time for dinner! set the pool table

Back when I was a little shit—somewhere between the ages of twelve and fourteen—I remember informing my mother that a pool table will be the sole piece of furniture in my first apartment/house. After a few afternoon games, I’d simply drape a thin board and a tablecloth over the felt to serve up the evening meal. Twelve years later I’m occupying a rented room of 12’x15’ (welcome to NYC), so the table will have to wait. But just you watch: on move-in day into my fictional house, while my fictional wife is out buying petty crap with my fictional money (I’m loaded, somehow), I’ll wile away the afternoon buffing the paneling of my new full-length table with a soft cloth diaper, just like Cameron’s father.

If I had my way (and people paid me for my addictions), I’d play eighty games of pool a day. There’s nothing more fulfilling, more oddly sexual, than a well-played game of pool. I’ve experienced many of my greatest joys in pubs and billiard halls, chalk streaks across my brow and quarters weighing my pockets. Just because I can, I’m gonna share with you a few of my more memorable games. I’m the hero in every one of them. No one’s stealing my thunder. Not in my blog.

1) The site: Arcade Tavern. Bandon, Oregon. Late one evening, about six beers deep, I squared off against a fella named Bluejay. (Most of the Bandon caddies adopt nicknames. Tragically, mine was “Mike Elwood,” a terrifically boring moniker. Some jerk heisted “Elwood” a year prior, so I couldn’t even go by the shortened version...seems a blind caddie manager thought this imposter resembled Blues Brothers-era Dan Aykroyd—he did not—and the name stuck.)

Blue’s a solid player, thru and thru. Doesn’t beat himself. Now, in terms of pool ranks at the Arcade, I was certainly one of the better players, but by no means Top Dog. That honor went to either Mike Kelley, Greenie, Brett Williams, Foxey or Jay Olson, depending on the day. Well, come to think of it, I began matching Olson in my final months there. On a good day I might make the podium. Anyway, Bluejay surprised me. He methodically grazed the table, sinking ball after ball. We split the first two. A small crowd gathered. About a dozen loopers rubbernecked from their bar squats during the tiebreaker. Blue broke and proceeded to clear five of his stripes without pause. I sunk one in the corner, foolishly blocked the cue and missed wide on my next shot. Blue pocketed one more, leaving me the cue against the far rail. Now I’ve got the table to myself, six of my solids remaining. I bore down. Two bank shots, one suicidal cut and a jump shot(!) later, I snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. Cleared the remaining balls without relinquishing my turn. I felt like a daggum superhero.

2) The site: Vasmay Lounge. New York, New York. First game of the night. My buddy Garrett and I joined forces against two out-of-towners. I ran the table, break to eight-ball. Not much of a story, ‘cept that my shot on the eight was downright gross. I had to jaywalk (shoot the length of the table diagonally) from the lower corner pocket, but the eight was blocked by an opposing ball, forcing me to call an awkward bank. Basically, I had to breathe hard right on the eight, shoving it off the near rail and back across the table into the corner. Drained it. The out-of-towners didn’t even have time to take off their jackets.

3) The site: Vasmay Lounge. New York, New York. Perhaps my finest hour. I was running the table against some locals when this diminutive Asian woman signed up on the chalkboard. I saw no harm. She didn’t look like trouble. Anyway, turned out she’s a ringer, and perhaps the most impressive pool player I’ve seen live and in-person. The first moment I watched her set over the ball, I knew this was gonna be my greatest challenge. Her form was just too beautiful for words; that cue became a natural extension of her bare hands. She sunk four in succession, exhibiting serious control
over her pace and English. I rallied hard, though, employing some defensive pool tactics in the closing moments (carefully guiding the cue behind my ball, etc.). Game one was mine, by the narrowest of margins. She looked ready to kill. Another rack. I won again. After she steamed off for a cigarette, I played a few more and set down the cue. Made for my stool. Ten minutes later, she tiptoed up to me from the booth and offered an apology for her tantrum. “Frankly, I’m just not used to losing,” she said. “You play a mean game of pool.”
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