I was doing a bit of research for another story and came upon something I wrote back in April 2000. (Frankly, I forgot I even wrote it.) Anywhos, this forum is a bit slow at the moment and I though maybe one or two of you might enjoy it.
Big Snapple Trip Report (Or How I Survived the 2000 US 14.1 Open)
Well, I be back from NYC and have finally caught up on my sleep time, so I thought I'd share some random thoughts about the Open. Since others, notably Gideon, have done an excellent job recapping the games, I'll just give you the Andy Rooney coverage.
I flew into NY courtesy of a wonderful TWA counter agent named Bonnie Gillham. When I arrived at Lambert International I found my 11 am flight had been cancelled. All other TWA flights were full, so she, quite literally, ran over to the Delta counter and got me a seat via Cincinnati that arrived early enough that I didn't have to eat my $70 Friday evening ticket.
For those of you that have never flown into JFK, it might be akin to touching down somewhere... like during the Fall of Saigon. Total madness. I called a Super Shuttle -- Fodor's recommendation -- and was told it'd be a 30 minute wait. So I went outside to the cab line: 30 people in line and no cabs. Then I saw a bus that claimed "All NY Hotels $13." I climbed aboard.
And, we zoomed directly into NYC rush hour traffic.
The fifteen-mile ride took an hour. Probably the most interesting sight on the way in is the cemeteries. Huge, really big cemeteries, that seem to stretch endlessly into the distance. (It really kinda puts the start of your trip into New York into perspective.) After transferring to another shuttle, I found my hotel, two blocks from the tournament. A king-size bed, but the space between it and the walls would have required the shorty cue.
The Roseland Ballroom is tucked away on 52nd West just off Broadway, a few blocks from Times Square. It's a facility that obviously has seen better days, but the tournament promoters created a small island of pool perfection on a thick bright red carpet on which they set six Gold Crowns covered in Simonis 860. Highly polished Centennials floated on the tables. Special bleachers, reputedly flown in from England, courtesy of Barry Hearns, fenced in three sides of the arena, while the fourth side was a tall riser hidden by black curtains, atop which were the Accu-Stats cameras, booth, and assorted officials and players.
I watched Dallas West play Ginky. Ginky looks like he's put on some weight. In any case he played poorly and Dallas wins one for the old timers, 150-101. I also watch Rempe smoothly take out Engert 150-103. Bob Jewett walks by but doesn't recognize me. But in his defense, the last time we saw each other was at an ACUI tournament more than 25 years ago. He looks much older now
He's walking with this mad scientist look on his face and a thin Samsonite brief case that appears welded to his right hand. (What kind of a guy brings a briefcase to a pool tournament?!?) No other RSBers in sight. By the time I get out of the tournament it's 1am.
Even in the "city that doesn't sleep" finding sustenance at that hour is tough. I figure Times Square is my best bet so I walk the few blocks there and find out that besides the giant billboards, lights, and jumbotrons, Times Square is mainly populated at that hour by punks who have parked their cars, vans, or other preferred mode of private transportation curbside. All of these vehicles have had "substantial" modifications made to their sound systems and the doors are all wide open and the volume is cranked up to 11. I wasn't quite sure whether the idea was music appreciation, music sampling with and eye towards selling CDs, or attracting females. Maybe all of the above. So it was McDonalds and off to beddybye.
Saturday's morning it was a croissant and cappuccino at the corner deli. I was starting to feel like a New Yorker as I shouted out my order from the outskirts of a thick unruly crowd to the counter man. Entering the stands I was again drawn to a match involving Dallas West, this time against the young gun, John Schmidt. Schmidt shoots fast, smooth, and accurate. He's young and good looking and is nattily dressed. I hate him. But though he gets at least three golden opportunities, Schmidt can't close and old age and cunning again triumph over youth and idealism, 150-148. Robles gets hot and in total dead punch and puts Archer in a comma with a 148, missing a long straight in that he should have made. I think he was already thinking about the applause for the 152 and out. He wins anyway, 150-24. Walter has a chance to beat the Magician. He's on a 140 with a perfect break ball on the two ball and over cuts it.
