while she drew their beers from the tap. She must have sensed him staring at her because she glanced left and spotted him. She seemed happy to see him. He was relieved. He had worried about invading her privacy, but that, evidently, was not the case because out she scooted from behind the bar with outstretched arms and enveloped him with a rib crushing hug.

That was Peggy. She'd always been an outgoing, openly affectionate kind of girl. Unlike, for instance, Donna, another one of Harry's girls who worked Tuesdays and Sundays. A quiet girl, working two jobs to support herself and her three kids, she had once confided to him that she didn't believe in hugging customers, even if it might lead to bigger tips, because she wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong idea.

Donna, also a reader, was into the Kay Scarpetta novels which was why Stroker was constantly on the lookout for them, he had a checklist in his wallet, when he toured the local used book outlets. Just the other day, he had found a signed copy of The Last Precinct at a church rummage sale down in Hudson. He had presented it to her earlier this day. She had thanked him, politely, of course, but without the enthusiasm he had expected. Something was bothering her. From her body language, it occurred to him that her despondence might be connected to Hughie's looming presence. Then, he noticed the bruising around her wrists. When he had asked her about it, she just shook her head and said it was nothing.

"It's gotta be something," he had said.

"She said it's nothing," barked Hughie. "Donna give him a picture so he can go home and whack off. You're a pervert, you old fuck."

Though a rather large young fellow, mammoth by most scales, Hughie's brain was about the size of a pea. Accordingly, he thought the only possible interest one person might have in another was carnal.

"It must be frustrating, Hughie, hitting on all these beautiful girls and always getting turned down. I can't understand it. Harry's a good-looking guy. How come you're so ugly?"

"Go fuck yourself."

"No, thanks," replied Stroker. "But, if I was you, that, probably, would be the way to go."

Hughie just glared. He would have liked to throw Stroker out on his ass, but he couldn't. The dim-witted "day manager" had tried once to give Stroker the boot rather than pay up on a super bowl bet. But he had been overruled by Harry, thereby establishing to everyone that Harry's idiot son was the manager of nothing and his only true functions were to look stupid and bother the girls.

Peggy guided him to a seat at the bar and they caught up while she worked. It was like old times. When he finally got around to asking her if Hughie might be the reason she had left the poolroom so abruptly, she said she really couldn't say since it had been Harry who helped her land this job at Donte's and she had promised him not to talk about her prior employment. Of course, that was all the answer Stroker needed.

Now, he was beginning to see the recent string of sudden departures, all attributed to extreme unreliability - Linda, Kim, Sharon, Carol, Dawn - in a different light, a light blackened by Hughie's hulking shadow.

Donna was a much better person than he was. Stroker couldn't imagine needing a job so badly that he would put up with one second of Hughie's bullshit. No fucking way. But, he didn't have kids to feed. Remembering the red rings around her wrists, his brain raced through a dozen murderous scenarios.

Huey didn't show on Sunday - he was probably too hung over from Saturday night, so, he and Stroker didn't cross paths till the following Tuesday. The encounter proceeded normally with Donna and Stroker discussing the books they were reading, Hughie becoming jealous because she was ignoring him and, consequently, spewing off some unflattering comments regarding his rival, the 65-year-old Stroker.

"Stay home and dial up a 900 number, then you won't have to drive all the way up here to bother Donna."

Stroker just stared back at the imbecile.

"He's not bothering me," offered Donna. Stroker appreciated it because it was so against her nature to speak up.

"Well, he's bothering me," said Hughie.

"Don't fret, Hughie," said Stroker. "Sooner or later some skank will wander in here who's so drunk and so desperate that she won't care how ugly and stupid you are."

That comment brought laughter from a few of the old timers who were sitting at the railing watching a heated one-pocket match between Charley Shantz and that young kid from Hawaii whose name no one could pronounce.

"Go fuck yourself," sneered Hughie.

"Like I said, that's the way I would go if I was ugly as you. Reduce your frustration."

Hughie had had enough. He came storming around the bar, vicious intentions smeared across his face. Stroker hopped off his stool and was ready for him.

"Get out," he commanded, punctuating his words by poking Stroker's chest with his index finger.

"Now, it's my turn - go fuck yourself."

"I said, 'Get out of here'." Again, he did his thing with the finger.

"I'm warning you, Hughie, do not touch me a-fucking-gain."

But, Hughie couldn't stop himself, now. He drove his point home one more time.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here!"

It was a practiced move that Stroker had used back in the day - dropping down, practically freefalling to one knee and then, before Hughie had the slightest inkling of what was about to happen, throwing a vicious uppercut to Hughie's scrotum, driving his nuts up to his throat.

Now, the plan had been to hop to his feet then whip around 360 catching Hughie on the side of his head with his elbow. But, Hughie foiled those plans by freezing in the doubled over position. As Stroker sprung to his feet, the back of his head, with considerable torque, caught Hughie flush in the face. There was an unmistakable cracking of bones and Stroker feared the worse for Hughie's poor nose. The momentum threw Hughie back on his ass and he remained on his ass as he frantically slid backwards in full retreat.

