I don't know about you, but for me, landing in Las Vegas is always a little surreal. Your plane taxis up and you can see, very, very near, all the casinos with their fantasy architecture: a glossy black pyramid, a white castle, the Eiffel Tower, the NYC skyline, and of course all the glittering hotels right off the end of the runway. You can practically walk to them.
I have been to Vegas many, many times. There was even a time in my life when the USAF would send me to Vegas (with two of my best friends ?!) to teach a course to the Thunderbirds, the service's aerial demonstration team, several times a year. Nowadays I go with a bit of amazement that even though the economy is in the tank there are still tens of thousands of tourists that come to the city. So, just for old time’s sake I get in my rental car and decide to take the long way and drive all the way down the strip to the Riviera and the 12th US Open 1Pocket Tournament.
I have organized a dinner at the hotel steak house for the members of OnePocket.org who are attending the event and in the bar we gather up: Fast Lenny; Roy “The Norwegian Locksmith” Steffensen; Bernie Pettipiece and his friend Ramses; Steve Booth, OnePocket.org founder; John Brumback, banking savant and sponsored OnePocket.org player; the amazing John Henderson; the legendary San Jose Dick Moran; and moi. While in the bar we are joined by CSI founder Mark Griffin and later Earl Strickland, who regales us with a couple of stories. I offer to buy Earl a drink and even consider inviting him to the meal, but he declines and scoots off.
After the players meeting all the “big boys” jump on the eight tournament tables, but I find the practice room with two tables across the hallway and have one of the tables to myself for three hours and get a chance to practice up on the Diamond Pros with the TV colored balls and measles cue ball. If you’re not familiar with these tables I must inform you that they are some kind of tough sumbeeches -- small pockets and very touchy rails. The fact that the balls seem like they are fresh from the factory, highly polished, and roll forever is an added attraction.
It was just past midnight when I figured it was time to get some sleep for the long tournament slog ahead. The draw had been done in advance and I knew I was scheduled to play Richard Harris of Blue Grass Cues fame at 4pm on table eight, but still I was drawn to the tournament chart. Big mistake. Steve Booth is there by the chart and he excitedly tells me, “Did you see?! I tried texting you -- your match tomorrow is on the TV table.” Now, of all the things someone could have told me right before I was about to go off and try and get a good nights sleep this would have to rank near the bottom of my personal list.
The TV table. How on God’s good green Simonis covered earth did *that* happen?
I will fully confess something right now: I type a much better game than I actually play. I am an amateur player who plays OK, but who is subject to go off the air at any moment, not so much because of any particular external pressure -- but because the game requires so much precision that I have found over the years that any small variation in my PSR can be disastrous. And now I am confronted with the reality of three TV cameras, bright lights, professional commentary, and my game being put on nekked display to the universe. Not surprisingly, I do not sleep well.
The next day I head over to The Cue Club and managed a few hours of practice on a tight GC and, at the point at which I feel I have things as ship shape as they’re going to get, I head to the tournament venue. It is just past 3:30 in the afternoon when I walk in and take a seat in the stands far away from the TV arena on the other side of the tournament room.
My opponent is at the TV table warming up. Richard Harris looks solid and capable and is rocketing in balls from everywhere. On his web site he says that he lived off his pool game for eight years and it shows. I am despondent, but then again, it is the US Open and everyone can play, or in my case, is supposed to be able to play. Eventually Richard tires of making everything he shoots at and leaves the room. So I decide that it is as good a time as ever and I wander into the TV arena and try and warm up. My plan is to start off by checking the angles on the table. Using just the cue ball I shoot a couple of three-railers, then a couple of two-railers; some one-railers and then decide I can’t put it off any longer and throw some object balls onto the table and shoot some baby shots that I feel confident enough to pocket. These are shots that a drunk Girl Scout can make.
Mr. Harris returns and 4pm approaches. I see Watchez going into the commentary booth and I walk over to shake his hand and he deadpans, “Yeah, I’m here so that if you play bad I can tell everyone, “I’m from St. Louis too and Lou just dogs it again.” My heart rises on this assurance that I have an ally in the booth. I return to my chair. It is then that I see Jeremy Jones put on the second set of head phones.