On the women's side, I've fallen in love with the Swede with the wild red hair, Ulrika Andersson. I've decided that if called upon, I will allow her to take me back to her room and do what she will with me. Gerda is also very cute, as is Aileen Pippin. In fact, as a group they are so attractive, that if you were to spot me two or three of them, I'd take any of the others on a blind draw. But frankly, their play is, at best, a decaf version of 14.1. I'm all for equal opportunity, but the matching prize fund for this level of play, while perhaps politically correct, is a joke. At the break, I'm determined to eat a real meal and traipse over to Ruby Foo's for some delicious lobster and shrimp spring rolls and some pork and shitake mushroom shu mai. I am renewed.
Back at the tournament, Reyes keeps West in the chair with a 140. During an intentional safety battle against the side of the stack, Reyes touches the cue ball with his ferrule and West calls a deliberate foul. The rule books are brought out and West is found to be correct. Reyes must shoot an opening break and looks pissed. He wins anyway. Watching Dick Lane shoot, I conclude there is not a one of us that should ever complain about anything playing pool. The man's grip arm has the serious shakes and he must take his warm up strokes by rolling his cue tip in a circle from the bottom of the cue ball up to the top and back down again over and over. After a few of these, when he finally passes over the spot on the cue ball he wants to hit, he quickly pulls the trigger.
I finally spot Fred Agnir, whom I met at the Derby tournament. I stroll over and say loud enough for him to note, "All computer geeks must die." With him are Jimbo (think a just slightly shorter Goldberg who doesn't train quite as hard); Jeff Weiss, a quiet fellow who always seems to have a somewhat worried look on his face, but is very quick with the witty comment; and Gideon. Gideon doesn't say much, but when he does, he makes it count. Me: "What do you think Bob has in the briefcase?" Gideon: "The master copy of the Jacksonville Project."
We generally cut up, gossip about all of you, and occasionally watch the last match of the night. Fortunately, we're not tossed out on our collective ears. Wei stops by to say hello. I've just missed Tom Simpson. Afterwards we head to Chelsea's to shoot some, but lose Jeff along the way. They get carded, I get waived in... Chelsea's is a two-story affair with very, very loud music. We go to the lower level. Conversation is all but impossible. The lighting is terrible, with two industrial-style lamps over each table. The ends of the table are total darkness. Saturday night in NY: $25 an hour table time. So Fred, Jimbo, Gideon and I play some 9ball. Being a 1pocket player nowadays, I've forgotten how to shoot balls in rotation, but all hands are more than happy to demonstrate how it's done. I get to bed around 3 am.
Sunday, I awake at 11am and decide to stroll the city. I go to Rockefeller Center, 5th Avenue, 42nd St, Park Avenue, the Public Library, and Central Park. When I arrive at the tournament site, Bob is still carrying the briefcase around.
Karen Corr is quite attractive. Her photos don't do her justice. Monica Webb reminds me of an old girlfriend. And, after watching her performance, I can honestly say I don't like the Texas Tornado's approach to the game, which, IMO, is a tad too casual and haphazard. Of course I bought all the requisite US Open paraphernalia: official T-shirt, windbreaker, Henley, ball cap, and official program. Inside the program, there's Jeanette doing her sex kitten thing again, sitting on a table in a black leather halter-top with a martini on the table in an ad for Amsterdam Billiards.
At the break, Jimbo, Fred, Gideon, and I go to Gallagher's Steak House, I guess something of a NY institution. We're joined by Lynn and Mark Kulungian, of Pool Table Magic, out of Connecticut, and Sue and Mark Griffin of Anchorage Billiard Palace. On the way into the restaurant one passes many, many streaks aging in the aging room. Filet minion -- $32. “Gallagher Fries” (five steak house style fries) $4.95. But the meal is exceptional AND Mark Griffin picks up the tab. He is a prince.