"Now, I'm only going to tell you this once. Get the fuck out of here, Hughie. I don't want to see you here again."

Hughie, his hand holding his nose, made a series of noises.

"What?" Stroker spat.

"He said 'he works here,'" one of the onlookers translated.

"No fucking more."

More grunts.

"He said something about his father."

"Your father can manage without you. Now, get the fuck out before I finish what I started."

With that, Hughie scrambled to his feet and fled through the back door.

It took a few minutes for things to quiet down. When they had, Stroker climbed back onto his stool, sipped his beer, and then asked Donna, "Have you ever read any Lee Child?"

"I don't think so," she answered.

"I'll bring you some. I think you'd like him."

THE END

Best Selling Pool/Billiards Books

Without further adieu, here they are:

Best Selling Pool/Billiards Books as of 3/17/2012


1. The 99 Critical Shots in Pool: Everything You Need to Know... by Ray Martin




2. Byrne's Complete Book of Pool Shots: 350 Moves Every Player Should Know by Robert Byrne




3. Byrne's New Standard Book of Pool and Billiards by Robert Byrne




4. Pool and Billiards For Dummies by Nicholas Leider




5. Play Your Best Pool by Philip B. Capelle




6. The Secret Art Of Pool by Mr Lee Brett




7. Pool Player's Edge - 2nd Edition by Gerry Kanov and Shari Stauch




8. Capelle's Practicing Pool by Philip B. Capelle




9. Pleasures of Small Motions: Mastering the Mental Game of Pocket Billiards by Robert T. Fancher




10. Precision Pool, 2nd Edition by Gerry Kanov

The Pendulum Stroke: No Can Do

Once again, in exchange for polishing his shoes, the warden has given me access to his computer so that I can contribute to this month's edition of PoolSynergy. You can find links to all this month's posts here on the Pool Student's Blog. Now, let's get on with it.

It makes so much sense, the modern pendulum stroke - back and through, back and through - that it, no doubt, should be the foundation of every serious pool player's game.

It's rather simple, in theory. As you take your stance, with the tip of the cue just shy of the cue ball, your forearm should be straight up and down. From here, you draw the cue back then propel it (or, in pendulum language, "swing it") forward and through the cue ball. No unnecessary movements, just a simple, repeatable pendulum motion.

I've had this method explained to me by veteran players in the pool room. I've read about it in books. And, I've come across it on countless internet sites. Here's a blurb from a section on the stance at billiards.com:

The back arm or more specifically the back hand placement on the cue is critical to your success. The correct place to grip your cue is the place where a line drawn from your elbow to your wrist points straight down to the floor. This is the hand position you want when the tip of your cue is within an inch of the cue ball. This pendulum thus created (elbow to wrist) can move freely forward and backwards. It also allows your bicep and triceps to be completely relaxed, until you take your stroke. It helps to practice this by getting in a shooting stance without a cue. Swing your elbow forward and backwards without dropping your shoulder. Relax your elbow while holding your shoulder firm. Gravity will show you the natural point straight down. You have created the pendulum.

Here are some pictures I found of players who have adopted this same form of address. Note the perpendicular position of their forearms.

Oh, if only this method would work for me. I'm telling you, I'd be one hell of a player. I mean, in theory, nothing is more important to your game than a straight and dependable stroke. And don't think I haven't tried it. I have - in countless practice sessions and at home leaning over the kitchen table with cue in hand. But, try as I may, I can never get the desired pendulum action to manifest itself in a straight and true stroke.

I guess the problem is I'm just not comfortable with it. Back when I learned to play, back in the 1960's, no one was espousing the pendulum method. Sure, people were using it - my Uncle Nicky, the best player in the town of Dover, NJ, was a stellar proponent of the pendulum stroke though he probably didn't know it by name - but it wasn't the prescribed way of stroking. In fact, the only guidance I ever received on the subject was from Mosconi's little red book, "Willie Mosconi on Pocket Billiards." Though Willie did speak of a pendulum action, meaning, I assume, straight back and straight through, he also included this dictum in the section on Follow-through:

... 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 in 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.

My friends and I read Mosconi's book so many times we could recite certain sections verbatim. And we studied the pictures in fine detail. As for me, when I stood at the table, I felt exactly like Willie looked in figure 7, if you know what I mean.

Here'a a picture of Willie addressing the cue ball. Note the position of his arm.

Obviously, to follow through from this position requires coordinated movements of the elbow, wrist and hand, much more complicated than those connected with your basic pendulum stroke. Still, somehow, back in the day, I managed to harness this piston like motion producing a stroke that was uncompromisingly straight in all situations. Unfortunately, after a 38 year hiatus from the game, the movements involved proved too intricate to recreate from memory. Hence, my current systematic lack of a coherent stroking philosophy.

