The League

Playoffs, Playoffs?

2010-05-10T20:08:00.000-07:00

The season ended last week. Alex, Mike, Jen and I had a comfortable lead, but there was still a small chance we could slip to second. Even if it was small, though, the thought still made us a little nervous; besides the obvious satisfaction of winning the regular season, first place meant a bye to the third round.

We finished 19-19, kept first place, and we play Friday at 6:30 instead of having to play Monday night, win, then win again Thursday night to make it to Friday. That’s two rounds we don’t have to sweat.

It’s been a good season. Personally, I got moved from being a 7 to an 8 and finished with a .650 winning percentage overall. Mike moved from a 4 to 5 and finished with .600 winning percentage. Alex finished with a flurry of wins to get a winning record and solidify our hold on first. And Jen, considering it was her first season, did great, finishing at about .500.

We’ve had some moments. The first time we ran into our former team captain was a little awkward. The thrashing Mimi’s team gave us our first time against them smarted. When the season began, I was single; midway through, I had a beautiful face to share a beer with after a tough loss(or a great win). I was called a liar, but won anyway. I blew a 3-0 lead, but seemed to learn from it(I hope). And I moved up.

Mike went through at least three prospective roommates before finally having someone move in at the beginning of May. He took a trip to India, came back and just kept on winning.

Jen used a house cue her first few matches; now she has her own two-piece cue. She made a game winning shot that made the house-pro smile, and it was only one of many incredible shots I saw her make this season.

Alex got a new cue1 and kept kicking ass. In three seasons he has three winning records, but more importantly, he’s alway there to share a beer, a story and a laugh with. I couldn’t ask for a better teammate.

No matter what happens Friday, it’s been a great season, with a great team. Can’t wait for the summer session.

1Technically a new shaft, but I’m not writing that.

The Next Level

2010-04-19T15:50:00.000-07:00

The last three weeks I’ve had a no-show and two matches. I beat a guy with an 8 handicap 7-3, got myself raised to an 8, then beat one of my more quirky opponents 7-1, despite giving up a ball. He didn’t have the best night, but he wasn’t playing terribly. I just took advantage when he made mistakes and got out when I should have.

I’ve wanted to increase my handicap from a 7 to an 8 all season; it feels good to finally make it happen and to get a big win my first match with the new handicap. However, one match doesn’t mean anything. When I start having to give up one or two balls regularly, and I start playing guys even who used to have to give me a ball; all of that will be the real test. I look forward to it.

My team is doing great: first place in our division, and the best record overall among Wednesday night teams. Jen is doing great, especially considering this is her first season. Two weeks ago, she nailed a tie-breaking nine-ball(and a combo, no less) like it was nothing. Mike has been raise from a 4 to a 5 and just keeps winning anyway. Alex is as solid as ever, which considering he and I play the two best players on the other team every week, is remarkable.

Maybe this year we will not only make it into the money, but walk away with the trophy.

Blowing It Again

2010-03-29T11:17:00.000-07:00

This feels familiar, I thought. There was no New York accent(just silence1 behind wire-frammed glasses), but the results were causing me Deja Vu:

I win eight-ball 3-0;(rather easily, I might add)2, then fall apart in nine-ball.

It’s the first game of nine-ball, and my opponent is looking a two-nine combo up and down. It wasn’t a gimme but it wasn’t that hard, either. I sat impotently in my chair, shook my head, and awaited my fate. This can’t happen again, I thought, I can’t blow a 3-0 lead for the second week in a row. Fuck, why did I leave him that shot and the game and...

He missed. I ended up winning.

He won the next two games of nine-ball, though, and the thoughts creeped back. Especially after I was running out, and blew - just straight up fucking blew - a cut on the eight ball.

He made the eight, but left himself tough on the nine. He missed, and left me with a cut in the side.

The next game, I was (again) running out before I scratched while making the six ball. Great, I thought, only three balls left on the table, ball-in-hand for my opponent. It wasn’t looking good; I stiffly swallowed while trying to shoo away thoughts of last week’s disaster.

My opponent took the cue ball, carefully lined up a shot on the seven, and nailed it - drawing the cue ball right back into the side pocket. I took the gift and the game.

I won the next game too, playing just well enough to win. Dan was rattled a bit. His manner away from the table - so quiet that describing him as ‘soft-spoken’ was equate to calling him boorish - broke briefly for a few seconds after each miss when he threw up his hands, spat out a curse, or slammed3 the chalk on the table.

After choking last week, winning 7-2 felt really, really good. I’d made a few shots that, in practice, I’d been working on. That type of reinforcement, assuring you that practice does indeed “pay off”, is crucial to my confidence as a player. Nothing is more frustrating than working and working on something only to have your muscle-memory and mental faculties fail you in a game situation; thoughts like you’ve worked on this, practiced it, studied it, so if you blow it...well it means all you’ve done is waste your time creep into your brain. Banishing them - with confidence - is a great feeling.

Or maybe that’s just how my mind works.

Alex had a rough night, losing 2-7, and Jen lost a close match 5-7. Mike, though, double-tapped his opponent with a 7-0 victory, his first perfect night. So, overall, we did very well and kept our second-place standing.

Which was good, because the next week, we’d be playing Mimi’s team again.

1Broken by the occasional, barely audible mumble. But a friendly mumble.
2That’s a half-lie, we traded an eight-ball back and forth but I never felt that much in danger because I left him long and he couldn’t make long shots. Still, it wasn’t easy - at least that game.
3Well, slammed for him - it was really more like “slapping” the chalk onto the table.

Blowing It

2010-03-28T19:29:00.000-07:00

The reality(maybe) was this: I was playing better than him, I was getting some rolls, and he was having an off night1. I wasn’t running out or do anything extraordinary, but I felt like I was.

That feeling, which was connected to but not actually part of reality, had me thinking 7-0. After the last eight ball fell(ending the race 3-0 in my favor), that score, added to my win-lost record, flickering before me on the league website, probably cementing my ascent to the next handicap level...that score was all I could see.

My opponent, a middle-aged native New Yorker2, was already at that level, and I - felt! - that I was better. Much better, obviously.

Less than a half-hour later, I lost the last game of nine-ball on a foul3. That ended the race 4-0, him, in nine-ball. 4-3, him, for the match.

What the hell? Aren’t I better than he is?

The reality(maybe) was this: my thoughts wandered, my execution suffered, he got the rolls this time, and I wasn’t running out or doing extraordinary. Or ordinary. But I felt like I should be. Which made me fee worse, play worse, until finally the match was mercifully over, where the reality(certainly) was a victory for him.

Fortunately, the rest of my team did well. Alex won 7-2, Mike won 4-3 and Jen won 7-5. That performance put us in second place(ahead of Mimi’s team!).

In the big picture, this was only my second match loss all season. I’m not having a bad season. Still, having a 3-0 lead and not winning another game, not one more fucking game; that’s shitting a bed you just carefully and cleanly made yourself.

I had a new cue coming, and hopefully new results.

1How off I have no idea, since this was my first time playing him.
2Judging from an accent that would make a casting director drool.
3If you foul three times in a row, you lose the game, same as if your opponent knocked in the nine. I’m glad this humiliation(at least in total) is in a footnote.

On To The Next One(after being pissed off)

2010-03-24T16:32:00.000-07:00

The shot from the seven to the eight ball was perfect. The seven fell, whitey bounced off the rail and glided behind the eight, like a shark sizing up it’s prey. After a bad start and a back and forth struggle, the match was mine.

As I got up from the shot, I saw my opponent throw up his hands in disgust and turn towards his watching teammates. I didn’t smile, I didn’t gloat; I didn’t do anything other than look at him and announce:

“Eight-ball, corner pocket,” gesturing towards the intended pocket. It was a short shot, the calling was just a necessary formality: we were playing nine-ball, and the eight ball was my additional “game” ball since he had a higher handicap than me.

The shot was called. I leaned down, softly sent the eight-ball home, and got up to shake my opponent’s hand.

“Good ma-”

“You didn’t call the ball,” he said, cutting me off.

I blinked. Was he serious?

“Yes I did, I said it right to you.”

“No you didn’t, I was watching you the whole time. I never took my eyes off you,”

“Dude, I know you did because I saw you throw up your hands when I got position on the eight - and I called the ball.”