The legendary Double J is going to commentate my match. The chair I am sitting in might as well have been “Old Sparky” at a federal penal institution because I feel this roiling charge move up from my stomach, up my shoulders, down my arms, and out my wrists. I am in a place I don’t really want to be, but there is no way out -- I have done this to myself -- I willingly sent in my entry fee, flew to this God forsaken city, and have now been thrown in the pit where untold legions will watch and judge my performance. Sitting there, bad thoughts start penetrating my brain. I can’t stop them. “Suppose you play *really* bad?” I ask myself. “Will they just stop the match and say, ‘Oh, so sorry. We can’t stream this. You suck way too bad.’” What is Jeremy going to think of my amateur-level play? How deep will Watchez stick and twist the local angle knife? I think of everyone I’ve ever had a fight with on the internet and -- whether they’re watching the PPV stream or not -- I know deep in my heart that to a man they are all fervently hoping for my demise by public disemboweling at the hands of Mr. Harris and how they will cackle if my game goes totally go off the air. I am a man in despair. But I step up and lag for the break. There is no exit door in the TAR arena.
But. Somehow. Through the good graces of the pool gods I play well. In fact I am so focused I can see every angle that helps or can possibly hurt me. I am pocketing balls well; I am able to kill my cue ball when it is appropriate; my banks are working well enough; and though my position play is a bit suspect, I pull it off and win 4-1, remaining in total control of the match. Afterwards, Jeremy Jones congratulates me saying, “Nice shooting. You only flinched twice.” And I said, “I know exactly the two shots you’re talking about. I was holding my cue too tight and I figured that out and relaxed my grip it was all OK again.” And he replied, “Right. Too tight a grip makes you too quick.”
I’m kinda of in a fog at this point. People are congratulating me left and right. Billy Incardona says, “I was up in the room watching you and you played really well.” This turns out to be a reoccurring comment for the next couple of days. Sort of a good natured ribbing thing: “You played really well. I didn’t know you played that good.” I turn on my cell phone again and there are half a dozen messages from people that watched the stream and want to congratulate me.
Legendary Middler, Artie Bodendorfer, is very complimentary. And then a really nice compliment from Frank “The Barber” Almanza who asks me to sign his copy of “Winning One Pocket.” I ask him if he has not made some kind of mistake and he laughs and says, “No. You’re on my list of players whose autograph I wanted to get here.” And he shows me the list and then the book itself with this incredible collection of signatures. I am honored to sign.
There are 8,000 bar pool players in attendance for the BCAPL league events and apparently they had my match on during hotel check-in time and literally dozens of players watched my match in their rooms. They think I am a pro that they just haven’t heard of before and I am repeatedly greeted by name, “Hi, Lou.” Or I am asked my opinion about something; they tell me that they watched my match; good shooting, etc. It is amazing. I take off down The Strip to The Mirage and eat at the bar of Onda, and have an amazing osso buco and sip a couple of glasses of prosecco (Italian champagne). I call my wife to tell her how it went. I call Freddy the Beard who had given me a 1pocket lesson a month earlier and confessed that some of the things he showed me were deployed during my match and credited him for some of my success. Life is good and I sleep soundly for the first time in two days.
The next morning I play Rafael Martinez. We speak Spanish during the match and it does not go well for me. Rafael brings the Mexican National Circus to town and does everything but have elephants walk through the tournament room, shooting off-angle banks; masse kick carom combos; impossible cuts; and on and on. Lou loses 0-4. I have always hated the circus.
Later that night I play Gary Austin a straight shooting sumgun from Ontario who is deadly off the end rail. I figure out that I cannot leave him anything long. The first game Gary gets me 6-1 but fails to move all the balls up table. Lou hits a one-railer and then a two-railer and gets out. Gary is sick and eventually Lou win 3-0.
The whole event, Joey and I have been chatting between matches. A fellow AZer comments, “Wow. You guys get along really well. I’m surprised how cordial you guys are to each other.” And I say, “Oh yeah. Joey and I get along great. It’s just that on the internet he does a better job than I do being a nice guy but I know that deep down he’s as rotten to the core as the rest of us.”
Saturday morning I play Alex Pagulayan. He runs eight and out the first game early on. The second game I leave him long and straight in and he jaws the ball. I run six and then an inning later get the last two. Alex dominates the next game and the last game, twice I leave him long and straight again with balls around my hole and twice he misses badly. But, both times, at the last moment the cue ball runs into a ball and slips up table leaving me on the end rail. Lou loses 1-3. But playing a player of Alex’s caliber is a treat and he is pleasant throughout our match.
Later that day Joey and AlanB and I head to the Mandalay Bay and eat Kobe beef at Michael Mina’s StripSteak. And late Sunday night I watch the first two games of the finals between Efren and Chris Gentile. But frankly, though the play is stellar, I am exhausted. After matches I have been drinking like a fish, staying up late, and suffering the two-hour time difference from the Midwest.
I fly out Monday morning happy to be heading home with a new war story. I mean, that’s why guys like me do this to themselves, isn’t it? To throw yourself into the abyss and see how it turns out. Sometimes it dan’t go so well. But every once in a while, not too often, it turns out so very cool.