The finals are great. Chin shoots a behind-the-back combo and what I think was the shot of the tournament, a combination double carom that goes (I think it might have gotten a little bit of help on the way in from another ball, but it was still a fabulous shot). Accu-Stats has it. I started out sitting just in front of Bob Jewett. I finally figure out what Bob has in the brief case: it has to be a wireless transmitter to the Accu-Stats booth, because he kept up a steady, whispered, non-stop commentary. After a couple of racks, I'd had enough. Fortuitously, there was a seat available in another section right next to Gerda, Jean Balukas, and a rather striking Latin lady, so I resigned myself to the poorer seating arrangement forced upon me by Bob (thanks Bob.
I wondered if I was the only one to notice the little woven bracelet Chin was wearing on his grip arm? It had two very small fuzzy balls that hung down just an inch or so below his wrist line. I believe it may have been some sort of training aid that helps him to either feel his stroke and/or tell him when his wrist/arm are lined up properly.
The tournament was a great opportunity to watch a wide variety of styles. Besides the actual play, I was checking out stances, grips, bridges, arm and wrist alignments, etc. I think that after a certain point, if you're really paying attention, you begin to absorb things on a subconscious level too. I have several new theories that I can't quite articulate yet, but am looking forward to working out on the pool table this week. Also, FWIW, the whole elbow dropping thing now seems to me to be a function of how high your head is. More upright stance, your elbow drops. Way down with your chin on the cue, elbow doesn't drop. One is not right or wrong. Elbow drop just happens.
After the tournament, Gideon, Jimbo, the two Marks and I go to Amsterdam Billiards. It's a walkup, the music is slightly less loud than at Chelsea’s, the lighting is better, but the tables are way too close together. If this is the best NY has to offer, they can have it. I still can't remember how to shoot the balls in rotation, but once again, all others are happy to put on a clinic for my benefit.
Jimbo and I hold the first RSB one pocket invitational. I squeak out a win, 2-1. We're done by 3 am. I find an all night deli and have a cappuccino and bagel and watch a fight break out between two girls across the street as the "ladies" exit a Latin nightclub. After a few minutes, New York's finest arrive to break it all up. At 5 am it's back on the bus, back past the cemeteries, to JFK. Get me outa here. I've survived NY, but just barely.
Lou Figueroa
Big Snapple Trip Report (Or How I Survived the 2000 US 14.1 Open)
Well, I be back from NYC and have finally caught up on my sleep time, so I thought I'd share some random thoughts about the Open. Since others, notably Gideon, have done an excellent job recapping the games, I'll just give you the Andy Rooney coverage.
I flew into NY courtesy of a wonderful TWA counter agent named Bonnie Gillham. When I arrived at Lambert International I found my 11 am flight had been cancelled. All other TWA flights were full, so she, quite literally, ran over to the Delta counter and got me a seat via Cincinnati that arrived early enough that I didn't have to eat my $70 Friday evening ticket.
For those of you that have never flown into JFK, it might be akin to touching down somewhere... like during the Fall of Saigon. Total madness. I called a Super Shuttle -- Fodor's recommendation -- and was told it'd be a 30 minute wait. So I went outside to the cab line: 30 people in line and no cabs. Then I saw a bus that claimed "All NY Hotels $13." I climbed aboard.
And, we zoomed directly into NYC rush hour traffic.
The fifteen-mile ride took an hour. Probably the most interesting sight on the way in is the cemeteries. Huge, really big cemeteries, that seem to stretch endlessly into the distance. (It really kinda puts the start of your trip into New York into perspective.) After transferring to another shuttle, I found my hotel, two blocks from the tournament. A king-size bed, but the space between it and the walls would have required the shorty cue.
The Roseland Ballroom is tucked away on 52nd West just off Broadway, a few blocks from Times Square. It's a facility that obviously has seen better days, but the tournament promoters created a small island of pool perfection on a thick bright red carpet on which they set six Gold Crowns covered in Simonis 860. Highly polished Centennials floated on the tables. Special bleachers, reputedly flown in from England, courtesy of Barry Hearns, fenced in three sides of the arena, while the fourth side was a tall riser hidden by black curtains, atop which were the Accu-Stats cameras, booth, and assorted officials and players.