This fruitless exchange went back and forth for another minute; exasperated I said I’d talk to Chris(the league director) and ask what we could do.

Walking to the front of Amsterdam, I passed Mimi, who tried to talk to me. I put up my hand and said something like sorry I’m in the middle of a dispute with my opponent¹ and marched right past her. My jaw was tight, my teeth were clenched, and my shoulders tense. I was pissed.

Chris’s ruling didn’t help: since I hadn’t physically marked the pocked(with a coin or something), and my opponent hadn’t acknowledged my call, it didn’t count. I didn’t win.

Now, I got credit for the eight ball, and it was still my turn at the table. That was the good news. The bad news was I still had to make the nine to win, and since I didn’t think I’d be shooting the nine, I’d left myself a very long cut shot.

Angry, but trying to remain calm, I returned to the table and reluctantly told my opponent he was “right²”, apologized, got down and slammed the fucking nine ball into the corner pocket anyway. Game, match. Fuck. You.

I silently took apart my cue, got my things, shook his hand, and went to the bar. A few minutes later, my opponent gone and my teammates around me, I recounted the tale, still very angry.

“Damn, I need a beer.”

“Fuck that guy,” Alex said. “You still won, yeah, you make me shoot again? I’ll win twice, asshole!!” he said, laughing.

I smiled. We had done pretty well that night.

Still, the experience left me sour. Next time I play that guy, I want to destroy him. If he still has to give me a ball, I’ll ignore it and beat him anyway. Then it’ll be on to the next one.I used that phrase as an excuse to post this awesome video:

¹Or, as I call him now, asshole.
²The way a rules-lawyer can be right, but still be wrong.

Position Night

2010-03-08T19:14:00.000-08:00

Position night¹. An opportunity for all teams to advance or cement their place in the standings. My team, in second, was playing the first place team. That group had a familiar face: our old fifth team member, Mimi - the girl next door - was now part of the opposition. She was going to play Mike, and as sweet as Mimi is, I was hoping Mike would kick her ass.

That didn't happen. Mimi came out firing, and Mike - recently upped to a five handicap and just back from a trip to India - was blitzed 5-1.

Jen was playing a girl Alex and I had dubbed Jessica Alba II. During our second season, we'd heard of a girl who played Wednesday nights who looked like Jessica Alba, only "better". While she definitely wasn't superior to the original Alba, the resemblance was enough for the nickname to stick.

She attracted a lot of attention. One night, a particularly tall admirer stared at Alba II while she played on one of the front tables. He was grinning like an idiot. After a few minutes, he asked the houseman who the celebrity was. I wonder, was he disappointed to learn she - outside of Amsterdam Billiard Club -wasn't famous?

Jen, a looker herself, took on Alba II² on one of the front tables. I finished my match early, and came back to the bar to get a beer and watch. I walked over to talk to Chris and my opponent, Landrew, while watching Jen and Alba II play.

Chris was telling Landrew how the internet has killed gambling in the pool world, when all of a sudden I heard my name called from the bar.

"Hey Kris, you enjoying that view?"

It was Damien, one of the housemen, off tonight. Beer in hand, he was goading me about ogling Jen and Alba II. I smirked, then realized that because of one of the wood-paneled columns that dots Amsterdam, Damien couldn't see Chris and Landrew from his perspective at the bar. Panning from the left, he saw me(beer in hand, smiling), the column, then the table with the two dueling vixens. An easy mistake.

Jen lost some close games, but the final score was 7-2 for The Invisible Woman. From the games I'd seen, they seemed evenly matched, the games just didn't go Jen's way that night.

Alex, playing once again the slowest player on the opposing team, won 7-5, snapping a losing streak. Combined with my 7-3 win, we finished just under .500 for the night.

Checking the standings the next day, I was happy to see we'd only dropped to third. Mimi's new team, despite winning, had dropped to second. Apparently the former third-place team had thrashed the fourth-place team. Still, in our first meeting, her team had come out on top - something she reminded me, real friendly like, as we had drinks afterward.

At the end of March, though, my team will have a chance at revenge. And we'll get it.

¹It's very hard to resist a dirty joke here.
²Or as some call her, Ellaina.

Snow, Newbies and The Rest

2010-03-02T20:34:00.001-08:00

Three weeks ago, the snow canceled our matches. Two weeks ago, I was up against a woman who was playing her second league match ever(I won 7-0). So that's covered.

Last week, I finally got to play a "real" match for the first time in three weeks. My opponent was a (seemingly)nice guy, big and tall, quiet and wearing an army jacket. He worked for the city, and was hoping for more snow so he could make more overtime. We were both 7s so we played even.

Ahead of us in line was the woman I had played a week earlier and her opponent. The houseman for the night, Damien, offered them one of the front tables; the so-called TV tables: two tables in the front of the club, separated from the riff-raff by faux-gold railings and equipped with their own, permanent set of Super Aramith balls(the Rolls Royce of pool balls, as silly as that sounds).

The newbies, realizing they'd be on display, refused the offer. Damien was taken aback - usually league players loved to play on those tables. More room and pro-level equipment. If a great local player or pro player stopped by, these were the tables they would play on. The two newbies, however, had no way of knowing that, and took a table near the back. I'm sure by the end of the season, they'll get over their TV table phobia.

For right now, though, their loss was our gain. My opponent and I gladly took the front table. We flipped a coin(I won), shook hands, and barely spoke another word during the entire match. Weweren't cold to each other, but we didn 't waste time with bullshit filler conversation either. "Good shot", "Bad break there", "Good game", and the occasional laugh were the only sounds besides the clicking of the balls.

He was a good shot, but his position play was a little off. I started great, winning the eight-ball part of the match 3-0. I won the first game of nine-ball too, and the thought of another 7-0 week crept into my mind. With a chance to go up 2-0, though, I made a tough cut on the nine, but the ball sailed three rails before scratching in the far corner pocket. Then my opponent fluked in a nine, and suddenly he was ahead 2-1.

I managed to settled down, and ran out from the five the next game. He got it to 3-3 quickly, and at worst I was going to win 6-4. That didn't sound nearly as good as 7-3, at least to me. I really wanted that last game, and it came down to the six ball. We traded safeties until he tried a tough shot, missed, and left me an opening. I ran the remaining four balls, and that was that. My team did very well overall, Mike winning 4-3, Jen winning 5-3 and Alex losing a tough match 5-7.

The next day, I checked the league standings. Our good night had moved us from fourth to second. Our next match was during "Position Week", which means the first place team plays the second, third plays fourth, and so on. Looking at the team in first, I realized it was Mimi's team.

Mimi left us to sub for another team - as part of our mutiny, we all felt it best if she was as far away from our former leader as possible. Leaving for another team made sense, her playing time would be more flexible as well(a good thing for a graduate student). So Mimi and the rest of us are still friends, share drinks after matches, hang out, everything; however, next week will be very interesting. Her new team is going down!

Smiling

2010-02-09T21:02:00.001-08:00

I'm a fucking no-balls cocksucker.

Let me back up. I'd been playing an overly-friendly Jewish lawyer, a man who claimed to have heard of my boss via a hamburger documentary my boss had no involvement in, a man who had the annoying habit of announcing each of his misses with a sharp "nope", a man who was a life-long New Yorker bitching about how Amsterdam's best days were behind it, a man who was so cordial and friendly I had no business being agitated by him so recognizing this made me even more agitated(what kind of horrible person am I?), a man who was playing even with me, a man in a tiebreaker in me, a man lining up the match-winning nine ball after I had missed a long shot into the corner pocket.

A shot I should have made, but missed - badly. I'm a fucking no-balls cocksucker, I thought, rounding the table to slouch in my chair while the lawyer unwrapped the gift I'd left him. And he did, but as the final ball dropped, I looked past him, and saw a face.

A beautiful, smiling face, half-ducking because she thought she might distract me if I saw her. Alex stood next to her, laughing. I'd lost 6-7 in a tiebreaker. I'd been up 3-0 in nine-ball, then my opponent got a nine on the break, fluked a nine ball in the corner, and barely avoided scratching on a combo attempt the next game to even the race at 3-3. I'd played like shit half the time. Walking around the table after missing a match-winning shot, a crucial shot, a shot that I could grab, pin and use to label myself as "clutch"...I was shaking my head, cursing myself. No-balls...no-balls cocksucker. Then I saw her face.

