Smiling

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

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!)

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

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

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

"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

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.