Lou Figueroa
I have been to Vegas many, many times. There was even a time in my life when the USAF would send me to Vegas (with two of my best friends ?!) to teach a course to the Thunderbirds, the service's aerial demonstration team, several times a year. Nowadays I go with a bit of amazement that even though the economy is in the tank there are still tens of thousands of tourists that come to the city. So, just for old time’s sake I get in my rental car and decide to take the long way and drive all the way down the strip to the Riviera and the 12th US Open 1Pocket Tournament.
I have organized a dinner at the hotel steak house for the members of OnePocket.org who are attending the event and in the bar we gather up: Fast Lenny; Roy “The Norwegian Locksmith” Steffensen; Bernie Pettipiece and his friend Ramses; Steve Booth, OnePocket.org founder; John Brumback, banking savant and sponsored OnePocket.org player; the amazing John Henderson; the legendary San Jose Dick Moran; and moi. While in the bar we are joined by CSI founder Mark Griffin and later Earl Strickland, who regales us with a couple of stories. I offer to buy Earl a drink and even consider inviting him to the meal, but he declines and scoots off.
After the players meeting all the “big boys” jump on the eight tournament tables, but I find the practice room with two tables across the hallway and have one of the tables to myself for three hours and get a chance to practice up on the Diamond Pros with the TV colored balls and measles cue ball. If you’re not familiar with these tables I must inform you that they are some kind of tough sumbeeches -- small pockets and very touchy rails. The fact that the balls seem like they are fresh from the factory, highly polished, and roll forever is an added attraction.
It was just past midnight when I figured it was time to get some sleep for the long tournament slog ahead. The draw had been done in advance and I knew I was scheduled to play Richard Harris of Blue Grass Cues fame at 4pm on table eight, but still I was drawn to the tournament chart. Big mistake. Steve Booth is there by the chart and he excitedly tells me, “Did you see?! I tried texting you -- your match tomorrow is on the TV table.” Now, of all the things someone could have told me right before I was about to go off and try and get a good nights sleep this would have to rank near the bottom of my personal list.
The TV table. How on God’s good green Simonis covered earth did *that* happen?
I will fully confess something right now: I type a much better game than I actually play. I am an amateur player who plays OK, but who is subject to go off the air at any moment, not so much because of any particular external pressure -- but because the game requires so much precision that I have found over the years that any small variation in my PSR can be disastrous. And now I am confronted with the reality of three TV cameras, bright lights, professional commentary, and my game being put on nekked display to the universe. Not surprisingly, I do not sleep well.
The next day I head over to The Cue Club and managed a few hours of practice on a tight GC and, at the point at which I feel I have things as ship shape as they’re going to get, I head to the tournament venue. It is just past 3:30 in the afternoon when I walk in and take a seat in the stands far away from the TV arena on the other side of the tournament room.
My opponent is at the TV table warming up. Richard Harris looks solid and capable and is rocketing in balls from everywhere. On his web site he says that he lived off his pool game for eight years and it shows. I am despondent, but then again, it is the US Open and everyone can play, or in my case, is supposed to be able to play. Eventually Richard tires of making everything he shoots at and leaves the room. So I decide that it is as good a time as ever and I wander into the TV arena and try and warm up. My plan is to start off by checking the angles on the table. Using just the cue ball I shoot a couple of three-railers, then a couple of two-railers; some one-railers and then decide I can’t put it off any longer and throw some object balls onto the table and shoot some baby shots that I feel confident enough to pocket. These are shots that a drunk Girl Scout can make.
Mr. Harris returns and 4pm approaches. I see Watchez going into the commentary booth and I walk over to shake his hand and he deadpans, “Yeah, I’m here so that if you play bad I can tell everyone, “I’m from St. Louis too and Lou just dogs it again.” My heart rises on this assurance that I have an ally in the booth. I return to my chair. It is then that I see Jeremy Jones put on the second set of head phones.
The legendary Double J is going to commentate my match. The chair I am sitting in might as well have been “Old Sparky” at a federal penal institution because I feel this roiling charge move up from my stomach, up my shoulders, down my arms, and out my wrists. I am in a place I don’t really want to be, but there is no way out -- I have done this to myself -- I willingly sent in my entry fee, flew to this God forsaken city, and have now been thrown in the pit where untold legions will watch and judge my performance. Sitting there, bad thoughts start penetrating my brain. I can’t stop them. “Suppose you play *really* bad?” I ask myself. “Will they just stop the match and say, ‘Oh, so sorry. We can’t stream this. You suck way too bad.’” What is Jeremy going to think of my amateur-level play? How deep will Watchez stick and twist the local angle knife? I think of everyone I’ve ever had a fight with on the internet and -- whether they’re watching the PPV stream or not -- I know deep in my heart that to a man they are all fervently hoping for my demise by public disemboweling at the hands of Mr. Harris and how they will cackle if my game goes totally go off the air. I am a man in despair. But I step up and lag for the break. There is no exit door in the TAR arena.