Seeing her face, I was happy. Really happy. Drinking with her at the bar later, I felt like a winner. A real winner.

---

My team had a rough night. Besides my loss, Alex had lost 3-5, playing a three. Giving up three balls is tough, especially to someone who shoots glacially slow. Jen had lost 4-7, Princeton(subbing for a vacationing Mike) lost by the same score. We dropped from third to fifth.

We drank to forget our troubles. Well, Alex, Andi and I drank. Jen left, and Princeton was playing with his fiance in the back of Amsterdam. No shots this time, only beer: Heineken for Alex, Guinness for Andi, and Budweiser for me. I'm not sure why I drink Bud; I give all sorts of reasons: makes me feel American, it's cheap, even the aesthetic appeal of the goddamn label. I love that Andi drinks Guinness. No strong opinions on Alex's choice of Heineken.

Amsterdam was dead when I had arrived just prior to our nine o'clock match time, but now, close to eleven, it was jammed - jammed with annoying, loud people.

"BEEEEEEEER!"

Someone was actually shouting beer.

"Bah...bah....baheeeeEEEEEER!"

Jesus Christ. I couldn't really hear Andi or Alex. We left after two drinks. I walked with Andi to a cab, kissed her and said goodbye. I couldn't wait to see her the next night. I also had to pee.

It was after midnight. Could I hold it for the 45 plus minutes it would take to get back to my apartment?

I started walking back towards Amsterdam. The bartender looked at me, eyebrows raised and apart, as I hurriedly hit the head. I came back, saw that the shouting dipshits had left, and made my usual unwise Wednesday decision: Hell, I may as well stay for one more beer.

Sophia, the bartender, gave me the first beer for free. That's why it was the first, and not the only. I had two more. With Amsterdam cleared out, Sophia had time to talk. I gushed about Andi, she told me about a great date she'd had recently, we traded relationship war-stories, and compared frequency of trips home(we are both from Maryland, funnily enough) .

It was almost two-thirty when I left. I still couldn't wait to see Andi the next day.

The Price Of Mutiny

2010-02-05T14:09:00.001-08:00

A new team, a new name: Different Strokes. I suggested TMI, but Alex and I decided that might be too obvious. Our old captain was still in the league(though we wouldn't find out he'd switched to Wednesday nights too until later), why risk even more awkwardness?

Looking at the league standings, it's strange not to see our old team name. When matches are called, I have to remind myself what our new team name is. The price of mutiny.

The actual playing on Wednesday nights instead of Tuesdays hasn't taking much adjusting to - the two aren't that different, in the context of the work-week. Same Amsterdam crowd, just different faces. The cocktail waitress is now the bartender; the bartender now circles the hall with her little tray. Which is fine with me, because I get along better with the Wednesday bartender. Chris still announces the matches in the same place, with the same jokes(that are still funny).

The only new thing(mostly) are the opponents. The first week we played some familiar faces, but scanning the team rosters, I knew they were the exception. Tonight, I faced off against Cho, an 8 I'd never played before. Alex and Jen were playing even, while Mike was spotted a ball.

Cho told me he'd taken a season off, but was no stranger to league play. That was obvious when the houseman, Steve, knew him on sight. He was pleasant without being too talkative - the perfect opponent. Small talk, game talk, and nothing else.

Now, as I've explained before, the league uses a handicap system to keep games competitive between players of different levels. I'm a 7, and Cho was an 8, so I had a one ball advantage in eight-ball; I could take the last ball in my group off the table without having to shoot it. This is a big advantage.

Or at least it would have been if in the midst of running the table I hadn't forgotten about the handicap. Confidently lining up a shot on my last ball, I thought about the easy position I would have on the eight, and how great it was running out the first game. Then Cho rose slightly from his seat.

"...um, sorry, but you have to take that ball off."

I sat up, looked at Cho, and laughed.

"Aw...fuck."

Sighing, I dropped my last ball(the two) into the corner pocket, heard it crack into the ball return, and gazed at my now shitty position: instead of shooting the two and following for an easy eight ball, I had a table-length bank.

"Yeah sorry about that, if you shot it would be a foul, and who wants to win that way?"

I liked this guy; he could have taken the foul but chose to let me save face and have a chance at winning. I missed the bank, though, and he won the game.

Chuckling to myself, I took a swig of water and sat down. This could be the start a long night, I thought.

---

It wasn't, though. Cho was either ranked too high or was having an off night. I won eight-ball 3-2, and nine-ball 4-1.

Talking with Mike about our matches back at the bar(He'd won 5-2 and had his handicap raised by Chris, which wasn't surprising because Mike was winning over 70% of his games), I was surprised when he closed out his tab without ordering a post-match Stella, then I remembered he was going to India for three weeks. I told him I'd hook him up with my friend Ian, who was in Mumbai, knowing Mike would come back with some epic tales. I tried to talk him into staying for one drink; I wanted him to meet Andi. Andi...a girl I'd been on a couple dates with. Beautiful, smart, sweet, witty - and coming by for some drinks. I'd met Mike's new girlfriend, Beth, so it only felt appropriate. He had to trip-prep, though, but he'd meet Andi eventually. I had a good feeling about her.

After Mike left, I recapped the night with Alex, Jen and her boyfriend. Alex had lost 3-7, Jen 6-7 in a tiebreaker. Still, overall our team was 21-19 on the night, and still in third place.

"My opponent took so long to shoot," Alex said. "So I kept ordering beers, and lost focus."

"Maybe that was his strategy, when he realized he couldn't out shoot you," I replied.

Alex laughed. "Yeah maybe, because he couldn't."

Jen was quiet, because Jen is always quiet. Chris jokes that he hasn't heard her say a full sentence yet. That's probably true. Her boyfriend was equally quiet. Now, Jen's boyfriend has a name. It's Casey. I had forgotten that, though, when Andi arrived. We kissed hello and I made the introductions:

"Andi, this is my friend Alex, this is Jen, and this is Jen's boyfriend....," I trailed off, hand extended in Casey's general direction.

"Casey," he finally said.

Whoops. Andi broke the uncomfortable silence:

"I have to tell you about my day, something happened."

"Uh-oh, it this a good something or a bad something?"

"Good," Andi said smiling, a rich, deep, beautiful smile...but ANYWAY. "I had just been to Starbucks and I was standing on the corner. Suddenly, I felt a tap on the shoulder and a voice says 'Excuse me, where'd you get the Starbucks?', I turn around and it's Al Roker!"

"Al Roker? Wow!"

"Yeah! So at first I'm exactly like that, 'Wow, Al Roker!', then I just told him where the Starbucks was."

I smiled. She smiled. This is the start of something good, I thought.

Jen and *Casey* soon left, leaving Andi, Alex and I to drink and talk. We ended up doing three shots of tequila while joking about Andi and Alex facing off in a drinking contest. I already knew I couldn't keep up with Alex, and Andi out drank her English co-workers when she worked in London. I was a lightweight sitting between Ali and Frazier.

But it wouldn't happen tonight. Andi stopped with the third shot, but I ordered a fourth for me and Alex because we hadn't been out drinking in a while. I changed it up though, and ordered Jack Daniels.

That wasn't the best idea I'd ever had - especially on a work night. My judgement would be even more questionable a week later.

Now On Wednesdays (Mutiny!)

2010-02-01T15:07:00.000-08:00

Teams break-up for a lot of reasons. Sometimes people lose interest. Understandable - pool isn't for everyone. Sometimes a common time-slot can't be agreed upon. This is New York City, everyone is busy; it can be hard to nail down four people for something once a month, let alone once every week. Other times, the chemistry just isn't there. Not everyone gets along, there's a personality conflict, an inability to relate...or, in my team's case, the team captain turns out to be a borderline sexual harasser, compulsive sharer of too much information, and gives everyone the willies. Which in a pool hall - with its usual cast of derelicts and scoundrels - is no easy feat.

Take my first opponent of the winter season. Married, with kids, yet he talked to everything with a vagina that walked by. But his case of the bitches aside, I could talk to him. He was charming in a roguish kind of way. I was never creeped out, and at least half of the women he accosted enjoyed the attention. And he never pushed things past personal boundaries.

This was not the case with our former captain. Every night had a level of awkwardness that swayed between uncomfortable silence and clunky conversation to abject revulsion. Maybe we were too judgmental(but probably not).

