The Warning

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.

Nothing Much Happened

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.

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¹My apologies to the late, great Mitch Hedberg.