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.
Showing posts with label Drama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drama. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Drama, Drama
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.
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.
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