Either way, for the winter season, the team lineup is me, Alex, Mike, and our newest member Jen. We mutinied over to Wednesday nights, hoping to avoid awkward encounters with our former leader.

Of course, he joined a Wednesday team too. Game on.

---

As I said, my first opponent was a pussy-hound. No shame in that(depending who you ask), but it did make for an extremely slow match. He flirted with the waitress every time she passed by(and I'll admit, I didn't mind that this kept a beautiful blonde at the table for at least five minutes at a time).

He had played Alex the season before, playing well above his six rating. Smoothly telling Alex he didn't usually play this well, he ran out the first game of eight-ball and didn't look back. That rubbed Alex the wrong way, and he was pissed after he lost the match. Talking to the guy later at the bar, I could see why Alex hated him, though in person he was almost impossible to hate to his face. He was polite with a facade of modesty. He oozed used-car salesman charm. I tried to act surprised when he told me he was currently a broker; I didn't have to act when he told me he used to dance professionally for the Metropolitan Opera. He hit on a trio of twenty-something girls pre-gaming for a night at Webster Hall moments after telling me about his triplets. If he was on my team, I probably would have liked him; called him a 'devilish rogue', doing shots while noting which waitresses were the cutest.

He wasn't on my team though, and this night, I wanted to beat the crap out of him. Enact some revenge on behalf of Alex. And I did(sort of).

I won 6-5, but it should have been 7-4 or 7-3. And by "should" I really mean "could" which really means "I fucked up, but I have an excuse I half believe".

I was clearly the more-skilled player, even though I dropped the first game of eight-ball. From there, I won three straight, making some impressive shots. We were on Table 11, which had tight pockets. Knowing that bothered my opponent, and it kinda bothered me, but I was still making the shots I should make. Until nine-ball, anyway.

Our match was almost two-hours old by the time we got to nine-ball. He took frequent bathroom breaks. He yammered on about his name, his kids, his wife - in addition to the flirting, this was putting us in danger of finishing sometime around 10:45(after a 7:45 start time!).

After winning my third game, ensuring I'd win the match 6-5 worst case, I said(well, thought) fuck it, and dismissed any competitive imperative I might have had three hours earlier.

The worst case ended up coming true when I, hungry and tired, jawed a nine-ball. I shook his hand, wished my best to his damn wife and kids, went to the bar and ordered some food and a beer. Hunger won out over fatigue, but by the thinnest of margins - I was slumping and eating with sloth-like speed after my boneless buffalo wings finally arrived. I tried my best to engage Mike in conversation. He and Alex had won, our newest member Jen had lost in a tiebreaker, making for a much better start then the last two seasons.

It was after midnight when I got home. I put my cue in the corner, dropped my things, let my jacket slide off and crumple to the floor, fell into my bed and to sleep. I woke up a half-hour later, managing to get undressed and hang up my coat, retaining some kind of civilized dignity.

I was exhausted, and it was only the first week.

It's So Over

2010-01-22T12:42:00.001-08:00

We made the playoffs. Henry, Mike, Alex, Mimi and I managed to finish fourth after the Fall regular season was over(due largely to Mimi kicking ass when she subbed for me).

That first night, Alex saved us by killing his opponent 7-1. I had eeked out a 5-4 victory, and combined with Henry's one game loss and Mike's one game victory, we were only one game ahead. For some reason, Alex's rout was the longest match of the opening round.

"She couldn't shoot - I mean at all, " he told us at the bar. "Maybe she was having a bad night, but she could barely form a bridge."

Intriguing, because she was ranked a six, and sixes can (generally)at least shoot decently.

In the second round, I was matched against a nine. I prepared for a (possible) ass-kicking, and early on, that's exactly what I got.

I broke the first rack of eight-ball, and the cue ball got kicked into the side pocket by the fourteen(which followed it in, so at least I had a strong break going for me). My opponent took ball-in-hand behind the headstring, and calmly ran out.

Then he ran out the second rack in his second turn at the table(an incredibly difficult run out, he had to pocket three of his balls into the same pocket, playing pin-point position - it was impressive, though depressing, to watch). I stared at the ceiling, sighed, and thought about how much it would suck to tell me expectant teammates I had lost 0-7.

Then, I managed - with help from my handicap - to win the third game. Fourth game, he tried a difficult safety and left me a window. I ran out from there. Suddenly it was even, two games apiece.

The last game was a replay of the fourth game - he misses a difficult safety, and I make a gutsy shot on the eight to win it. Down 0-2, I came back to win eight-ball 3-2. Even though I wasn't playing that great, I still felt good about the comeback.

He won the flip for the nine-ball portion of the match, and preceded to run out the first game. He shot beautifully, juicing the cue ball, gliding it around the table softly;whatever was needed. Occasionally, he missed a shot down the rail or a long cut shot. Those were my only openings in the match, and most of the time, I took advantage.

Having the seven ball - because of the handicap - as an additional money ball helped. He left me straight in on the seven once, but length of the table. I drilled it. Practice was paying off.

With him ahead 3-2, I got lucky. I had a good shot on the six but needed to bang it home hard to get the cue ball up table towards the seven in the corner pocket - I got good on the seven, but the six jawed and shot out of the pocket only to roll directly into the opposite corner pocket. I shook my head, smiled, and tapped by cue stick on the table, apologizing for my luck. Either way, the seven went down, and the race was tied.

The next game, he left me a difficult shot on the five. I had two options: a) table-length bank with follow and hope to get lucky with position on the seven, or b)play safe. Since there were only four balls left on the table(the 5, 7, 8 and 9), I went with the bank. It was beautiful. The five banked off the end-rail and sailed into the opposite corner pocket, and the cue ball hesitated then spun up the table and gave me a passable shot at the seven, which was glued to the rail nearest the pocket I had just sent the five to.

"Well, guess I'll have to do that again," I said.

I studied the table - the seven was makeable, but certainly not probable. However, the eight and the nine were very close to each other, on the left side of the table near the side pocket. If I missed the bank, I reasoned, I could still hide the cue ball behind the 8-9 cluster and hope for ball-in-hand. I ended up missing the bank by a mile, but hit the safety perfect. He missed the kick, I took ball-in-hand and made the seven. Match to me, 7-5.

Chris came up to record our results, and I asked if anyone else on my team had finished.

"Oh yeah they've finished - Henry lost 7-1 and Mike lost 5-1, " Chris said. "I'm going to stop Alex, because I don't think he can win 8-0, since that's impossible."

Well...fuck. Hearing that took the polish off my victory.

Still, we made the playoffs for the second straight season, and we made it out of the first round. Hopefully next season, we can do even better.

Revenge

2010-01-13T19:51:00.001-08:00

The last time I had played Tom was in the playoffs. I won the match by one game - after he had been up 2-0 in eight-ball. He squeezed out a 3-2 win over me before losing 4-2 in nine-ball. That wasn't the end of our night: our teams tied, so as the designated "tie breakers" we had to play, er, a tiebreaker.

It was over in less than two minutes. He broke, making nothing. The one ball was visible but tough, and the two-nine combo was dead in the corner. I safetied, hoping for ball-in-hand after he(most likely) broke up the two-nine, purposely fouling but not leaving the easy win on the table. Instead, he tried to kick at the one, missed, and I calmly made the one and the two-nine for the win. My team advanced, his was out.

Flash forward to tonight. My team is in the toughest division, above five-hundred but mired in the middle of the standings. Tom's has a losing record, but is in second place among a bunch of struggling teams in a division that even Tom admitted was "dogshit".

"But I'll take first place in the dogshit division any day. We are the Kings of Dogshit," he said before our match.

We were put in the "TV Table", so called because it's at the front of the club and is covered by a webcam. I wish I had played better for the one or two people watching.

Stocky and jovial in the way only stock guys can be, Tom was a ball or two away from burying me 3-1 in eight-ball. I made two mistakes and lost two games. Tom, a good player, was playing good, mistake-free pool. Then, inexplicably, he took a risk and accidentally sank the eight-ball. Instead of a 3-1 victory, it was 2-2. Boosted by my unexpected good fortune, I made short work the next game and won after just two turns at the table. A 3-2 victory. Incredible(or as incredible as amateur pool can be).

Nine-ball swayed back and forth, but eventually Tom won a hard 4-3 victory. That meant a tiebreaker, though this time the game wouldn't decide our respective team's fate.