I watched Dallas West play Ginky. Ginky looks like he's put on some weight. In any case he played poorly and Dallas wins one for the old timers, 150-101. I also watch Rempe smoothly take out Engert 150-103. Bob Jewett walks by but doesn't recognize me. But in his defense, the last time we saw each other was at an ACUI tournament more than 25 years ago. He looks much older now
He's walking with this mad scientist look on his face and a thin Samsonite brief case that appears welded to his right hand. (What kind of a guy brings a briefcase to a pool tournament?!?) No other RSBers in sight. By the time I get out of the tournament it's 1am. Even in the "city that doesn't sleep" finding sustenance at that hour is tough. I figure Times Square is my best bet so I walk the few blocks there and find out that besides the giant billboards, lights, and jumbotrons, Times Square is mainly populated at that hour by punks who have parked their cars, vans, or other preferred mode of private transportation curbside. All of these vehicles have had "substantial" modifications made to their sound systems and the doors are all wide open and the volume is cranked up to 11. I wasn't quite sure whether the idea was music appreciation, music sampling with and eye towards selling CDs, or attracting females. Maybe all of the above. So it was McDonalds and off to beddybye.
Saturday's morning it was a croissant and cappuccino at the corner deli. I was starting to feel like a New Yorker as I shouted out my order from the outskirts of a thick unruly crowd to the counter man. Entering the stands I was again drawn to a match involving Dallas West, this time against the young gun, John Schmidt. Schmidt shoots fast, smooth, and accurate. He's young and good looking and is nattily dressed. I hate him. But though he gets at least three golden opportunities, Schmidt can't close and old age and cunning again triumph over youth and idealism, 150-148. Robles gets hot and in total dead punch and puts Archer in a comma with a 148, missing a long straight in that he should have made. I think he was already thinking about the applause for the 152 and out. He wins anyway, 150-24. Walter has a chance to beat the Magician. He's on a 140 with a perfect break ball on the two ball and over cuts it.
On the women's side, I've fallen in love with the Swede with the wild red hair, Ulrika Andersson. I've decided that if called upon, I will allow her to take me back to her room and do what she will with me. Gerda is also very cute, as is Aileen Pippin. In fact, as a group they are so attractive, that if you were to spot me two or three of them, I'd take any of the others on a blind draw. But frankly, their play is, at best, a decaf version of 14.1. I'm all for equal opportunity, but the matching prize fund for this level of play, while perhaps politically correct, is a joke. At the break, I'm determined to eat a real meal and traipse over to Ruby Foo's for some delicious lobster and shrimp spring rolls and some pork and shitake mushroom shu mai. I am renewed.
Back at the tournament, Reyes keeps West in the chair with a 140. During an intentional safety battle against the side of the stack, Reyes touches the cue ball with his ferrule and West calls a deliberate foul. The rule books are brought out and West is found to be correct. Reyes must shoot an opening break and looks pissed. He wins anyway. Watching Dick Lane shoot, I conclude there is not a one of us that should ever complain about anything playing pool. The man's grip arm has the serious shakes and he must take his warm up strokes by rolling his cue tip in a circle from the bottom of the cue ball up to the top and back down again over and over. After a few of these, when he finally passes over the spot on the cue ball he wants to hit, he quickly pulls the trigger.
I finally spot Fred Agnir, whom I met at the Derby tournament. I stroll over and say loud enough for him to note, "All computer geeks must die." With him are Jimbo (think a just slightly shorter Goldberg who doesn't train quite as hard); Jeff Weiss, a quiet fellow who always seems to have a somewhat worried look on his face, but is very quick with the witty comment; and Gideon. Gideon doesn't say much, but when he does, he makes it count. Me: "What do you think Bob has in the briefcase?" Gideon: "The master copy of the Jacksonville Project."
