“I have been contacted by a couple of folks that have taken an interest in us playing.
Are you willing to name a date and put up "no-show" money with someone we can agree on?”
Lou Figueroa
the challenge
10/14/2013
And so it began.
Five months of endless woofing; dozens of threads that were closed, deleted, or shuffled from forum to forum in search of a home (or final resting place); countless taunts, bluffs, insults, and lies.
I have to admit, I really didn’t expect John to accept my challenge. After all, he’d turned down my previous offer to play for $20,000, three years prior. But he accepted this one and once the terms were agreed to, John and I embarked on a journey, hand-in-hand, into the heart of darkness. Mike L., was my backer. What a great guy to have as your money man. He and I communicated through emails over the course of the many months leading up to the match, discussing various options and strategies, and then he flew out to NJ to help manage the dough and offer me moral support. I want to thank him up front for his trust, encouragement, and insight into the match.
So. What’s it like, you might ask, to get yourself involved in a pool match for $10,000?
To be absolutely honest, if you’re like me — an average player who plays pool for fun, and perhaps the occasional modest wager, or tournament flyer — it is to descend into a living hell. Only once the bet is made and the “show up” money posted, do the true ramifications of what you’ve done fall upon you with a stark reality that is impossible to anticipate or imagine. I am now going to reiterate, for the umpteenth time, that I am a amateur recreational player who likes to play 1pocket for $20 a game. And making a bet like this, regardless of how it’s structured, is a burden I would not recommend for anyone to take on.
Inevitably, somewhere along the way, you will begin to think of nothing else. You will want to talk of nothing else. You will become consumed with practicing. You will turn every conceivable angle concerning the match, and the bet, over and over in your mind. And, you will occasionally wake up in the middle of the night, your heart pounding, as the nightmare of dogging your brains out on the Accu-Stats table slowly fades away, only for it to return again and again in the coming nights.
IOWs, you will drive yourself and everyone around you crazy.
Every morning my routine at home is to go down to the kitchen to start up the espresso machine and make my wife a latte and myself a cappuccino. On the wall nearest the La Pavoni is a monthly calendar hanging on the wall. And while the boiler tank heated up, or while grinding up some beans, every day I would look at the date on the calendar and say to myself, “Plenty of time. Plenty of time to get ready. Plenty of time.” Those words were easy to say and believe in the waning days of October and even into the holiday season.
The only relief that came my way in those early months was when John posted, right before Christmas, in the middle of his endless taunts, that he was calling off all side bets. Conferring with the gray beards in St. Louis the consensus was: John is scared. No one looks for an excuse, like a mod deleting threads, to call off side bets. My spirits perked up.
Then a second thing happened that I am particularly grateful for: a number of excellent players began reaching out to me privately to give me encouragement and counsel behind the scenes. From critiquing my opponents capabilities, to complimenting mine, to putting the large bet into perspective, providing advice on how to prepare and handle myself during actual play, they were of one voice: you have nothing to worry about; John will implode; you are the better player; your military training and experience will serve you well; and most importantly: let John rave, say nothing, and let your stick do the talking at Edison.
Thank you gentlemen. You know who you are.
The new year dawned and with two and a half months left before the match date, each morning downstairs making coffee, “Plenty of time” turned into, “There’s still enough time.” One night over dinner I said to my wife, Gail, “I cannot believe that the defining moment in my life as a pool player is somehow intertwined with the name 'John Barton.'”
It was about this time that a third good thing happened. My friend, Dustin, asked me who I was traveling with to New Jersey. And I told him, “No one.” And Dustin said, “Send me your itinerary because I’m going with you. There is no way that I’m letting a buddy of mine go into a situation like this without having his back.”
Thank you, Brother.
And now, slowly but surely, others came out of the St. Louis woodwork to encourage me, support me, and workout with me. And in this regard I want to especially thank kollegedave who would come out night after night to practice 1pocket with me. I also want to thank Arizona Jay who also made it a point to come out and workout and encourage me.
It was one day in January when John walked into my home room on his way to the DCC, wanting to play, taunting me by saying, “I’ll let you off cheap. I only have a thousand on me.” There has been some speculation as to why I didn’t play John in St. Louis, or Elizabeth, IN, or even Oklahoma City. The reason was pretty simple: John is not stupid (squirrelly: yes; stupid: no) and if I had beaten him, I felt he’d likely bail on the posted $3,000 show money and save himself $7,000. I could almost hear him crowing about how stupid I was to win a few hundred, or even a thousand, and how he’d saved himself $7K. In hindsight, seeing how John backed out on his other bets on the match, I am confident I made the right call.
At the Derby a fourth great thing happened: The first round of the 1pocket division I watched John play his match against a gentleman from Hawaii. John played poorly. I mean, really bad. I was watching most of his match from a distance with One Pocket Ghost, from Chicago, and kollegedave and Dustin from St. Louis. We were all incredulous at his poor play, as he missed shot after shot and sold out over and over. I left after he sold out a wide open table the last game, thinking it was over, only to learn later that, somehow, John actually won the final game. Regardless, watching John play that way in late January, after all his talk of playing champions and improving by at least two balls, was an incredible confidence booster.
