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.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Revenge
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).
"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.
Reasonable decisions are rarely made at a pool room bar, though.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Grinch
"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.
1Grinch = Bitch.
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).
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Accent That Kills
Jason Voorhees stared me down as I walked into the pool hall, slowly and mechanically swinging his machete. It was a little unsettling.
You couldn't miss that it was almost Halloween at Amsterdam; besides the animatronic villain(hero?) of the Friday The 13th movies, the usual decorations were up: orange and black streamers, bats, skeletons, and flyers for the Halloween Party. Will the redheaded waitress be there?, I briefly wondered. No matter, it was match time.
I had missed the previous week because of work. With no real match or practice time, I had vacated the zone I had found two weeks earlier and moved into a state of sludgy, choppy, ugly play.
The night before I had played some with Mi2, hoping to break out of it. It didn't work. Missed shots, bad position play, and unnerving feeling of something being "off - like a gear slightly out of place - made me more and more frustrated.
Watching the Redskins getting killed by the Eagles didn't help. Looking up from a missed shot to see Jason Campbell getting sacked(again!) was making me reconsider my no drinking during practice policy. Besides the bad pool and the bad football, I also had a lunch bet riding on the Redskins. A coworker of mine is from Philadelphia, and in a foolish showing of hometown spirit, I bet her lunch that the Skins would beat the Eagles. I wonder what place will she pick for her victory lunch...
For once at match time, everyone was present and on time. To celebrate, Chris informed us that because of a party Amsterdam was hosting our already late nine o'clock start time was going to be pushed back even farther. To keep us from rioting, he offered us a all drink tickets. Free alcohol - a surefire way to a league player's heart.
Using up some of the only luck I would have that night, my match was called within ten minutes of Chris's announcement. My opponent was a nice looking fellow named Ben.
We made our way to the same table I had played on two weeks before, table twenty-three. For some reason I said the same thing I had then: "Man, I haven't played on this table in a while."
Amsterdam was louder than usual, the buzz from the party making it hard to hear Ben as we made small talk. Maybe he didn't even hear my meaningless white lie, I thought, as Ben excused himself to use the bathroom before we started.
Despite the crowd noise, I thought I could hear an accent in Ben's voice. When he came back and we flipped the coin, I heard it clearly: a sharp, charming British accent.
Big Ben had me down two games quick. Despite playing a little better than I had been lately, it wasn't good enough against him(ranked a 9 to my 7). I had a bit of bad luck in the second rack, getting snookered behind my own ball when Ben missed, denying me an easy runout. Still, I had my opportunities and didn't capitalize.
I could feel I was shooting better though; the gear was slowly falling back into place. Nailing a few tough shots and playing good position, even in a couple of losses, had me sitting high in my chair even has Ben ran out.
Being a bit of an anglophile, I couldn't help but smile when Ben said he was "nominating" a pocket for the eight-ball.
"Oh, you mean call it? Cool," I said with a small grin. Nominating! What a trip.
Good feelings weren't going to stop me from doing down 0-3 in eight-ball, though, and finally in the third game I caught a break when Ben jawed a shot in the corner, and I ran out. I almost ran from the break the next game, but finished it one turn later after Ben missed again.
Ben shot with intimidating accuracy, and he shot quickly. He pranced around the table, breaking two of the cardinal rules of pool: not chalking between each shot, and playing with a house cue. Being a sinner was working out for him, though, he was easily the best player I'd seen in a while. After being down 0-2 to him, I felt like I had climbed a mountain to get the race tied.
Ben was on his way to running out the deciding game when he got funny on his next to last ball, and missed the ensuing hard shot. My stroke (partly) back, I made an easy four-ball run(aided by my handicap) to end it.
The first game of nine-ball, Ben broke and made nothing. I pushed on the one, he missed, and we jostled back and forth until I left him a shot on the two ball and he ran out.
Watching him pocket ball after ball after ball, strangely I felt...good. This was the level of opponent I wanted to play, needed to play. My mistakes were being punished brutally and without mercy(even if it was accompanied by a such a delightful, friendly accent). Against some opponents, I could make mistake after mistake and not worry because I knew they weren't good enough to beat me even if I fucked around for a bit. Against Ben, that lazy, unfocused attitude would only leave me sitting in my chair most of the night.
Knowing this, I played some pretty good pool and won the next two games of nine-ball. In the fourth rack, I made a mistake that swung the match back in his favor. He missed a tough shot on the one ball, but left me hooked. Worse yet, the one-nine combo was dead(though a tad long) in the corner.
I decided to foul and take the combo out of play, hitting the nine-ball first on purpose to knock it out of the way. Unfortunately, I hit it three times as hard as I needed to and the ball darted around the table before jawing in the opposite corner pocket, leaving Ben an even easier combo then the one I had tried to prevent.
"Sorry mate, I have to take it," he said.
Damn English, polite even in victory.
From there, I think had all of two or three shots as Ben won two more racks, and that was it. I lost 5-7.
The rest of my team lost close matches as well: Alex 5-6, Mimi 5-6, and Mike 4-5. Even though we all lost, we didn't take that bad a hit in the standings since none of us got blown out. So while not an ideal night, not a total fuck-up either.
I redeemed my free drink ticket at the bar, going over some of the last shots in my head. Sipping my Stoli-Ras and Cran, I chatted with Mike and his opponent Kevin. Kevin seemed nice enough, if a little awkward. He had a pronounced pause before he spoke, as if the conversation was a broadcast he wasn't quite getting live.
The pool hall seems to be a haven for that type: guys who are friendly, but just a little...off. Maybe it's the appeal of the subtle forced socialization pool leagues offer: you always have an icebreaker with a fellow league player since you already have something in common. Or maybe I'm just a judgmental prick.
---
On the way home, I saw a friend on the train just as she was getting off at her stop. It was strange, having that moment of recognition but not being able to do anything about it. She hadn't seen me, so I briefly smiled at the side of her head. A week earlier, I had confessed to having a small1 crush on her(via e-mail, because I can be a total pussy sometimes). She wanted to stay friends, which wasn't as bad to hear as I thought it would be, and the expected awkwardness, so far, had been minuscule.
Still, it was a strange glimpse. My near perfect-night of pool was pre-confession; my mini-slump post. Unrelated, I knew logically, but my state of mind was more positive on that night of perfection: I was looking forward to the possibilities my soon to be revealed crush could open.
Stupid, I know, but you think strange things on the subway ride home.
1The small part I added after being rejected, because I'm vain.
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.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
One Perfect Night
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.
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?
---
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.
"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.
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