We generally cut up, gossip about all of you, and occasionally watch the last match of the night. Fortunately, we're not tossed out on our collective ears. Wei stops by to say hello. I've just missed Tom Simpson. Afterwards we head to Chelsea's to shoot some, but lose Jeff along the way. They get carded, I get waived in... Chelsea's is a two-story affair with very, very loud music. We go to the lower level. Conversation is all but impossible. The lighting is terrible, with two industrial-style lamps over each table. The ends of the table are total darkness. Saturday night in NY: $25 an hour table time. So Fred, Jimbo, Gideon and I play some 9ball. Being a 1pocket player nowadays, I've forgotten how to shoot balls in rotation, but all hands are more than happy to demonstrate how it's done. I get to bed around 3 am.
Sunday, I awake at 11am and decide to stroll the city. I go to Rockefeller Center, 5th Avenue, 42nd St, Park Avenue, the Public Library, and Central Park. When I arrive at the tournament site, Bob is still carrying the briefcase around.
Karen Corr is quite attractive. Her photos don't do her justice. Monica Webb reminds me of an old girlfriend. And, after watching her performance, I can honestly say I don't like the Texas Tornado's approach to the game, which, IMO, is a tad too casual and haphazard. Of course I bought all the requisite US Open paraphernalia: official T-shirt, windbreaker, Henley, ball cap, and official program. Inside the program, there's Jeanette doing her sex kitten thing again, sitting on a table in a black leather halter-top with a martini on the table in an ad for Amsterdam Billiards.
At the break, Jimbo, Fred, Gideon, and I go to Gallagher's Steak House, I guess something of a NY institution. We're joined by Lynn and Mark Kulungian, of Pool Table Magic, out of Connecticut, and Sue and Mark Griffin of Anchorage Billiard Palace. On the way into the restaurant one passes many, many streaks aging in the aging room. Filet minion -- $32. “Gallagher Fries” (five steak house style fries) $4.95. But the meal is exceptional AND Mark Griffin picks up the tab. He is a prince.
The finals are great. Chin shoots a behind-the-back combo and what I think was the shot of the tournament, a combination double carom that goes (I think it might have gotten a little bit of help on the way in from another ball, but it was still a fabulous shot). Accu-Stats has it. I started out sitting just in front of Bob Jewett. I finally figure out what Bob has in the brief case: it has to be a wireless transmitter to the Accu-Stats booth, because he kept up a steady, whispered, non-stop commentary. After a couple of racks, I'd had enough. Fortuitously, there was a seat available in another section right next to Gerda, Jean Balukas, and a rather striking Latin lady, so I resigned myself to the poorer seating arrangement forced upon me by Bob (thanks Bob
. I wondered if I was the only one to notice the little woven bracelet Chin was wearing on his grip arm? It had two very small fuzzy balls that hung down just an inch or so below his wrist line. I believe it may have been some sort of training aid that helps him to either feel his stroke and/or tell him when his wrist/arm are lined up properly.
The tournament was a great opportunity to watch a wide variety of styles. Besides the actual play, I was checking out stances, grips, bridges, arm and wrist alignments, etc. I think that after a certain point, if you're really paying attention, you begin to absorb things on a subconscious level too. I have several new theories that I can't quite articulate yet, but am looking forward to working out on the pool table this week. Also, FWIW, the whole elbow dropping thing now seems to me to be a function of how high your head is. More upright stance, your elbow drops. Way down with your chin on the cue, elbow doesn't drop. One is not right or wrong. Elbow drop just happens.
After the tournament, Gideon, Jimbo, the two Marks and I go to Amsterdam Billiards. It's a walkup, the music is slightly less loud than at Chelsea’s, the lighting is better, but the tables are way too close together. If this is the best NY has to offer, they can have it. I still can't remember how to shoot the balls in rotation, but once again, all others are happy to put on a clinic for my benefit.
Jimbo and I hold the first RSB one pocket invitational. I squeak out a win, 2-1. We're done by 3 am. I find an all night deli and have a cappuccino and bagel and watch a fight break out between two girls across the street as the "ladies" exit a Latin nightclub. After a few minutes, New York's finest arrive to break it all up. At 5 am it's back on the bus, back past the cemeteries, to JFK. Get me outa here. I've survived NY, but just barely.
Lou Figueroa
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