Finishing up, I must note that, while Willie's method seems contrary to those currently espoused, you have to remember that he was primarily a straight pool player who sailed through racks with an economy of movement of the cue ball. Understandably, that required more finesse and touch than nine-ball, a game that often necessitates a more open and free-stroking approach. Now that I think of it, maybe that's my problem - I'm trying to survive in a nine ball world with an outmoded straight pool stroke.

Inside and Outside English According to Butt-Hole Bruce

Dumber Than Dirt and Twice as Grimy

It started out innocent enough – me and this guy, Bruce Ignatius "Big" Poozey, a/k/a Butt-Hole Bruce, one of those poolroom bull-shitters who never shuts up, were standing around the pool table discussing methods of shooting balls down the rail at an angle. Sometimes he aimed the forward edge of the reflection of the table light on the cue ball toward the trailing edge of the reflection on the object ball. Sometimes he went for the half-ball hit, blah blah blah. I, myself, prefer to aim at the point of contact and shoot. To each his own.

Anyway, at one point, I cut a ball left down the rail while applying right spin to the cue ball. “You put inside english on that,” he said.

“Outside,” I replied, calmly. I figured at this point that he hadn't been watching closely.

“No, no, no,” Big Poozey insisted. “If you hit that shot with right english, that’s inside English.”

Now, this wasn’t a big deal to me, but I knew what I knew and I wasn’t about to back down even though, by and by, he started getting downright ugly with his insinuations that I was the dumbest mother f’er that he had ever come across. Several times, in the course of his explanation, he took his stance at the table with his cue tip directed to the right side of the cue ball. “That’s inside english,” he’d say. Then, he would scurry around the table to where the object ball sat and frantically motion with his hand along the path the ball would take to the corner pocket. "The ball goes inside the rail and inside the pocket - that's why they call it inside english. I've been playing this game my whole life and I ought to know."

He carried on repeating his argument at least a dozen times and elaborating on it by insisting that if you cut a ball to the left with left hand english that was outside english. Of course, I insisted that he had it all ass backwards. Which he did.

Finally, the guy got worked up to the point – his face was purple and veins were popping out of his head - that he bet me his hundred to my fifty that he was right and I was wrong. I quickly agreed. Then he started looking around the pool room for someone to come settle the matter, but I didn’t want to get anyone else involved. I vetoed that idea and promised to bring a book the following day that would spell out the difference between inside and outside english. “I’ll bring a book,” I said. “If it agrees with you, I’ll give you fifty. If it agrees with me, you give me a hundred.”

“Go on the internet,” he said, still agitated. “See for yourself.” I didn’t bother – I knew I was right and he was wrong. When I got home I found a couple simple straight forward descriptions of inside and outside english, one in Phil Capelle’s Play Your Best Pool, the other in Essential Pool by Arthur “Babe” Cranfield and Laurence S. Moy.

In Capelle’s glossary he defined “outside english” as applying side spin on the opposite side of the cue ball than the object ball is traveling. Conversely, “inside english” was described as applying side spin on the same side of the cue ball as the direction of the cut shot. Essential Pool states basically the same thing, with illustrations. I put the books in the back of my car and carted them to Capone’s the next day.

Well, as I pulled into the parking lot, there was the guy getting out of his car. I gestured to him to “hold it” and stay right there. Books in hand, I joined him at his car. “Let’s get this settled, now,” I said. “No need going inside. Here are the books.”

“Wait, now,” he says, before I even had a chance to open my books “let’s make sure we have this straight.”

“It’s simple,” I offer. “You said if you cut a ball to the left with right hand english that that’s inside English.”

“No, no, no,” he interrupted. “That’s outside english.”

“That’s not what you were saying yesterday,” I countered.

“I’ve known that my whole life,” he claimed.

It was obvious what had happened. Sometime after he made the bet with me, in his ongoing agitation, he had repeated the story along with his ridiculous theory to someone who had straightened his ass out. I later learned that he had cornered Dan, Capone’s resident instructor and expert, and grilled him for a half hour on the subject of inside and outside english. A pretty long discussion on a topic he’s known so thoroughly his whole life. Now, all of a sudden, he was claiming he had been right all along. “What happened,” he was trying to explain, “is you and I were betting on the same thing.”

“You’re backing out of our bet you fucking liar,” I said to him, remembering how ugly he had been the previous day. “You owe me a hundred.”

He continued his lying inside the pool room and I kept to the truth, saying “You owe me a hundred.” I promised him I’d remind him he owes me a hundred every time I ran into him from that day forward till the day I die. But, to be honest, and that’s what this is all about, some days I let him slide and don’t say nothing. Other days, I needle him. But, if his name ever comes up in conversation I feel beholding to tell this little story.

Anyway, I’ve heard since about a friend who had a similar experience with this asshole Bruce – they made a side bet on a game, but, when the guy our welcher was backing came up a loser, he swore he had been betting on the other player. In other words, he changed the bet around just like he’d try to do with me. I’m sure, over time, he’s decided that this is the best course to take when backing out of a bet. And, I bet the line of people he’s beat out of money would reach from here to the backwoods of West Virginia where he hales from.