But. Somehow. Through the good graces of the pool gods I play well. In fact I am so focused I can see every angle that helps or can possibly hurt me. I am pocketing balls well; I am able to kill my cue ball when it is appropriate; my banks are working well enough; and though my position play is a bit suspect, I pull it off and win 4-1, remaining in total control of the match. Afterwards, Jeremy Jones congratulates me saying, “Nice shooting. You only flinched twice.” And I said, “I know exactly the two shots you’re talking about. I was holding my cue too tight and I figured that out and relaxed my grip it was all OK again.” And he replied, “Right. Too tight a grip makes you too quick.”
I’m kinda of in a fog at this point. People are congratulating me left and right. Billy Incardona says, “I was up in the room watching you and you played really well.” This turns out to be a reoccurring comment for the next couple of days. Sort of a good natured ribbing thing: “You played really well. I didn’t know you played that good.” I turn on my cell phone again and there are half a dozen messages from people that watched the stream and want to congratulate me.
Legendary Middler, Artie Bodendorfer, is very complimentary. And then a really nice compliment from Frank “The Barber” Almanza who asks me to sign his copy of “Winning One Pocket.” I ask him if he has not made some kind of mistake and he laughs and says, “No. You’re on my list of players whose autograph I wanted to get here.” And he shows me the list and then the book itself with this incredible collection of signatures. I am honored to sign.
There are 8,000 bar pool players in attendance for the BCAPL league events and apparently they had my match on during hotel check-in time and literally dozens of players watched my match in their rooms. They think I am a pro that they just haven’t heard of before and I am repeatedly greeted by name, “Hi, Lou.” Or I am asked my opinion about something; they tell me that they watched my match; good shooting, etc. It is amazing. I take off down The Strip to The Mirage and eat at the bar of Onda, and have an amazing osso buco and sip a couple of glasses of prosecco (Italian champagne). I call my wife to tell her how it went. I call Freddy the Beard who had given me a 1pocket lesson a month earlier and confessed that some of the things he showed me were deployed during my match and credited him for some of my success. Life is good and I sleep soundly for the first time in two days.
The next morning I play Rafael Martinez. We speak Spanish during the match and it does not go well for me. Rafael brings the Mexican National Circus to town and does everything but have elephants walk through the tournament room, shooting off-angle banks; masse kick carom combos; impossible cuts; and on and on. Lou loses 0-4. I have always hated the circus.
Later that night I play Gary Austin a straight shooting sumgun from Ontario who is deadly off the end rail. I figure out that I cannot leave him anything long. The first game Gary gets me 6-1 but fails to move all the balls up table. Lou hits a one-railer and then a two-railer and gets out. Gary is sick and eventually Lou win 3-0.
The whole event, Joey and I have been chatting between matches. A fellow AZer comments, “Wow. You guys get along really well. I’m surprised how cordial you guys are to each other.” And I say, “Oh yeah. Joey and I get along great. It’s just that on the internet he does a better job than I do being a nice guy but I know that deep down he’s as rotten to the core as the rest of us.”
Saturday morning I play Alex Pagulayan. He runs eight and out the first game early on. The second game I leave him long and straight in and he jaws the ball. I run six and then an inning later get the last two. Alex dominates the next game and the last game, twice I leave him long and straight again with balls around my hole and twice he misses badly. But, both times, at the last moment the cue ball runs into a ball and slips up table leaving me on the end rail. Lou loses 1-3. But playing a player of Alex’s caliber is a treat and he is pleasant throughout our match.
Later that day Joey and AlanB and I head to the Mandalay Bay and eat Kobe beef at Michael Mina’s StripSteak. And late Sunday night I watch the first two games of the finals between Efren and Chris Gentile. But frankly, though the play is stellar, I am exhausted. After matches I have been drinking like a fish, staying up late, and suffering the two-hour time difference from the Midwest.
I fly out Monday morning happy to be heading home with a new war story. I mean, that’s why guys like me do this to themselves, isn’t it? To throw yourself into the abyss and see how it turns out. Sometimes it dan’t go so well. But every once in a while, not too often, it turns out so very cool.
Lou Figueroa
Last edited:
