105 is hot. And no, I do not care that it is a "dry heat."
Once again I find myself in this God forsaken city to play a few games of one pocket in the US Open. To this day I do not understand the internal logic that drives me to do this each year, but here I am.
Landing in Vegas shortly after noon, I decide that it is in my best interests to head over to Best Billiards and hit a few balls on a Diamond table. There, I see Fast Lenny, still hobbled by a foot injury, Bobby Cotton, and Fatboy. Best Billiards is a wonderful room. There are several Diamond 9' tables, a couple of Diamond bar boxes, 3C tables, and a private room available. The service is cordial, and at one point Mary comes over to my table to inform me that I have played long enough to qualify for the daily special rate and can play until 7 for the same cost.
I knock them around for a few hours until I feel reasonably certain I won't completely embarrass myself in the tournament room and decide to drive over to the Rio. Driving through Vegas I wonder how this huge, insane city continues to exist, if not thrive. The heat, the surrounding desert, the cost of water and other goods, and the casino game rules and odds that have evolved to the point of being just shy of outright robbery. I am amused to see that a certain "Breaking Bad" ethos has taken hold in the city, seeing billboards advertising legal services ala "Call Saul!" with pithy enjoiners to "Get Glen!" and "Enough Said, Call Ed." I drive by The Riv, site of past billiard adventures and see that the convention center parking lot is barricaded off and the casino's rear trademark sign missing several letters. The casino itself seems to remain in operation.
I hadn't been to the Rio for several years. It's off The Strip, sitting alone on West Flamingo Road, and is home to the Penn & Teller magic act. Wandering the casino, over and over I see posters advertising their show and am reminded of how much Bob Jewett looks like Teller, just not as happy.
At the Rio convention center, the main tournament room is huge, with a couple hundred 7' tables organized into endless rows. At the far end of the room is the "pro" area with raised sitting for spectators, 16 9' tables, and the TAR arena. These are set up in front of a very high stage. I see CSI front man, Mark Griffin, manning a registration desk and he stops a moment to explain some of the mayhem. Among other crises is ESPN lolly gagging their exit, post-WSOP, and delaying the installation of a hundred plus tournament tables. Everywhere I look tables are being forklifted, vendors are attempting to set up, and there is a general sense of disarray around the edges.
Warming up in the pro area I see all the usual suspects. I hadn't eaten all day so I decide against attending the player's meeting (once you've been to one, you been to them all) and sit down at the bar of Buzios, the Rio's seafood house. Let me tell you: if you're in the neighborhood, the food is outstanding and I can personally vouch for the blue crab stuffed mahi mahi.
After dinner I wander back through the tournament room for one more pass, after which I decide I am beat from the long day of travel and call it a wrap. Back in my room I go online to look at the tournament brackets and see that I am to play Carl Wilson, Jr, a name I recognize as being a top flight 9ball player, but do not associate with 1pocket, at 1pm. Maybe I have a chance, probably not.
Looking further at the chart I see that AZ favorite, Chris Bartram is to play Design Your Dream non-cue maker, Bill Stroud, at the same time, and I get a sense of looming cosmic retribution about to be met out.
Lou Figueroa
Once again I find myself in this God forsaken city to play a few games of one pocket in the US Open. To this day I do not understand the internal logic that drives me to do this each year, but here I am.
Landing in Vegas shortly after noon, I decide that it is in my best interests to head over to Best Billiards and hit a few balls on a Diamond table. There, I see Fast Lenny, still hobbled by a foot injury, Bobby Cotton, and Fatboy. Best Billiards is a wonderful room. There are several Diamond 9' tables, a couple of Diamond bar boxes, 3C tables, and a private room available. The service is cordial, and at one point Mary comes over to my table to inform me that I have played long enough to qualify for the daily special rate and can play until 7 for the same cost.
I knock them around for a few hours until I feel reasonably certain I won't completely embarrass myself in the tournament room and decide to drive over to the Rio. Driving through Vegas I wonder how this huge, insane city continues to exist, if not thrive. The heat, the surrounding desert, the cost of water and other goods, and the casino game rules and odds that have evolved to the point of being just shy of outright robbery. I am amused to see that a certain "Breaking Bad" ethos has taken hold in the city, seeing billboards advertising legal services ala "Call Saul!" with pithy enjoiners to "Get Glen!" and "Enough Said, Call Ed." I drive by The Riv, site of past billiard adventures and see that the convention center parking lot is barricaded off and the casino's rear trademark sign missing several letters. The casino itself seems to remain in operation.
I hadn't been to the Rio for several years. It's off The Strip, sitting alone on West Flamingo Road, and is home to the Penn & Teller magic act. Wandering the casino, over and over I see posters advertising their show and am reminded of how much Bob Jewett looks like Teller, just not as happy.
At the Rio convention center, the main tournament room is huge, with a couple hundred 7' tables organized into endless rows. At the far end of the room is the "pro" area with raised sitting for spectators, 16 9' tables, and the TAR arena. These are set up in front of a very high stage. I see CSI front man, Mark Griffin, manning a registration desk and he stops a moment to explain some of the mayhem. Among other crises is ESPN lolly gagging their exit, post-WSOP, and delaying the installation of a hundred plus tournament tables. Everywhere I look tables are being forklifted, vendors are attempting to set up, and there is a general sense of disarray around the edges.
Warming up in the pro area I see all the usual suspects. I hadn't eaten all day so I decide against attending the player's meeting (once you've been to one, you been to them all) and sit down at the bar of Buzios, the Rio's seafood house. Let me tell you: if you're in the neighborhood, the food is outstanding and I can personally vouch for the blue crab stuffed mahi mahi.
After dinner I wander back through the tournament room for one more pass, after which I decide I am beat from the long day of travel and call it a wrap. Back in my room I go online to look at the tournament brackets and see that I am to play Carl Wilson, Jr, a name I recognize as being a top flight 9ball player, but do not associate with 1pocket, at 1pm. Maybe I have a chance, probably not.
Looking further at the chart I see that AZ favorite, Chris Bartram is to play Design Your Dream non-cue maker, Bill Stroud, at the same time, and I get a sense of looming cosmic retribution about to be met out.
Lou Figueroa
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