This is a post to thank my sponsor of the last 25 years for -- among many, many other things -- her unwavering support in all matters pool.
*If you hate the mushy stuff -- save yourself now.* You have been warned.
I’ve loved playing pool since I was small, blocking the ball returns under a neighbor’s table when I was five; later, watching the older kids play at the Boys Club of America, in the Mission District of San Francisco; as a teenager, messing around on a home-built table, Dave, an older guy in the neighborhood, had made; and later, when I joined the ranks of the fully-pledged pool fraternity.
Serving in the Air Force I got a chance to play at base Rec Centers around the country, winning a couple of base championships state-side, and eventually going off to win the Mediterranean and European championships, one out of my three year tour in Spain. Which is where I met my sponsor one night.
It was at the Officer’s Club late one hot summer Friday night at Torrejon Air Base -- an F-16 jet fighter wing --right outside of Madrid. (Think Maverick, Goose, and the whole “Top Gun” thing.) I was in Spain solo after a failed marriage and was now at the club in Spain trying to compete with all the fighter jocks -- in their dashing green flight suits -- for the available local love which, not unlike the story line in Rogers and Hammerstein’s “South Pacific,” mainly consisted of the base medical center nursing corp.
I’d been informed through back-channels that an Air Force nurse, who had been dating my deputy public affairs officer back in Sacramento, California, had received orders for Spain. And, six months later, there she was -- decked out in a short, slinky, low-cut black dress, high heels, and generally looking pretty fine, standing at my bar. What I did not know was that that particular Friday night she was: “four sheets to the wind,” “toasted,” “blotto,” “drunk as a skunk.” The place was packed, the juke box was blaring something by Billy Ocean, and I sidled up to the bar and managed a spot next to her, feigning a surprised look on my face when our eyes finally met. Summoning my courage I queried as suavely as I could, “Gail!? From Sacramento?” And she just gave me this steely, slightly bored look that silently asked, “Is that the best you’ve got?”
Fearlessly I plunged on and smoothly followed up in my best Fred Astaire, “We’ll have to get together sometime and talk about Sacramento.” And without missing a beat she looked me in the eye, took a moment to size me up, and finally said in a low level voice I’m sure Ginger never used on Fred, “Why don’t we get together and talk about sex instead.”
It was not a question.
She turned to her wingman, Kathy, a fellow Air Force nurse, and with a flip of her head instructed her to, “Give him my number.” Kathy gave me a doubtful look but wrote the proscribed numerals on a bar napkin and then they both marched out of the bar for further Friday night endeavors.
Gail, now my wife, hates it when I tell that story
Eventually we began to date and soon thereafter I could tell this was not your ordinary woman. Gail watched me compete in the base 14.1 championship, saw me run 75 and out on the base JAG one year, and we barely made it back to my apartment, her telling me that watching me walk around the table and run balls was one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen (?!). One year, while we were dating, she flew out to Germany on her own dime, to watch me play in the European 14.1 Championships. She had to leave before the finals to get back to the base to work her shift at the hospital. But when I flew back a couple of days later she greeted me right in the middle of the main terminal of Barajas International, Madrid, dressed in a tan trench coat, black patent leather AF-issued high heels, black hose, a garter belt, make-up… and not much else. Our bill to get out of the airport parking lot was huge.
After Spain we got married and were both stationed in Washington, D.C., and I pretty much gave up pool for 10 years -- the jobs at Andrews AFB and The Pentagon took a lot of time and my wife and I dealt with the realities of being a young married couple far from the exotic locale and care-free fun of a jet fighter base in Europe. (We fought like cats and dogs.) But eventually, somehow, through hard work, patience, and love we worked it all out and came out with the realization that not only were we equally matched when it came to temperament -- me, hot-blooded Latin; her, bull-headed New Englander -- we somehow made a good team and we not only persevered, we flourished.
Years later, stationed at Scott AFB in Illinois, she was hard at work on a project one weekend, while I had nothing to do, and said the words that I think, on some level, she still rues to this day, “Why don’t you go dig out your pool cue out of the closet and go kill some time.”
And that’s what I did and I have been playing non-stop ever since.
Years ago when Mike Howerton -- who I knew from RSB -- was starting up AZ, he emailed me and wanted to know if it was OK to put up my player info on the site and I said, “Sure.” But then I saw what the pros had put up on his site and I emailed him back and asked, “Can I list a sponsor, cue info, and have a picture too, like Earl?” And he graciously said, “Sure.” And I listed Gail as my sponsor.
My wife, over the years, has been my biggest and bestest fan. She has encouraged me to get into local and national events when I didn’t want to and even hounded me until I finally sent in my entry fee to get into my very first US Open 1Pocket Tournament in Kalamazoo, when I didn’t have enough faith in myself to do it on my own. She has bought me countless pool books and Accu-Stats DVDs and for our 10th wedding anniversary she allowed me to recreate a Ginacue, that I had let slip through my hands as a callow youth. She loves going to watch the Mosconi Cup in Vegas and we have been twice and may go again this year. To this day she continues to support my pool aspirations, taking me to Chicago several years ago for a 1pocket tournament in which I eventually beat Piggy Banks and Larry Nevel. For one memorable birthday two years ago she watched me play 14.1 in Chicago again and surprisingly win a 14.1 World Qualifier.
Over countless dinners she has attentively listened to me expound on my latest theories about my pool stroke -- typically involving me using a dinner knife for a cue; salt and pepper shakers for balls; and a napkin as a table -- and asked countless, insightful questions and offered me limitless encouragement. For Christmas last year she gave me a present of a pool lesson with the great Dallas West. She put her full support behind my trip to Las Vegas this year to play in the US 1Pocket Open. And when she caught a glimpse of a photo of me playing on the TV table she shyly asked, “Can I get a copy of that for my desk at work?” For this, our 25th wedding anniversary, she encouraged me to get my second Ginacue.
Exactly one year ago, four days before our 24th wedding anniversary, she came home late one Friday afternoon and I could tell something was wrong the moment she walked in the door and I asked, “What’s the matter?” And she said, “I just came from the doctor. I have cancer.”
As I said, that was a year ago. Since then she has been through radiation, a five-hour surgery, two rounds of chemotherapy, and numerous unbelievable complications. For weeks, twice a day, I dressed a wound for her of such severity that I was shocked to see something like it anywhere but a battlefield. The last year has been hell for me, I can’t imagine what it's been like for her.
And, here we are… coming up on 25 years.
A few weeks ago she got a PET scan and, though we must keep a close eye on things, now she is cancer-free. I’ll never forget one day in the hospital shortly after her surgery, when she opened her eyes while in a pain-killer induced fog, looked deep into mine and stated matter-of-factly in the same low, level voice she had first spoken to me all those years ago at the Officer’s Club, “So. You are my caregiver.” And I replied, “Yes. So sad for you.” And we both managed to laugh.
So, thank you, Dear, my sponsor, the love of my life, Gail. You’ve let me run amokked across the pool rooms and tournaments of America for 25 years. I dan’t know why.
I love you dearly.
Lou Figueroa
*If you hate the mushy stuff -- save yourself now.* You have been warned.
I’ve loved playing pool since I was small, blocking the ball returns under a neighbor’s table when I was five; later, watching the older kids play at the Boys Club of America, in the Mission District of San Francisco; as a teenager, messing around on a home-built table, Dave, an older guy in the neighborhood, had made; and later, when I joined the ranks of the fully-pledged pool fraternity.
Serving in the Air Force I got a chance to play at base Rec Centers around the country, winning a couple of base championships state-side, and eventually going off to win the Mediterranean and European championships, one out of my three year tour in Spain. Which is where I met my sponsor one night.
It was at the Officer’s Club late one hot summer Friday night at Torrejon Air Base -- an F-16 jet fighter wing --right outside of Madrid. (Think Maverick, Goose, and the whole “Top Gun” thing.) I was in Spain solo after a failed marriage and was now at the club in Spain trying to compete with all the fighter jocks -- in their dashing green flight suits -- for the available local love which, not unlike the story line in Rogers and Hammerstein’s “South Pacific,” mainly consisted of the base medical center nursing corp.
I’d been informed through back-channels that an Air Force nurse, who had been dating my deputy public affairs officer back in Sacramento, California, had received orders for Spain. And, six months later, there she was -- decked out in a short, slinky, low-cut black dress, high heels, and generally looking pretty fine, standing at my bar. What I did not know was that that particular Friday night she was: “four sheets to the wind,” “toasted,” “blotto,” “drunk as a skunk.” The place was packed, the juke box was blaring something by Billy Ocean, and I sidled up to the bar and managed a spot next to her, feigning a surprised look on my face when our eyes finally met. Summoning my courage I queried as suavely as I could, “Gail!? From Sacramento?” And she just gave me this steely, slightly bored look that silently asked, “Is that the best you’ve got?”
Fearlessly I plunged on and smoothly followed up in my best Fred Astaire, “We’ll have to get together sometime and talk about Sacramento.” And without missing a beat she looked me in the eye, took a moment to size me up, and finally said in a low level voice I’m sure Ginger never used on Fred, “Why don’t we get together and talk about sex instead.”
It was not a question.
She turned to her wingman, Kathy, a fellow Air Force nurse, and with a flip of her head instructed her to, “Give him my number.” Kathy gave me a doubtful look but wrote the proscribed numerals on a bar napkin and then they both marched out of the bar for further Friday night endeavors.
Gail, now my wife, hates it when I tell that story
Eventually we began to date and soon thereafter I could tell this was not your ordinary woman. Gail watched me compete in the base 14.1 championship, saw me run 75 and out on the base JAG one year, and we barely made it back to my apartment, her telling me that watching me walk around the table and run balls was one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen (?!). One year, while we were dating, she flew out to Germany on her own dime, to watch me play in the European 14.1 Championships. She had to leave before the finals to get back to the base to work her shift at the hospital. But when I flew back a couple of days later she greeted me right in the middle of the main terminal of Barajas International, Madrid, dressed in a tan trench coat, black patent leather AF-issued high heels, black hose, a garter belt, make-up… and not much else. Our bill to get out of the airport parking lot was huge.
After Spain we got married and were both stationed in Washington, D.C., and I pretty much gave up pool for 10 years -- the jobs at Andrews AFB and The Pentagon took a lot of time and my wife and I dealt with the realities of being a young married couple far from the exotic locale and care-free fun of a jet fighter base in Europe. (We fought like cats and dogs.) But eventually, somehow, through hard work, patience, and love we worked it all out and came out with the realization that not only were we equally matched when it came to temperament -- me, hot-blooded Latin; her, bull-headed New Englander -- we somehow made a good team and we not only persevered, we flourished.
Years later, stationed at Scott AFB in Illinois, she was hard at work on a project one weekend, while I had nothing to do, and said the words that I think, on some level, she still rues to this day, “Why don’t you go dig out your pool cue out of the closet and go kill some time.”
And that’s what I did and I have been playing non-stop ever since.
Years ago when Mike Howerton -- who I knew from RSB -- was starting up AZ, he emailed me and wanted to know if it was OK to put up my player info on the site and I said, “Sure.” But then I saw what the pros had put up on his site and I emailed him back and asked, “Can I list a sponsor, cue info, and have a picture too, like Earl?” And he graciously said, “Sure.” And I listed Gail as my sponsor.
My wife, over the years, has been my biggest and bestest fan. She has encouraged me to get into local and national events when I didn’t want to and even hounded me until I finally sent in my entry fee to get into my very first US Open 1Pocket Tournament in Kalamazoo, when I didn’t have enough faith in myself to do it on my own. She has bought me countless pool books and Accu-Stats DVDs and for our 10th wedding anniversary she allowed me to recreate a Ginacue, that I had let slip through my hands as a callow youth. She loves going to watch the Mosconi Cup in Vegas and we have been twice and may go again this year. To this day she continues to support my pool aspirations, taking me to Chicago several years ago for a 1pocket tournament in which I eventually beat Piggy Banks and Larry Nevel. For one memorable birthday two years ago she watched me play 14.1 in Chicago again and surprisingly win a 14.1 World Qualifier.
Over countless dinners she has attentively listened to me expound on my latest theories about my pool stroke -- typically involving me using a dinner knife for a cue; salt and pepper shakers for balls; and a napkin as a table -- and asked countless, insightful questions and offered me limitless encouragement. For Christmas last year she gave me a present of a pool lesson with the great Dallas West. She put her full support behind my trip to Las Vegas this year to play in the US 1Pocket Open. And when she caught a glimpse of a photo of me playing on the TV table she shyly asked, “Can I get a copy of that for my desk at work?” For this, our 25th wedding anniversary, she encouraged me to get my second Ginacue.
Exactly one year ago, four days before our 24th wedding anniversary, she came home late one Friday afternoon and I could tell something was wrong the moment she walked in the door and I asked, “What’s the matter?” And she said, “I just came from the doctor. I have cancer.”
As I said, that was a year ago. Since then she has been through radiation, a five-hour surgery, two rounds of chemotherapy, and numerous unbelievable complications. For weeks, twice a day, I dressed a wound for her of such severity that I was shocked to see something like it anywhere but a battlefield. The last year has been hell for me, I can’t imagine what it's been like for her.
And, here we are… coming up on 25 years.
A few weeks ago she got a PET scan and, though we must keep a close eye on things, now she is cancer-free. I’ll never forget one day in the hospital shortly after her surgery, when she opened her eyes while in a pain-killer induced fog, looked deep into mine and stated matter-of-factly in the same low, level voice she had first spoken to me all those years ago at the Officer’s Club, “So. You are my caregiver.” And I replied, “Yes. So sad for you.” And we both managed to laugh.
So, thank you, Dear, my sponsor, the love of my life, Gail. You’ve let me run amokked across the pool rooms and tournaments of America for 25 years. I dan’t know why.
I love you dearly.
Lou Figueroa
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