I won the flip and chose eight-ball for the tie-breaking game. It came down to Tom missing a tough but makeable eight after a three-ball runout, leaving me a three-ball runout of my own. 11 ball in the top left corner - click, ball drops, decent but not great position on the 12 in the bottom right corner. Great, sink the 12 with a little follow, drop right on top of the eight ball. Game over.

And I did drop right on top of the eight-ball. Which was great...for Tom. The 12 missed the pocket by about an inch. I didn't shoot it confidently. You're going to miss it, miss it, miss it! I was not the master of my own mind. You're not even lined up correctly - just shot it soft and shoot it now, hope for the best! It should be easy to stop, get up, think, and get back down over the shot with confidence. Shoot quickly, it's your only hope! I did, jumping up after the shot, pathetically twisting my body as if I had telekinetic powers at my disposal to make up for my empty nutsack.

So Tom won. A small measure of revenge.

Afterward, I drank with him and his teammates. I did shots with Ben the Brit(perpetrator of my only other loss this season). After we tossed back the tequila, out of the corner of my eye I saw Chris shaking his head. His gesture had a reasonable point: it was Tuesday night, and we all(probably) had work the next day.

Reasonable decisions are rarely made at a pool room bar, though.

The Grinch

2009-12-20T17:23:00.000-08:00

"Be careful Kris, those heels do hurt!" Chris joked. My opponent for the night, Maureen, was wearing shoes that could conceivably be used to murder someone. A tall, older blonde, she seemed pleasant enough as we walked to table six to start our match. A little cold, but - so far - she hadn't done anything to warrant the warning I'd received a week earlier.

She was just getting warmed up.

The first game didn't go her way, and she stamped her feet, slammed her cue down, and cursed my good luck. Her luck wasn't an issue, because - as any Grinch¹ will tell you - her luck was actually skill, or karmic justice. She was getting hot early, which usually that spells doom for anyone - and it did, she lost eight-ball 1-3. I didn't play great, and I was still winning. She wasn't as good as she thought she was, which can also lead to disastrous results(I speak from personal experience here, pool is game where it (usually) pays to be humble).

Nine-ball went more her way. After dropping the first game to me(in which she tried a hard bank on the nine and left hanging for me - more 'luck'), I made the nine on the break - but scratched. This prompted her to say "You are one lucky dude". Apparently missing out on a one-shot victory qualified me for charmed status. What a grinch.

I made a mistake that game and she won. The next, she fluked in a two-nine combo.

That wasn't luck, though. If it was luck, maybe she would have smiled at her good fortune, offered an apology of sorts for it(which 99% of players do). But it wasn't luck. It was deserved retribution from the Pool Gods, obviously, because her stoned expression as the nine bounced around three rails before going in an unintended pocket told me that she had actually planned the entire shot. Why she couldn't plan extraordinary shots in advance every time she was at the table...well, that's one of life's great unexplainable mysteries. Probably has something to do with her being such a grinch.

But ANYWAY, she won nine-ball 4-2, largely because I let her attitude affect me and I played poorly. So we went to a tiebreaker, and in the interest of fair disclosure, I did win the flip, which is a bit lucky.

I picked eight-ball. And I ran out my second time at the table. And that, Grinch, is not luck. That's me kicking your ass.

Mean Maureen, as my teammates and I later dubbed her, packed up and left in less than five seconds. In my two seasons at Amsterdam, that was a first. Even if I won 7-0 or lost 0-7, we would chat a little. Make some small talk, wish each other luck in the future - you know, act like sociable, well-adjusted human beings.

Not grinches.

"Well, thanks a lot for that," I told Chris after reporting the match result. "That was load of merry-fucking sunshine."

Chris slowly shook his head. "If you're going to play competitive pool, you've got to get used to all types. And she's not the worst...but yeah she doesn't like losing."

I laughed. There's worse? I can't wait.

¹Grinch = Bitch.

The Warning

2009-11-18T19:36:00.000-08:00

The roof of my mouth felt like someone had scraped it with steel wool. The back of my throat was pretty much the same. Slowly swallowing my water¹ down, I felt a little better. A cold is coming, I thought, and there's nothing I can do about it. I watched highlights from Monday Night Football, caught glimpses of the redheaded waitress, made small talk with Henry - anything to bat that thought away.

My opponent for the night seemed healthy enough; he resembled a squat version of Mark Ruffalo(I should really start taking actual notes during matches, because his name escapes me; I could go look it up on the league website, but that feels like cheating). I won the flip(I think) and broke(probably).

The week before, I'd been distracted, and played pretty good. I gave games away, and only won 6-5. Tonight, I played worse(but not by much) against a better opponent(significantly).

Pool's a funny game, though, and I won 7-1.

Last week, I missed three game balls, and they turned into losses. I started off this match by missing two eight balls, but, I wasn't punished. Mr. Ruffalo² either hadn't run out his group yet, or he missed the shot I left. I made one tough shot to win, and Mark scratched before another. The last game, thankfully, I closed out legitimately.

If my opponent is on his game or gets a little luck of his own, I could have easily lost eight-ball 1-3 or 0-3. Instead, I won it 3-0.

Funny game.

I went up 2-0 quickly in nine-ball. I was starting to play better, getting my rhythm, and the thought of another 7-0 victory crossed my mind. Then, in the third game, Ruffalo(fresh off his cameo in Where The Wild Things Are, at least in my mind) missed but left me hooked. The four-nine combo was dead in the side pocket. I took the intentional foul, pocketing the nine ball. I spotted it and, smiling, remarked to my opponent that I couldn't just leave the easy win on the table.

He gave me a forced smile in return(which I would have done too, down 0 to 5). Then, he made the four ball, and drilled the five-nine combo. An incredibly difficult shot, exponentially tougher than many shots he'd missed earlier. Funny game.

"So, two to one then," I said cheerfully, racking the balls. Of course I was cheerful, the worst I could do was 6-4, which seemed incredibly unlikely.

"Well, maybe three," he said.

I was confused.

"What?"

"Didn't you say two more games? I'm saying I'm hoping I can make it three."

"Oh no, no no - I said two to one, two to one!" I said quickly. "I would never say anything like that, I try not to be an asshole."

He laughed. "Oh OK, but it could be two, the way I'm playing."

Relieved that he(apparently) didn't think I was an asshole, I won the next two games, not choking on the last nine like I had the week before. When I shot it, I thought I'd overcut it(again!), and I had(slightly), but the pocket was big enough for it to hit the corner and tumble in.

Despite the bad night, my opponent was cordial, even talkative³. We talked about our seasons, handicaps(we'd been playing even), and teams. Mark had been playing in the league for about three years, and had been a six for most of those, earning the promotion to a seven about a season prior. He said he'd played his best pool the week before, in an extremely close match he'd lost in a tiebreaker. I liked that he could admit he'd played his best in a loss - a real sign of character(or something we all know to say to seem like we have character, but Mark didn't strike me as that cynical).

"But the woman I played, you'll probably have to play her, and let me tell you, she is a cold, cold...cold woman," he said, shaking his head.

We were watching Chris practice straight pool. Effortlessly, he pocketed ball after ball. Seeing Chris play, witnessing what the game looked like when played at such a high level, I briefly felt like Rufallo and I had desecrated our poor table with our unforced errors and bad position play. Chris's smooth, straight stroke, set up with such deliberate tempo and rhythm as he went from shot to shot; it was humbling. Then I remembered our green fees, how much money everyone in the league spent on drinks and food, and I felt better.

"How bad was it? I haven't run into anyone mean yet."

That was true, I hadn't. One guy seemed shady, but likable. He was (of course) a broker. I keep his card next to the condoms in my wallet - seems appropriate, in a strange way.

"Well you know...you know how when your opponent makes a good shot, you say 'hey good shot' or something like that? Nothing. She was just cold, distant, and mean the entire time. And we were playing a close match, both playing great, I was thrilled just to be a part of it, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, it's great when both of you are really firing. Makes it more exiting."

"Exactly! She just gets more and more pissed, and when we play the tie-breaking game, she gets just a little - a little! - bit out of line on the last nine ball. Slams down her cue, curses to herself, then makes the ball. So she won! And I say, 'hey, good match' and she just blows me off, talks about how mad she was with herself, and storms off!"

"...that's shitty. I mean, if you're playing in a money-tournament, or something like that and there's something actually at stake, I can understand that - but we play in a Tuesday night eight-ball league or Christ's sake, and the only thing at stake is Amsterdam Monopoly Money. That's just shitty."

"Like I sad, she's cold, cold...cold woman."

"You can say bitch, I don't mind."

We both laughed.

I turned to find Alex returning from his match. He'd won 6-5, dominating eight-ball. Which made sense, he'd been playing next to me and every time I looked up, he was on the eight or his next-to-last ball while his opponent had most of his group still on the table. His opponent got a little lucky with a nine on the break in nine-ball, but a win is a win.

Mike beat his guy 5-3, and Henry lost a close match 4-6, giving up a ball. Mike was 13-3 in the last two weeks - I told him he'd probably get bumped up to a five soon.

When I got home, I checked to see when I'd be playing the woman Mark had told me about: she was my next opponent.

Well, I couldn't say I hadn't been warned.

¹Despite all the money I spend at Amsterdam, I still feel a little cheap sitting at the bar and only getting a glass of water, like I'm wasting the bartender's time. Usually I order a Diet Coke, and tip a dollar, just to alleviate said guilt. I wonder if I would do this if the bartenders weren't all attractive women.

²Who goes by Chris in real life - damn, we even share a name(almost), and I didn't remember it. I'm terrible.

³I've found that most people, including myself, become more and more talkative after a loss in direction proportion to how much time has passed since the last ball went down.

Drama, Drama

2009-11-11T21:32:00.001-08:00

My heart didn't seem to be beating, my stomach felt like it was full of nickels, and a cold sweat coated my forehead. I wasn't even at the pool hall yet.

Instead, I was restlessly standing on an L train that wasn't moving nearly fast enough. Through a series of mental cartwheels, I had convinced myself my apartment had been broken into. Fully expecting to arrive in Brooklyn and be greeted by a kicked down door, an empty bedroom, no laptop, books, TV or even clothes¹, I nervously twitched and jerked in place. The people on the train must have thought I was really, really constipated.

Let me back up. Earlier(a little before six), I randomly looked at the balance of my checking account(a bored, work day habit) and saw a check had been cashed for a thousand dollars. Which was troubling, because I'd never written a check for a thousand dollars.

More troubling was the complete lack of help I got from my bank's Customer Service line. All the polite(but useless) woman could offer me was to wait until the checked cleared, then dispute it. She couldn't tell me who the check was written to or where it was cashed.

After considering all the evidence for approximately ten seconds, I came to two conclusions:

1)A mix-up involving my ex-wife, even though her name shouldn't be associated with my bank account anymore but turns out it still is, or

2)Someone broke into my place, and in addition to robbing me, they found my checkbook and were emptying my bank account for good measure.

After e-mailing my ex-wife and waiting five minutes for a response, I went with option two. I briefly considered trying to play through my 7pm match, blocking out the thought of possible burglary.

That didn't seem like a great idea, so there I was, waiting for my stop, wondering what I would do if confronted with a crime scene.

Exiting the subway, my phone buzzed. My ex-wife had replied, and sure enough, the strange deduction had been her. The full details were explained later, and made total sense, but at the time, it just seemed like she was robbing me(and to be completely honest, some people still think she was). By the end of the week, I had all of my money back. Now, I should point out, it's my own fault for not making sure that her name was off the account(which has been taken care of).

Still, it made for a very stressful dash back into Manhattan for my match. I barely made it on time. My heart refused to recognize that danger had passed and continued to pound in my chest as my opponent and I flipped a coin for the break.

The match was a blur. I won 6-5, I know that much. I gave away two games of nine-ball, partly from having my mind on my ex-wife and partly from having my mind on the date I was supposed to have at 8:45. I knew playing at seven it would be cutting it awfully close to meet someone at 8:45, but we were meeting in the heart of Union Square, a quick walk from the pool hall.

I think I played well. While walking up to tell Chris the match results, my opponent mentioned that it was the first time he ever remembered never getting a shot during a game.

"What do you mean?"

"You ran out the last game of eight-ball."

"...really? Wow, I don't remember doing that..."

And I didn't. I do remember running a rack of nine-ball only to piss at a relatively hard cut on the nine, sending it skidding off the side pocket(which means I didn't run a rack of nine-ball). I remember my stroke felt pretty good after my head stopped buzzing. And I remembered feeling relieved when I realized during the last game that a)I was going to win the match regardless of whether or not I own this game and b)I would definitely make my date. Everything was over at 8:40.

During the last game I also made a good run only to miss the nine. I took the match win - a little pissed at myself - rushed out of Amsterdam and briskly walked two blocks to where I was meeting my date.

Waiting on the street corner, she looked a lot like my ex-wife: tall, black, a smile from New York to Japan, and sexy as hell. The night wasn't done being interesting.

¹The fact that I had my cue stick and iPod with me was strangely comforting.

The Accent That Kills

2009-11-01T21:02:00.000-08:00

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.

One Perfect Night

2009-10-18T21:32:00.000-07:00

Somehow, I knew that last nine-ball was going in on the break. The cue ball hit the one square, the rack exploded like a fire-cracker had gone off in the middle of it, and the nine followed the eight into the bottom corner-pocket. Game.

I extended an almost ashamed hand to my opponent(the break? really?).

"Good match, man".

"Do you want to keep playing?" he said, slumped and shrugging. "I mean, we pad sixteen dollars and it's only been forty minutes..."

I glanced at my phone: 9:15. We had started at 8:30. Three games of eight-ball, four games of nine-ball, seven wins - in 45 minutes.

"Sure, why not."

I was still taking it in. I'd never played that well before. The game felt different, not completely, but slightly. Slightly easier. Balls dropped effortlessly into pockets, whitey¹ rolled where I wanted him to, and most importantly, I saw the patterns; the criss-crossing lines bouncing off the balls, the rails, dissecting the table into a neatly layed-out puzzle that I could, for one night, perfectly understand. Complete control of one small part of the universe, for forty minutes. It felt good.

And without the purpose and pressure of winning, the feeling quickly left. We played two more games for fun, and I lost both.

"That was fast," Chris said as me and my opponent signed the match slip. "I've still got seven o'clock matches going."

"I got a few lucky breaks." The words came out of my mouth as humbly and sincerely as I could manage. My opponent, an emaciated James Franco look alike, was good - and I would probably face him again. He didn't need anymore motivation for vengeance. His first shot - a long cut on the eleven ball he made with perfect speed - made me think I was in for a long night. It was obvious he could play; if not for a tricky layout, he might have run the table that first game. Instead, I got to the table and ran out. Maybe the pressure of knowing any mistakes I made, the Green Goblin would punish, brought out my A+ game. Either way, beating a skilled opponent, and not just beating them but crushing them, made the victory that much sweeter.

Glancing around, I saw Alex still playing. I didn't want to interrupt, but someone had to be told. Too anxious to search for Mike or Henry, I called Mi².

"Hey, I the book for you - want to meet outside real quick? I'm done with my match!"

"Sure!"

Waiting outside, the cold didn't bother me. Maybe it was the eager pacing keeping me warm. Mi² came down, and I babbled on about my victory. Like a child waiting to tell a proud parent about a straight-A report card, I couldn't keep still; my soles were springs and my arms were rarely at my sides.

Later, everyone else got to tell their stories over pizza. Alex had won 7-4. Mike lost 4-5 on a very frustrating tiebreaker that I had witnessed from afar. Facing down an easy eight-ball in the side pocket, his opponent hit the ball ten times harder then he should have and the cue ball orbited the table and barely, BARELY stopped short of scratching in the corner.

Overall though, we had a good night, climbing from last place into fifth(out of nine teams). My euphoria didn't last much past that evening, though. The realization that I wasn't as good as I had played that night hit me when I practiced the next day. The game was back to being, largely, a mystery. The balls didn't go where they were told, the cue ball didn't snap to attention, and the once clear layouts were incomprehensible.

Oh well, that's life. If it was easy, why would we bother playing?

---

¹Whitey is a pool slang term for the cue ball.

Nothing Much Happened

2009-10-11T20:12:00.000-07:00

I hate not playing.

Last week, Mi² subbed for me because I was helping a friend move. So tonight, I was dying to play, to be in a match, to face an opponent, to shrug off some nerves and to enjoy a few laughs. Well, we can't always get what we want.