In early February, Gail and I took a nine day trip to one of our favorite spots, down the Pacific Coast of Mexico to the resort town of Zihuatanejo of “Shawshank Redemption” fame. (“Dear Red… You remember the name of the town, don't you?”) It was a fabulous escape to just lay in the sun by the pool, eat and drink great, with nary a pool table in sight. (OK, there was a pool hall in town, but I refused to go in.) To get away and just relax and recharge was a blessing.
But, not long after our return to St. Louis, the calendar turned to March and I began to mutter to myself, “Not so much time.” My practice schedule intensified; John kept woofing, saying our $500 a game side bet was still on, that he would take all side action at the venue, and "stack it up" to a cap of $30K; while the polls on the group showed John as the favorite by wide margins. Mike and I got to the point of feeling like we were the only suckers in room and everybody knew it except us. So Mike says, “Hey Lou, what do you think about raising the bet? $10k just doesn't seem enough to take from Barton. If I’m the sucker, I’m snugly on the hook now.” And so we chopped up the bet and decided I’d pushed out $25,000 to John, which he promptly refused. To us, it was the another major indicator that John’s confidence level was *way* below his bluster on the group and that was pretty much when we knew we had him.
Finally it was time to go. The match was scheduled to go off at 4 P.M. on the 18th at Sandcastle Billiards in Edison, NJ. I had made the decision long before that I would avoid the madness of the SBE, stay home and practice, rest up, and sleep in my own bed. Dustin and I flew out early the 17th.
That morning at home, after I put on my jacket and assembled my luggage and pool cue, Gail and I walked down the stairs to our garage so she could drive me to Lambert International and my Southwest Air flight. Going down those stairs, I swear to you that I felt as if I was on a conveyer belt that I had no control of — it was as though I were strapped to gurney being wheeled into surgery and could only lay back and let the Fates do with me as they willed. I was a cog on an assembly line. The match had truly taken on a life of its own.
As our plane flew in to land at Newark International I could see the Freedom Tower and the rest of the Manhattan skyline off the right wing of the aircraft. And as I thought about the match to be played the following day, I giggled to myself and muttered, “I am flying into New Jersey, with my pool cue, to play a match for $10,000. This is f*ckin’ nuts.”
Lou Figueroa
Are you willing to name a date and put up "no-show" money with someone we can agree on?”
Lou Figueroa
the challenge
10/14/2013
And so it began.
Five months of endless woofing; dozens of threads that were closed, deleted, or shuffled from forum to forum in search of a home (or final resting place); countless taunts, bluffs, insults, and lies.
I have to admit, I really didn’t expect John to accept my challenge. After all, he’d turned down my previous offer to play for $20,000, three years prior. But he accepted this one and once the terms were agreed to, John and I embarked on a journey, hand-in-hand, into the heart of darkness. Mike L., was my backer. What a great guy to have as your money man. He and I communicated through emails over the course of the many months leading up to the match, discussing various options and strategies, and then he flew out to NJ to help manage the dough and offer me moral support. I want to thank him up front for his trust, encouragement, and insight into the match.
So. What’s it like, you might ask, to get yourself involved in a pool match for $10,000?
To be absolutely honest, if you’re like me — an average player who plays pool for fun, and perhaps the occasional modest wager, or tournament flyer — it is to descend into a living hell. Only once the bet is made and the “show up” money posted, do the true ramifications of what you’ve done fall upon you with a stark reality that is impossible to anticipate or imagine. I am now going to reiterate, for the umpteenth time, that I am a amateur recreational player who likes to play 1pocket for $20 a game. And making a bet like this, regardless of how it’s structured, is a burden I would not recommend for anyone to take on.
Inevitably, somewhere along the way, you will begin to think of nothing else. You will want to talk of nothing else. You will become consumed with practicing. You will turn every conceivable angle concerning the match, and the bet, over and over in your mind. And, you will occasionally wake up in the middle of the night, your heart pounding, as the nightmare of dogging your brains out on the Accu-Stats table slowly fades away, only for it to return again and again in the coming nights.
IOWs, you will drive yourself and everyone around you crazy.
Every morning my routine at home is to go down to the kitchen to start up the espresso machine and make my wife a latte and myself a cappuccino. On the wall nearest the La Pavoni is a monthly calendar hanging on the wall. And while the boiler tank heated up, or while grinding up some beans, every day I would look at the date on the calendar and say to myself, “Plenty of time. Plenty of time to get ready. Plenty of time.” Those words were easy to say and believe in the waning days of October and even into the holiday season.
The only relief that came my way in those early months was when John posted, right before Christmas, in the middle of his endless taunts, that he was calling off all side bets. Conferring with the gray beards in St. Louis the consensus was: John is scared. No one looks for an excuse, like a mod deleting threads, to call off side bets. My spirits perked up.
Then a second thing happened that I am particularly grateful for: a number of excellent players began reaching out to me privately to give me encouragement and counsel behind the scenes. From critiquing my opponents capabilities, to complimenting mine, to putting the large bet into perspective, providing advice on how to prepare and handle myself during actual play, they were of one voice: you have nothing to worry about; John will implode; you are the better player; your military training and experience will serve you well; and most importantly: let John rave, say nothing, and let your stick do the talking at Edison.
Thank you gentlemen. You know who you are.
The new year dawned and with two and a half months left before the match date, each morning downstairs making coffee, “Plenty of time” turned into, “There’s still enough time.” One night over dinner I said to my wife, Gail, “I cannot believe that the defining moment in my life as a pool player is somehow intertwined with the name 'John Barton.'”
It was about this time that a third good thing happened. My friend, Dustin, asked me who I was traveling with to New Jersey. And I told him, “No one.” And Dustin said, “Send me your itinerary because I’m going with you. There is no way that I’m letting a buddy of mine go into a situation like this without having his back.”
Thank you, Brother.
And now, slowly but surely, others came out of the St. Louis woodwork to encourage me, support me, and workout with me. And in this regard I want to especially thank kollegedave who would come out night after night to practice 1pocket with me. I also want to thank Arizona Jay who also made it a point to come out and workout and encourage me.
It was one day in January when John walked into my home room on his way to the DCC, wanting to play, taunting me by saying, “I’ll let you off cheap. I only have a thousand on me.” There has been some speculation as to why I didn’t play John in St. Louis, or Elizabeth, IN, or even Oklahoma City. The reason was pretty simple: John is not stupid (squirrelly: yes; stupid: no) and if I had beaten him, I felt he’d likely bail on the posted $3,000 show money and save himself $7,000. I could almost hear him crowing about how stupid I was to win a few hundred, or even a thousand, and how he’d saved himself $7K. In hindsight, seeing how John backed out on his other bets on the match, I am confident I made the right call.
At the Derby a fourth great thing happened: The first round of the 1pocket division I watched John play his match against a gentleman from Hawaii. John played poorly. I mean, really bad. I was watching most of his match from a distance with One Pocket Ghost, from Chicago, and kollegedave and Dustin from St. Louis. We were all incredulous at his poor play, as he missed shot after shot and sold out over and over. I left after he sold out a wide open table the last game, thinking it was over, only to learn later that, somehow, John actually won the final game. Regardless, watching John play that way in late January, after all his talk of playing champions and improving by at least two balls, was an incredible confidence booster.
In early February, Gail and I took a nine day trip to one of our favorite spots, down the Pacific Coast of Mexico to the resort town of Zihuatanejo of “Shawshank Redemption” fame. (“Dear Red… You remember the name of the town, don't you?”) It was a fabulous escape to just lay in the sun by the pool, eat and drink great, with nary a pool table in sight. (OK, there was a pool hall in town, but I refused to go in.) To get away and just relax and recharge was a blessing.
But, not long after our return to St. Louis, the calendar turned to March and I began to mutter to myself, “Not so much time.” My practice schedule intensified; John kept woofing, saying our $500 a game side bet was still on, that he would take all side action at the venue, and "stack it up" to a cap of $30K; while the polls on the group showed John as the favorite by wide margins. Mike and I got to the point of feeling like we were the only suckers in room and everybody knew it except us. So Mike says, “Hey Lou, what do you think about raising the bet? $10k just doesn't seem enough to take from Barton. If I’m the sucker, I’m snugly on the hook now.” And so we chopped up the bet and decided I’d pushed out $25,000 to John, which he promptly refused. To us, it was the another major indicator that John’s confidence level was *way* below his bluster on the group and that was pretty much when we knew we had him.
Finally it was time to go. The match was scheduled to go off at 4 P.M. on the 18th at Sandcastle Billiards in Edison, NJ. I had made the decision long before that I would avoid the madness of the SBE, stay home and practice, rest up, and sleep in my own bed. Dustin and I flew out early the 17th.
That morning at home, after I put on my jacket and assembled my luggage and pool cue, Gail and I walked down the stairs to our garage so she could drive me to Lambert International and my Southwest Air flight. Going down those stairs, I swear to you that I felt as if I was on a conveyer belt that I had no control of — it was as though I were strapped to gurney being wheeled into surgery and could only lay back and let the Fates do with me as they willed. I was a cog on an assembly line. The match had truly taken on a life of its own.
As our plane flew in to land at Newark International I could see the Freedom Tower and the rest of the Manhattan skyline off the right wing of the aircraft. And as I thought about the match to be played the following day, I giggled to myself and muttered, “I am flying into New Jersey, with my pool cue, to play a match for $10,000. This is f*ckin’ nuts.”
Lou Figueroa
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