This is an ongoing saga. To put it succinctly, this guy made a hundred dollar bet with me, lost, then refused to pay. At first, he swore that I had misunderstood him and that he and I were actually betting on the same thing. After a couple weeks, he reversed that and started to put us on opposite sides of the original bet. Oh, yeah, and now he says I owe him money.

I saw him today up at Capone’s and immediately started chanting “Where’s my hundred?” He doesn’t like that. I could tell. That’s why I’ll keep it up. Anyway, when I was done playing and went outside he was waiting for me. “What are we going to do, Ace?” he asks. “You could pay me the hundred you owe me,” I said. Then he went off on a tangent about how long he’s been playing pool, blah blah blah. It was only me and him out there, no bystanders, so I kept saying “What’s the sense of this? I know you’re a liar and you know you’re a liar.” We went back and forth like that, me calling him a piece of shit, him calling me this, that and the other. He was speechless for a second when I mentioned that I'd been talking to other guys he fucked out of money, but only for a second. He was committed to the lie, now. That’s why he was compounding lie upon lie. A consummate pathological liar – he’s been doing this so long he has it down to a science -- he’s deliberately trying to behave as if his lies were true and he truly was the offended party. For show. Once in a while my degree in psychology comes in handy. Take it from me, this friggin’ guy is nuts.

As for the hundred dollars, I don’t even want it any more. If he gave it to me, today, I’d tear it up and flush it down the toilet. Then, I’d wash my hands real well.

There’s a lesson to be learned here -- don’t ever bet with Big Poozey.

DJ's Hosts Second Annual Memorial Tournament

August 18, 2011 - Once again DJ's Family Billiards remembered those of it's extended pool family who had passed away by hosting the second annual Memorial 9-Ball Tournament. Attendance of the event was once again high and people came from far and wide to honor their brethren.

Honored this year were Tommy Moses, Albert Ossana, New York Jimmy, Bob May, Cathy Gaynor, Greek Charlie, John Hall and Tommy Hill, all special to their friends and family and to all in attendance because they were so much a part of the DJ's scene.

Pros were encouraged to stay away this year, not because we don't enjoy their company, but because the idea of people with no knowledge of the honorees swooping in for a crack at the $200-added seemed contrary to the spirit of the occasion. Consensus is that things worked out better this way.

Taking first place was Billy Moses. Also, finishing in the top 3 were locals Phil and Monty. A total of eight places were paid out.

To fatten up this post I'll relate one somewhat amusing and controversial incident that was reported to me. It occurred during a match between Jim Oddy and Bobby Jones. After scratching, it seems Jim commented to Bobby, "That's the second time in a row I scratched in that very same pocket." Bobby then proceeded to 3-foul Oddy for the game and match with Jim complaining, "You were supposed to tell me I had two on me." Bobby's rebuttal, "You told yourself." Though, technically, Jim might have had a point. This wasn't combat, it was friends getting together to remember other friends. So, Bobby prevailed. I must interject here that Mr. Oddy, known intimately by legions of friends and fans on the gulf coast as "The Jazz Man," disputes the version of events I reported and called into question my journalistic acumen and integrity, which is somewhat astounding considering my stellar reputation in the world of journalism. He was only slightly miffed that I had misspelled his name and eagerly supplied me with the correct version. He also requested that I not mention him in my pool blog anymore which I take to mean any more than the once every six or seven years that is my current rate of mentioning him. Damn! And I was just getting ready to publish "The Day Oddy Was Crowned King." Now, I'll have to write something else?

The following pictures were taken by Charley Kutz who, by the way, finished one out of the money.

That's me on the right chatting with Bill Jones, Sr.

Adrian!

David

Jeff Miller with Billy Moses

Jordan (L), Bryan (R)

Kari & Rachel

One of many spectators

Toni Moles and Billy Moses

Billy Jones (f) with Dirty Bob (b)

Williams wrassle-ing with the computer

More eye candy

The tournament was cosponsored by AcesWebWorld.com

Ten Poolroom Things That Make Me Grumble

Once again, I’ve had the good fortune to be invited to participate in Pool Synergy by Samm (Diep) Vidal. Not only is Samm one of the foremost ambassadors for the game of pool, she’s a beautiful person inside and out, and, more importantly, she’s kind to old people, like yours truly. This month's theme is “10 Things.” My offering is below.

To check out all of this month’s contributions, visit Samm’s site The Tip Jar.

Now, honestly speaking, I’m not one of those “give me lemons, I’ll give you lemonade” kind of guys. Give me lemon and I’ll probably throw up on your shoes. Here are ten of the many things that make me grumble:

1. Duck Hunters. These guys are all about the bling. Though they never open their mouths, it’s obvious by the careful way they put together their exquisite Wal-Mart cues and tiptoe around the table that they are working very hard to create the impression that they know what they’re doing. They scatter balls around the table making sure that most of them are within two or three inches of a pocket. Then, they proceed to whack them in with authority – bang, bang, bang. They never shoot up or down the table, only across it, limiting the length of their shots to three or four feet. If, through misfortune, they are left with a long shot, they shoot it very softly so that, after they miss, it will be close enough to the hole to bang in. Their biggest fear is missing. I call these nits duck hunters.

2. The Overcut Justification. I have a hard time holding my tongue when a player responds to a missed shot by observing, “Can you believe it? I overcut it!” Please! Do you really think overcutting is somehow more honorable than undercutting? You missed the shot. It doesn’t matter if you missed to one side of the pocket or the other. A miss is a miss.

3. The Position Excuse. Another lame reaction to a miss. “I was too worried about getting position.” Duh. That’s a great excuse for missing. Of course, if you don’t worry about getting position and, consequently, are left with a difficult shot that you also miss, then you have a different excuse. Then you can say, “I should have worried about position.” Don’t be a nit. Controlling the cue ball is a necessary component of every shot. Using it as an excuse is like a golfer saying, “I drove into the lake because I was too worried about my second shot.” It makes no sense. Don’t be a wussy.

4. Past Glory Imagined. When I was young blah blah blah… I used to blah blah blah… You’d think that, back in the day, pool rooms were lined with top-notch players. Sorry to break this to you, but they were not. Listen up, you guys. You. Make. Me. Laugh! You were never a great pool player. The way you trounce around the table, poking holes in the cloth with your stick and bumping your head against the lights attests to that fact. Even if, over the years, you lost your eye or your stroke, you couldn’t have lost all feel for the game. If you want to impress me, quit telling me fairytales about games you played or shots you used to make and start shooting.

5. Philosophical Opposition to Gambling. “Want to play a couple cheap sets? Twenty dollars a set?” I ask. “Oh, no,” says the man. “I don’t believe in gambling.” Por favor. Let’s be honest, here. You aren’t opposed to gambling; you’re opposed to losing. Take up croquet… or shuffleboard. Scratch that – even the old fogies around here play shuffleboard for money. Pool is like poker; it’s supposed to be played for money. Where do you think the term “money ball” came from?

6. Measle Cue Balls. I’m guessing they make watching pool more interesting for spectators. However, practically speaking, one of the main advantages I have over younger players is my knowledge of the game which includes what I know about english. If someone takes me aside and asks me a question about how to do this or that with the cue ball, I’ll give them an honest answer. But that’s a lot different than letting everyone in the house see what you’re putting on the cue ball. I’m nobody’s coach. I’m nobody’s teacher. If you want to learn something from me, it’s going to cost you.

7.  Excuse for Missing #99. “The damn english threw that ball off line.” No, Melvin, you threw the ball off line. If you apply english to the cue ball, it’s going to throw the object ball one way or the other. That means you have to make allowance for this throw when you aim. If you miss, don’t blame the english – blame yourself. What’s so hard about saying these two words straight out, “I missed.”

8. Aiming Systems. You can tell when someone’s been spending too much time reading online spiels when they come up to you and ask “What aiming system do you use?” That’s like asking someone in the diner, “What kind of eating system do you use?” "Well, I put the food in my mouth. I chew it. Then, I swallow it.” In regards to aiming, forgetting about english and throw, there’s only one point on the object ball that directs it along your desired target line. And, considering the roundness of the cue ball, there’s only one corresponding  point on it that, when delivered to the object ball’s contact point, will send it along that desired path. All other theories about aiming, with their half-ball and quarter-ball hits and ghost images, are at best, confounding, at worse, baloney.

9. Sharking. Nothing irks me more than sharking. Whether you do it out of nervousness or by design, sharking reduces you to the rank of sleaze ball. I’ve read some extensive online articles on the subject which go into minute detail. My definition is somewhat simpler: If you are not sitting perfectly still, and completely quiet, you are, to a greater or lesser degree, sharking.

10. Chum. No, I’m not referring to a buddy or a pal. I’m referring to the chopped up fish that fishermen throw overboard to attract game fish. We all know locals who enter pro tournaments when they come to their house because it gives them the opportunity to play with the likes of Johnny, Earl or Rodney. God bless them, I say. When watching one of these matches, I wish the local good luck and hope someone hangs up a nine ball for him or her so they get to win at least one game. When the tournament’s over and the pros go on their way, everything should return to normal, everyone should reassume their normal role, but, unfortunately, that’s not always the case. Some of these local entrants forget the reality, that they were in the tournament just for kicks, and start strutting around like bona fide pool stars. Like, by entering the tournament, they’re deserving of our utmost respect. Sorry, boys, you aren’t pros, you aren’t near-pros, you aren’t even semi-pros. You are chum – just food for the big fish.

Ace's Pool Rap II - Thinks He Knows It

Thinks he knows it.

Doesn't know shit.

Cuz his yap's
Fulla crap,

Oughta close it.

Thought he knew all there was about pool,
Like the dean of some whack billiards school.
But his shit was all wrong,
The stench was too strong -
The dim-witted hillbilly fool.

Then, bang, he's on the next table,
Working on preserving the fable.
He gave me no cherce,
Calling natural reverse.
When I told him, the bitch got unstable.
   
Thinks he knows it.
Doesn't know shit.
Cuz his yap's

Fulla crap,

Oughta close it.

Worked his dumb ass into a sweat.
Then he wanted to make me a bet.
Found he was wrong
Sang a new song.
And the asshole ain't paid me yet.

He figured I'd just let him slide.
Couldn't find any places to hide.
Verbal abuses,
Half-assed excuses,
I'm not givin' the dude a free ride.

Thinks he knows it.
Doesn't know shit.
Cuz his yap's
Fulla crap.
Oughta close it.


Copyright © 2011 by Ace Toscano. All rights reserved.

Art sometimes imitates life. Not to say that my writings are art, just that many of them are based on true life experiences, the emphasis here being on "true."

Pool Room Psycho: A Short Story by Ace Toscano

If a guy studied culinary arts, would every one he ran into later in life embody a collapsed soufflé or some other cooking catastrophe? Stroker wondered because he had studied psychology back when he was in college and, ever since, his world had been invaded by one wacko after another. A reap what you sew kind of thing, he figured.

Golfers drove him crazy with their ritualistic behaviors, time-consuming pre-shot routines and idiotic superstitions which was why he had tossed out his clubs a dozen years ago in favor of the more serene game of pocket billiards.

Not to say the pool room was exempt from the intrusion of a variety of mental cases. It wasn’t. But, with a little luck you could avoid them most of the time. Of course, there were exceptions who would not be ignored, who insisted on getting in your face, nitwits who forced you to deal with their lunacy. Like Chris “O.C.” Delaney. O.C.D. had a compulsion that required everything in the pool room to be in its proper place – chalk, cues, stools, bridges, racks, ashtrays, TVs, everything. One day, not too long ago, he claimed that, while he had been circling the room noting the placement of various objects within his purview, Stroker had appropriated a bridge from his table transferring it to the table where he was playing. Stroker, who had been playing by himself, and who never used a bridge anyway when playing by himself, just looked at O.C. Delaney and said, “Are you out of your fucking mind, asshole?” And that was the end of that afternoon’s therapy session. No charge.

Early on in his working life, Stroker had driven cabs and limos, his income relying to a large extent on tips, so he was always conscientious about taking care of the girls who worked the counter at the pool room figuring a tip was one way of making their days brighter. He’d started off giving them a buck a day which seemed reasonable since he never ordered anything to eat and was spending less than two dollars on time. But the more he thought about it, a dollar tip seemed pretty paltry seeing as this was the 21st century and you couldn’t get much of anything for a buck. So, he raised it to two, boosting it to three or four on occasion. He tried not to be predictable, remembering back to psychology studies indicating intermittent schedules of reinforcement produced the best results. Then, at Christmas, he’d hit each girl with a ten. For this attention, he didn’t expect much in return, just a thanks and a smile. That was reward enough.

Whenever he hit Cookie, his favorite of all the girls, with a deuce she’d tell him he made her day. C’mon, he’d say, with two bucks? I wish it was more. Then, she’d say, really that’s the first I got today. Seems like most of the other dudes stiffed her on a daily basis.

He never went to grad school which was probably a mistake inasmuch as he might have learned there how best to handle the various mental deviants he had later been confronted with. Like that day when he was returning the balls and Cloey whispered to him through clenched teeth, a look of mortal terror on her face, instructing him to look down the bar to the guy playing the video game. He’s the devil, she said. Giving you a hard time? Stroker asked. No, I mean it. I looked into his eyes and I could see it. He is the devil. What should I do? Jeez, I don’t know, said Stroker. Look in my eyes. What do you see? She leaned forward and peered into his orbs for a long couple of seconds. Finally, after considerable consideration, she said, Green. Thank God, he said, bidding her a swift adieu. That was the last time he saw Cloey. She was canned. He didn’t ask why, but he suspected the devil had a hand in it.

Tina was one of those gals who called everybody Sweetie, Sweetheart or Honey, something he got used to in time. Most days he’d counter with a Darling or Sweetie Pie of his own and they got along pretty good. But, sometimes, when he hit her with a deuce she’d make a big thing about it and wrap her arms around him and give him a big squeeze which made him feel a little uncomfortable since it was just the smile and thanks he was shooting for. You don’t have to do that, he said one day. I’m not paying for your services. Well, this must have pissed her off because she wouldn’t take his money for a couple weeks forcing him to leave his tip laying on the counter while she lit out for the far end of the bar. Eventually, things returned to normal and when she started squeezing him again, he knew better than to open his mouth.