Playing time was nine, again. I'm beginning to suspect that me or one my of my teammates pissed Chris(the league director) off, because we play nine o'clock matches eight times this fall; roughly half the season.

I had finished work, taken the L train home to Williamsburg, fixed dinner(barbecue chicken and broccoli), washed the dishes, read about Matt Damon in Esquire - still an hour and a half until playing time.

Fuck it, I thought, grabbing my cue and putting a book to read in my bag. I would wait it out at the bar.

I used to be very self-conscious sitting alone at bar(I still am, but used to be too¹). I'm not as bad anymore, though, and being a regular at Amsterdam certainly helps.

A little after eight Amsterdam's opened double-doors let me and the Autumn air in, and walking briskly past the front desk the first thing I noticed was the red-headed waitress wasn't behind the bar. Sadly, this is usually my first order of business on league night.

Chris was in sight, though, and I was eager to pester him about my winnings from the previous season(I still hadn't collected them).

"Hey Chris, so this week it's OK to bug you about the prize money right?" I said, smiling(well, my equivalent of a smile, more of a like three-quarters grin).

"Sure you can bug me about it - doesn't mean you'll get it," he deadpanned.

Good humor makes for a great league director. Chris is easy to talk to and he handles all of the players, the demanding bunch that we are, beautifully.

Telling me he would get me the money before my match started, Chris disappeared into the bowels of the packed pool hall. I sat at the far end of the bar, in front of the TV showing the Caps game. Why hockey was on, let alone Washington Capitals hockey, I had no idea, but I was going to enjoy it. Ovechkin scored his second goal as I was settling in.

I don't drink before a match, so I ordered a Diet Coke. Some players like to have a beer or two before they play, to calm their nerves. Not me - I'm paranoid about having an excuse for losing, as The Hustler's Burt Gordon would say, so I remove the temptation. After my match though, I can be quite the lush: it's a little embarrassing to admit that I've heard the houseman say Ladies and gentleman, Amsterdam Billiards will be closing in ten minutes three o'clock on a Monday morning.

I neglected my book, watching the Caps play to a 4-4 tie in the second period against the Flyers on one television and the Tigers and Twins play their one-game playoff on two others. The man next to me let out a loud cheer when the Twins turned an inning-ending double play. Being from the Washington/Baltimore area, I was envious of his enthusiasm.

Mike and Henry arrived around 8:30. While they ordered their beers(Stella, as always, for Mike, and Corona, as always, for Henry) Chris came over and handed me an envelope thick with 'Amsterdam Bucks'(the place's equivalent of gift certificates and the currency of league prizes). Mike and Henry gave me a quizzical look.

"I sold him a bunch of drugs," I said as vacantly as I could manage. I can't resist stupid little jokes.

When it came time for matches to be called, my opponent was nowhere to be found. Alex, Mike and Henry were paired off and I was left leaning against the wall, waiting, like the odd kid-out at a pick-up game.

Twenty minutes later(twice the grace period for a nine o'clock match) my opponent was still incognito, so it was a forfeit - a 5-0 win for my team. Even with that boost, we ended up 15-13 on the night. Still, it was enough to get us out of the league basement - we'd been in last since the second week of the season.

With nothing else to do, I practiced. A date was going on at the table next to me. Playing, at least from a technical perspective, horribly, the guy and his girl nevertheless had sexy, playful banter down to a science. I felt like high-fiving the guy as he left. Four days later, I would play on that same table, flirting my way through a similar dance - and we'll see what that leads too, at another time.

Alex lost a close match 4-5. Mike won 5-1. Henry had a tough night, losing 1-7, explaining why it was only me, Mike and Alex left at the end of the night. We are all hard on ourselves when we lose. Alex didn't lose by much, but he took it like he was the one who lost 1-7.

The walk to the L train was unsatisfying. After a win, the walk has a little swagger; you're a cue-wielding swashbuckler. After a loss, your walk is defiant, your expression blank - you'll do more than get them next time, you'll destroy them.

After not even playing, you're just another asshole walking home.

---

¹My apologies to the late, great Mitch Hedberg.

The First Match of the Season

2009-10-01T20:30:00.000-07:00

"I feel like Buckner walking back into Shea..." - Mike McDermott, Rounders

I hadn't been back to Amsterdam Billiards since the semi-finals of the summer season(this means I was gone only a week). That had not been a great night for me: the score between my team, Cueing Me Softly, and our opponents, The Pocketeers, was tied after everyone was done playing¹. Ties need to be broken, so it was one game for the entire match. Between me and their best player.

I lost. And it still burned. Especially since, a week before, we had been in the exact same situation and I'd won.

Two rounds previous, our match had also come down to one tie-breaking game - this one a nine-ball game that was over in about 90 seconds. I won on a two-nine combo after getting my opponent to foul trying to kick at the one ball. We had only gotten to that point because Alex had won three straight games to close out his match to tie the team score. He hit a table-length bank on the last nine ball, and when it sunk into the pocket Mike and I jumped and cheered from the bar.

So my team, we knew what it felt like to be on the right side of this. And I didn't get us there the second time. Still, third place out of forty-one teams wasn't a bad finish for a team that was three-quarters rookies(me, Alex and Mike). We had been inches away from not even making the Top 8 and the money round of the playoffs - another reason to feel good about the past season.

Still, the thought of the last game I played here -- watching my opponent run out on me after I missed a relatively easy cut on a two ball in the side -- was all I could think about as we waited for our matches to be called.

Actually, that's a lie.

I was tired. Really, really fucking tired. We were playing at nine. Start times can vary from 6:30 to 9 -- mostly we will start at 7 or 8:30 -- and the nine o'clock matches are always brutal. It had already been a long day at work, and earlier Alex and I had gone out with co-workers to see a friend off before her month long vacation. A beer and diet coke for me(they should cancel each other out, right?), a couple of vodka and red bulls for Alex, and we weren't in too bad shape, I thought - but after only a couple of turns at the table I was blinking away exhaustion. So, my playoff failure and fatigue were all that were on my mind.

Actually, that's also a lie. There's a waitress at Amsterdam I have a (small)crush on. During the previous season, while I was waiting for that week's opponent to show up(he never did), she had introduced herself to me. She was very pretty, with stunning red hair. I've never been sure if that introduction meant anything, or if she was just being a super-friendly waitress(the guy I was waiting with said jokingly 'Hey, you never asked me my name!', but...still). Never sure because a)I haven't had the balls to ask and b)not really in a place to date anyway, because of a (fairly) recent break-up(when asked about her, I usually say B and leave out A). So my last match, being tired, and the fact that the red-headed waitress was behind the bar were (honestly) all I could think about. That's a lot for someone who has to play pool.

Anyway, after some announcements from Chris the League Director, the matches for the night were called out. When mine was called, I felt a small sense of pride and exhilaration hearing my new handicap². I had moved up a level from a 6 to a 7, reaching a personal goal. Now, I just had to keep playing at that level. If I played badly, I could be dropped back down.

I was playing another 7, which made me happy because we would be playing even. Keeping track of handicap balls, while (in theory) strategically interesting, can be a pain. I preferred playing even.

My opponent was a very tall, bald bespectacled fellow name Paolo. I couldn't place his accent, but for some reason it made everything he said sound like a compliment. He looked to be in his forties, whereabouts between 40 and 49 I couldn't really place. Ageless in a middle-aged kind of way. I was a little surprised because, looking at the roster of the team we were playing earlier in the day, I noticed we were playing an all-girls team. Apparently, Paolo was a sub.

We were given one of the two tables nearest the front of Amsterdam; the TV tables as they are called³. I screwed together my cue, waiting for Paolo to finish talking to a small, older black woman at the bar. Finally he walked over, gestured to her asked "Do you mind if my ex-wife watches?"

"...no, not at all. Hell, I should get my ex-wife here and we can have a party."

Not sure why I said that, but I was a little overwhelmed by all of the new information I had just consumed and for some reason it seemed important to be tied 1-1 in ex-wives(unless he had another one freshening up in the ladies' room). His ex-wife tried to sit in the chair nearest the table, before the League Director told Paolo she should sit somewhere more befitting a spectator(Alex later told me she tried to sit in the chair by his table).

A little weirded out, I watched Paolo break the first game of eight-ball⁴.

