Sunday, November 1, 2009

The Accent That Kills

Jason Voorhees stared me down as I walked into the pool hall, slowly and mechanically swinging his machete. It was a little unsettling.

You couldn't miss that it was almost Halloween at Amsterdam; besides the animatronic villain(hero?) of the Friday The 13th movies, the usual decorations were up: orange and black streamers, bats, skeletons, and flyers for the Halloween Party. Will the redheaded waitress be there?, I briefly wondered. No matter, it was match time.

I had missed the previous week because of work. With no real match or practice time, I had vacated the zone I had found two weeks earlier and moved into a state of sludgy, choppy, ugly play.

The night before I had played some with Mi2, hoping to break out of it. It didn't work. Missed shots, bad position play, and unnerving feeling of something being "off - like a gear slightly out of place - made me more and more frustrated. 

Watching the Redskins getting killed by the Eagles didn't help. Looking up from a missed shot to see Jason Campbell getting sacked(again!) was making me reconsider my no drinking during practice policy. Besides the bad pool and the bad football, I also had a lunch bet riding on the Redskins. A coworker of mine is from Philadelphia, and in a foolish showing of hometown spirit, I bet her lunch that the Skins would beat the Eagles. I wonder what place will she pick for her victory lunch...

For once at match time, everyone was present and on time. To celebrate, Chris informed us that because of a party Amsterdam was hosting our already late nine o'clock start time was going to be pushed back even farther. To keep us from rioting, he offered us a all drink tickets. Free alcohol - a surefire way to a league player's heart.

Using up some of the only luck I would have that night, my match was called within ten minutes of Chris's announcement. My opponent was a nice looking fellow named Ben.

We made our way to the same table I had played on two weeks before, table twenty-three. For some reason I said the same thing I had then: "Man, I haven't played on this table in a while."

Amsterdam was louder than usual, the buzz from the party making it hard to hear Ben as we made small talk. Maybe he didn't even hear my meaningless white lie, I thought, as Ben excused himself to use the bathroom before we started.

Despite the crowd noise, I thought I could hear an accent in Ben's voice. When he came back and we flipped the coin, I heard it clearly: a sharp, charming British accent.

Big Ben had me down two games quick. Despite playing a little better than I had been lately, it wasn't good enough against him(ranked a 9 to my 7). I had a bit of bad luck in the second rack, getting snookered behind my own ball when Ben missed, denying me an easy runout. Still, I had my opportunities and didn't capitalize.

I could feel I was shooting better though; the gear was slowly falling back into place. Nailing a few tough shots and playing good position, even in a couple of losses, had me sitting high in my chair even has Ben ran out.

Being a bit of an anglophile, I couldn't help but smile when Ben said he was "nominating" a pocket for the eight-ball.

"Oh, you mean call it? Cool," I said with a small grin. Nominating! What a trip.

Good feelings weren't going to stop me from doing down 0-3 in eight-ball, though, and finally in the third game I caught a break when Ben jawed a shot in the corner, and I ran out. I almost ran from the break the next game, but finished it one turn later after Ben missed again.

Ben shot with intimidating accuracy, and he shot quickly. He pranced around the table, breaking two of the cardinal rules of pool: not chalking between each shot, and playing with a house cue. Being a sinner was working out for him, though, he was easily the best player I'd seen in a while. After being down 0-2 to him, I felt like I had climbed a mountain to get the race tied.

Ben was on his way to running out the deciding game when he got funny on his next to last ball, and missed the ensuing hard shot. My stroke (partly) back, I made an easy four-ball run(aided by my handicap) to end it.

The first game of nine-ball, Ben broke and made nothing. I pushed on the one, he missed, and we jostled back and forth until I left him a shot on the two ball and he ran out.

Watching him pocket ball after ball after ball, strangely I felt...good. This was the level of opponent I wanted to play, needed to play. My mistakes were being punished brutally and without mercy(even if it was accompanied by a such a delightful, friendly accent). Against some opponents, I could make mistake after mistake and not worry because I knew they weren't good enough to beat me even if I fucked around for a bit. Against Ben, that lazy, unfocused attitude would only leave me sitting in my chair most of the night.

Knowing this, I played some pretty good pool and won the next two games of nine-ball. In the fourth rack, I made a mistake that swung the match back in his favor. He missed a tough shot on the one ball, but left me hooked. Worse yet, the one-nine combo was dead(though a tad long) in the corner.

I decided to foul and take the combo out of play, hitting the nine-ball first on purpose to knock it out of the way. Unfortunately, I hit it three times as hard as I needed to and the ball darted around the table before jawing in the opposite corner pocket, leaving Ben an even easier combo then the one I had tried to prevent.

"Sorry mate, I have to take it," he said.

Damn English, polite even in victory.

From there, I think had all of two or three shots as Ben won two more racks, and that was it. I lost 5-7.

The rest of my team lost close matches as well: Alex 5-6, Mimi 5-6, and Mike 4-5. Even though we all lost, we didn't take that bad a hit in the standings since none of us got blown out. So while not an ideal night, not a total fuck-up either.

I redeemed my free drink ticket at the bar, going over some of the last shots in my head. Sipping my Stoli-Ras and Cran, I chatted with Mike and his opponent Kevin. Kevin seemed nice enough, if a little awkward. He had a pronounced pause before he spoke, as if the conversation was a broadcast he wasn't quite getting live.

The pool hall seems to be a haven for that type: guys who are friendly, but just a little...off. Maybe it's the appeal of the subtle forced socialization pool leagues offer: you always have an icebreaker with a fellow league player since you already have something in common. Or maybe I'm just a judgmental prick.

---

On the way home, I saw a friend on the train just as she was getting off at her stop. It was strange, having that moment of recognition but not being able to do anything about it. She hadn't seen me, so I briefly smiled at the side of her head. A week earlier, I had confessed to having a small1 crush on her(via e-mail, because I can be a total pussy sometimes). She wanted to stay friends, which wasn't as bad to hear as I thought it would be, and the expected awkwardness, so far, had been minuscule.

Still, it was a strange glimpse. My near perfect-night of pool was pre-confession; my mini-slump post. Unrelated, I knew logically, but my state of mind was more positive on that night of perfection: I was looking forward to the possibilities my soon to be revealed crush could open.

Stupid, I know, but you think strange things on the subway ride home.

1The small part I added after being rejected, because I'm vain.

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