Regrettably, Tina moved on and was replaced by Jill who was so proud of her bosom she exposed as much of it as she could on a regular basis. She, too, was a Sweetie, Honey, Sweetheart kind of girl, but not in a friendly way, in a way that made Stroker a wee bit uncomfortable, like she was hitting on him and his sixty-four year old frame. Same with her hugs and squeezes. In particular, he didn’t like the way she ran her fingers up and down his arms. He thought of telling her but he realized she was just trying to be sexy and he didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t working. One day, he walks up to the counter and she looks like someone ran a hot poker up her hoo-hah. Something the matter? he asked. I’m having a panic attack, she announced. He had a vague idea of what she was going through having experienced, once upon a time, something similar behind pot and pcp. It seemed that blabbing was closely linked to her panic because she was carrying on non-stop, talking about medication and prescriptions she couldn’t get refilled because enough time hadn’t passed since her last refill and that the only reason she ran out in the first place being that she had loaned some pills to her girlfriend who, apparently, also benefited from their effects. I don’t know what to do, she cried. Call the doctor’s office again, Stroker suggested. Tell him you really need the pills. Worst he can do is say no. But she wasn’t listening. Now, she was saying how her roommate brought a couple guys home to the apartment in the middle of the night and she woke up and saw one of them standing over her and I started thinking maybe she wasn’t having a panic attack after all. Maybe, it was justifiable panic. Anyway, Stroker zigged while she zagged, and left her to her own devices. That was the last time he saw Jill.

Jill was replaced by Heather “The Sharpshooter” Remington, a young lady with pro tour aspirations as her nickname, premature as it might have been, indicated. It took a week or so before her name popped up on his facebook wall and he realized that she was already one of his facebook friends. This was added incentive for him to be nice to her, so when he found out she was selling sculptures of poolplayers like Johnny Archer and Earl Strickland on the internet, he critiqued her website since web sites, especially, pool web sites, were his business.

He saw a couple problems right off, the main one being that not once in the text, in the code or in the meta tag description or key words was the word “billiards” used. There were references to pool sculpture and pool art and pool prints made from the preliminary sketches, but, unfortunately, that wasn’t going to cut it. Search engines, in general, associated the word "pool" with those pits Jethro Beaudine used to refer to as cement ponds, and not with the game of pocket billiards. Next day, Stroker mentioned this to Heather figuring he’d give her the benefit of his expertise. Just google “pool art” he told her and you’ll come up with a bunch of stuff about swimming pools. You have to use the word "billiards." Unfortunately, she was not at all receptive to his input. Her friend who was working on the site was an expert, blah blah blah. And, he knew all there was to know, blah blah blah. Some expert, thought Stroker, whose site drew more traffic in a day than hers would in six months. But, he didn’t say another word on the subject. He just went home, got on facebook and unfriended her.

It must have taken her a couple weeks to realize he had unfriended her. It seems another of his fb friends mentioned a link he had posted which she soon discovered wasn’t available to her. Tough. Up until then, things had been going as smooth as always – Stroker leaving her a couple bucks, her responding with thanks and a smile. But, suddenly, she had developed a nasty attitude and was giving him the cold shoulder, and showing no gratitude whatsoever, which was okay with him since he had made up his mind to stiff her hence forth. Then, he noticed that others were paying a lot of attention to their interactions, like they were making sure he didn’t do or say something improper. It didn’t take him long to realize what that was about – hell knows no fury. Of course, there was no basis for these suspicions, but the fact that anyone could even momentarily give credence to anything this whacked-out broad would say was beyond reason.

In the three weeks he had known her, she had moved on from the pool art website, to eBay auctions, to Texas Hold’em, to betting on the dogs, to hemp fashions, all with the same intense enthusiasm and lack of results. It finally dawned on him that she just might be bi-polar and, surprise, off her meds. Just his luck.

Meanwhile, ads kept popping up on his facebook page inviting him to pursue a graduate degree in psychology online. No thanks. He wasn’t interested, but he was considering taking a cooking course, maybe Soufflé 101.

The State of Pocket Billiards in Florida in the 21st Century: A Reading by Ace Toscano

So... I'm not the most agreeable guy in the pool room, or the most patient, or the most tolerant. And, I'm definitely not the nicest. Still, I pride myself in being blunt and honest. That, I hope, will be my legacy.



For more pool and billiards literature, visit my pool and billiards literature page.

Old Sharkie's Deathbed Revelation: A Reading by Ace Toscano

Here's my second reading. I'm still working on my delivery.



More to follow. You can find all my pool writings on my Pool Literature page.

A Reading: Mickey and the Wild Eight

Well, I won (bought really) a new notebook on eBay, a Toshiba NB 305, and realized that it had a web camera and, upon further exploration, discovered I could use it to make videos... of myself. As is usually the case with such things, it took me a couple days and umpteen failed attempts to actually produce something viewable. Here's my first project, the recitation of my pool poem Mickey and the Wild Eight. Please note, I'm not quite as feeble as I look and sound in this clip.

Winding Down

There are a lot of ways to miss a shot: Your alignment can be bad; if you're body is out of whack, the shot you're attempting is doomed from the get-go. You might be lined up okay, while aiming at the wrong spot. Or, your aim could be dead on, while your stroke is off - not parallel with the line of aim. Also, it's possible that your aim and your stroke can be right on, but, when you strike the cue ball, you cue it off center, a little left or a little right, and throw the object ball to the right or left off your intended line.

Right now, I'm battling against all these contingencies.

Not to mention, the shaking.

Pool can be a tough game when you're 64.

It wasn't always that way, but I'm one of those who firmly believes it doesn't really matter how well you once played, the only thing that counts is how you play, now.

I, pretty much, stink.

I mean, most of the old coots I run into who claim they used to be good are full of shit. I can tell by the way they hold their sticks and move around the table. You might get rusty, but not totally dismantled.

I'm the opposite. People see me at the table and they automatically conclude I can play. I don't know what it is, but it's not something I'm purposely trying to generate.

During my practice sessions, I spend a lot of time trying to make shots that I can't make anymore. I don't ever want to be confused with the duck hunters who line up cherries and ceremoniously bang them in, as though this pitiful act actually proves something.

Practicing every day used to be important to me. Not anymore. Now, my daily trips to the poolroom are simply a way for me to break up my day. My wife says sitting at the computer all day could give me blood clots.

I've considered giving the game up completely. But, I'm not ready for that, yet. There's really not much else to do. Besides, I don't like the idea of blood clots.

The Practice Table: A Duck Hunter's Paradise

Practice is a personal thing. Maybe, you like working through drills. Maybe, you work on shots you've been having trouble with. Or, maybe you prefer chasing the ghost. Maybe, you're painstakingly deliberate and organized. Or, maybe, as I've been lately, you're all over the damn place. Hey! Whatever turns you on.

I remember going up to a guy I wanted to play one time and asking him if he might want to lock horns with me in some cheap-sets of nine ball. "No," he said, "I'm practicing."

"For what?" I couldn't help wondering. I mean, if you're practicing, then it's implied you're practicing for something. Obviously, he wasn't practicing to play me.

BTW, this explains why I haven't really been able to focus during my recent sessions - I'm not practicing for anything. I'm no longer involved with the local bar league scene, so I'm no longer obsessed with finding new ways to torture the barroom brotherhood. I haven't been going to DJ's for their Thursday night open nine-ball tournament - the logistics are just too much of a pain in the ass. And, like-minded individuals who want to hook up for some $20 race-to-seven nine-ball matches are not as plentiful as they once were. Such is life.

But, that being said, there's still some logic to my practice sessions. For one thing, I like to practice those long straight shots. They're good for my alignment and my stroke. I avoid shooting most shots into the side pockets, except for the occasional bank, because I don't see any value in popping hangers. For the same reason, when I leave a ball in the jaws, rather than pop it in, I place it back out in the middle of the table and try the shot again.

I also work on cut shots of varying degrees. Typically, I like to start by placing balls about 10 to 12 inches out from the side pocket and cutting them diagonally into the corner on the opposite side of the table. I want to be able to pocket these shots at will... like I could back when I was a kid. Probably ain't gonna happen, especially with the constant trembling I've developed in my hands, but I haven't given up on the possibility.

I also concentrate on center ball stroking. I miss way too many long shots due to inadvertent english and the consequent inadvertent throw. And, "Stay Down!" I have to remind myself to stay down at least once a shot. Duhhhh.

So, for right now, that's pretty much my practice routine - not terribly organized, but, still, purposeful.

Which brings me to the subjects of this post, the duck hunters, the old dudes who find their way to the poolroom and try to pretend that once upon a time they could actually play. I call them duck hunters because they lay the balls out on the table making sure they're never more than three of four inches from a hole, and, then, proceed to drive them in with authority. This, apparently, makes them feel real good about themselves, this plucking daisies, shooting cheeries, poppin' hangers. On closer observation, you'll notice these guys rarely shoot balls down the length of the table - they specialize in shooting cross-table shots no longer that two or three feet in length. If, on occasion, they do attempt a long shot, they shoot it very softly so that when they miss, and they invariably do, they'll leave the ball close enough to the pocket so they can blast it in next try.

What's the friggin' sense? I mean, I get it. They're more worried about missing and looking foolish than they are about improving their games. But, isn't that ridiculous? From the moment I saw their first herky-jerky poke at the cue ball, I knew, regardless of what they might want me to believe, that they had never been any good, that they had always been chumps, and that they had never engaged Buddy Hall in thousand dollar sets.

At best, back when they were at the top of their games, they might have come out two beers ahead after an all night session of eight-ball at the local VFW, Moose Club or Fraternity of Eagles. And, that's about it. They have no reputations to protect. And, no one could possibly think any less of them if they missed a shot or two or three. I mean, that's how you get better, people - by challenging yourself. If you're going to take the trouble to drive out to the pool room two or three times a week, why not challenge yourself? Why not work on your game? Why not try to get better? Otherwise, you're just taking up space and distracting the hell out of me.