Nothing went down, so I sat-up, and slowly circled the table. This was it, my first shot of the new season. I'd been practicing, I'd made it up a level, and I wanted to stay there. I surveyed the table. Stripes looked like the better option; no painful clusters of balls to be broken up later, and they had a couple of solids blocked off from the pockets. The only makeable stripe at the moment though, was a (relatively) long shot: 12 ball, left-corner pocket.

A nice, long shot, right off the bat. How confident was I in my stroke? I got down, focusing on the contact point on the 12, and slowly loosened up my arm with my warm-up strokes. Then, the last stroke: pause at the cue ball, back swing - pause again - then smoothly, fluidly stroking forward through the cue ball.

The cue ball hit the 12 with a satisfying click, and the 12 rolled into the heart of the pocket. A good start.

I ran a couple more balls, then played safe. Paolo and I traded safeties for a bit, then he ran some balls, and we went back and for like that for a bit.

Finally, I had an opening and ran my remaining balls and got to the eight - a slight cut into the side-pocket. Not easy, but certainly not that hard.

I missed.

Maybe it was the pressure of my first game with a new handicap, or fatigue, but either way the ball didn't drop.

The eight ended up about an inch off the end rail. Luckily Paolo's only remaining ball, the three, wasn't makeable from where I had left him. He hit a great shot, though, leaving the three right by a corner pocket, and the cue ball at the far end of the table from the eight.

If I missed the eight, he would have an easy run from his three to the eight, and there wasn't really anywhere I could leave him safe either - the three was so close to the corner it was makeable from virtually anywhere on the table.

I briefly considered trying a hard safety, hitting the eight and trying to bring it in-line with the cue ball so it blocked the path to the three. Then I decided to just shoot the table-length bank. The hell with it, I thought, the game will either end here or when Paolo gets his turn at the table. I'm too tired for this shit.

I got down, stroked the shot and the eight rolled beautifully the length of the table and into the corner pocket. First game, first win of the new season. As a 7. With a tiny smile and a little sigh, I took my seat.

The smile didn't stick around long, as Paolo won the next game. He took advantage of my botched safety that left him with the eight straight in instead of snookered behind my last ball.

Latter in the next game, Paolo missed a shot and left me with a relatively easy run out with three of my solids left on the table. The only difficult shot was a force-follow show in the side pocket to bring the cue ball off the side rail and down towards the eight. When I made that shot, Paolo congratulated me. It was his favorite shot(of mine) of the night. Playing against someone who can admire the beauty of the game, even when it works against them, is a real pleasure. I always try and act the same way(and would later).

Paolo gave away the last game of eight-ball, scratching when I had nothing but the eight left. We moved onto nine-ball with me up 3-1.

Paolo quickly won the first game of nine-ball. I regained the upper hand, winning the next two games, the last running out from the four ball after Paolo had scratched.

For the first time, Paolo was visibly irritated. I was punishing him for his mistakes, and he was taking the heat, missing shots he would normally make. It didn't help that I was cruising now. It looked like I would be up 3-1 soon: after playing safe before the six, I sunk the six and the seven, getting position on the only tough shot of the rack, the eight ball. The eight was about a ball's width up the side rail from the left side pocket, with the nine below it on the end rail. I hit the eight perfectly, sending it straight up the table and into the corner-pocket while drawing the cue ball down, off one rail, in position to sink the nine. This will really have him talking to himself, I thought.

Then I choked. I guess I should mention that I was briefly taken out of rhythm while I was waiting for a player on table next to ours to take her shot, but that would just be a bullshit excuse. BUT the waiting gave me time to think about the nine, to think about how I should make it, be up 3-1, and how bad it would be to miss it.

I missed it, and Paolo made a tough cut to win the game. Instead of being up 3-1 in nine-ball, it was tied 2-2.

"Do you mind if I take pictures?"

I looked behind me, at Paolo's ex-wife. Was she serious? This is what ex-spouses do, photograph each other doing their hobbies?

"No - not at all."

"Thanks - Paolo can send them to you!", she said smiling.

Great. I'll look forward to that.

I smiled back.

Paolo won the next game, and what had looked like a sure win was now in danger of going to a tiebreaker: if Paolo won nine-ball 4-2, we would be tied 5-5 overall. I was determined to close the match out the next game.

I got to the nine first, but left myself another table-length bank. This one I missed, but I left Paolo a tough shot in corner that he missed. I made a tough cut in the left corner and sat up, relieved. I was guaranteed a match win, winning 6-5, worst-case. A good start to the Fall season.

The hill-hill game was over quick. Paolo kept missing the two ball, but was leaving me safe every time. After kicking at the two twice, I finally missed it the third time, giving Paolo ball-in-hand. The eight-nine was lined up dead in the right corner, albeit a good two-balls width apart. The two ball was about two feet away from the eight. Paolo joked about trying the three-ball combo, then his smile creased a little bit, he squinted at the table, put the cue ball down behind the two and fired away, making the shot. A three ball combo, and it looked perfect.

I was a little upset. Anyone would prefer winning 7-4 to winning 6-6, especially to an early combo shot, but a win is a win.

I shook hands with Paolo, his ex-wife, and joined Alex at the bar.

Alex had lost 5-6 in a tiebreaker. He said he should have won, but both of us always say that when we lose. Our teammate Mike had lost 2-5 - he had come by during my match to tell me, and said he was wiped-out and taking off. He looked tired, and I knew he would rebound next week when we would be finishing at nine instead of starting. Henry, our team captain, had won 4-3. So overall, we were 17-19 on the night. Not great, but not a disaster. We had started out much worse last season.

I walked out of Amsterdam happy, if not entirely satisfied. I could play better. I wanted us to win the championship this year, so I would have to play better. I also realized I had forgotten to use my drink-ticket, and to chat up the red-headed waitress.

Well, that's what next week is for.

---

¹Each team has four players, and each plays one other player from the other team, matching up by handicap(see below). Total score of all of those matches determines the winning team.

²So the league can accommodate all skill levels, a handicap system is used. Players are ranked 2 to 11, 2 being never played before, 11 being a very good amateur player. When players with different handicaps play, the player with the lower handicap gets an advantage. In eight ball, that player can take down the last X balls of his group, X being the difference between his opponent's and his handicap. So if an 8 is playing a 6, the 6 player can take down the last two balls of his group(8-6 = 2). In nine-ball, the lower player has a money-ball(a ball that, in addition to the nine-ball, can be made to win the game). That ball is 9-X, X again being the handicap difference. So in the previous example, a 6 playing an 8 in nine-ball could also make the seven ball to win the game. A team can't have a combined handicap above 30. On my team, I'm a 7, Alex and Henry are a 6, and Mike is a 4.

³You can actually see these tables via web cam.

⁴A match in our league is a race to three in eight-ball, then a race to four in nine-ball. Total score wins, so a 3-2 win in eight ball plus a 2-4 loss in nine-ball means a total match score of 5-6.

The Players

2009-09-25T22:04:00.000-07:00

This is the Fall 2009 edition of Cueing Me Soflty:

Me(Kris)
I'm a web developer for an ad agency in New York City. Originally from the DC area, I moved to the Big Apple a little over two years ago. One day, stoned, I wandered into Amsterdam with my friend Alex to shoot a little. We saw a flyer for league play and decided, why the hell not? Something to do on Tuesday besides drink.

Alex
My friend, my co-worker, my partner in crime. He was hired about a year after me and we started hanging out after we discovered we had a lot of common interests(pool, poker, drinking, women, drinking, coding, writing, and drinking). Wow, I really make us sound like a couple of lushes.

Mike
Like Alex and me, Mike was a rookie our first season. We all got paired with Henry. A hell of a nice guy, funny, with great taste in music.

Jen
Our newest member, a quiet, sweet-dispositioned and sweet shooting girl.

Mi²The girl next door - literally. She lives next to the pool hall.

About This Blog

2009-09-21T21:08:00.000-07:00

Every week, dozens of pool players of all abilities, shapes, sizes, backgrounds and degrees of mental health descend upon Amsterdam Billiards in Manhattan to play in organized leagues. During the summer of 2009, I played in my first league. It was fun, challenging, frustrating and rewarding. The dash of excitement and drama(not to mention the waitresses) made me feverishly look forward to Tuesday night. I met a lot of cool, interesting people - making friends and rivals(often being the same person).