I'm gonna go ice the pulled muscle I got in my arm for patting myself on the back for what I now know to be a piddlin' 193.
Nothing piddling about a 193! Most, including me, have never ran nearly that many. My focus was on extracting as much cash as possible. The ratty old hall Jesse owned, Shoppers Pool Hall, was my safe haven. I practiced there, never gambled for more than a beer. My record I was working to improve was six balls, banks, during regulation play on a snooker table. Most things have been lost to memory. I can't remember first nice score, my first tournament win, how many racks strung at each game. During my best years I let pool become a job. Asking what I did is a lot like asking what I did on a job a few decades ago. I don't remember.
The names of the places I stumbled on while on the road, the names of people I played, I don't remember. They weren't important at the time. The places I might remember where they were at if there was good action there. People lying about their name was so common that I normally forgot their names by the time I walked out the door. Today I wonder. I won many a pool cue after busting people, dozens. Some were supposed to be valuable cues but I played off the wall, part of my schtick, so today I wonder what some of those sticks might have been. I usually gave them away or sold them for a few bucks. I remember one guy screaming like a wounded virgin when I had already sold the cue when he came to get it back the next night. He didn't ask me to hold it, I didn't.
I tried to avoid playing by the set. Playing by the game lets you control the flow so much better. Air barrels for a game were a lot less painful than losing getting paid for a set too. The closest action was in East Baton Rouge Parish. I learned fast that posting was illegal there and if playing for more than pocket change, foolish. Somebody who had a buddy that was a cop would dime you out if there was more than a hundred or so on the light. A quick call, the money confiscated and a quick split, nothing you could do since you had been involved in an illegal activity.
Main thing, playing by the game the other player was often one shot away from winning, hard to quit. Easier to slip twenty a game out of someone's pocket than a hundred for a race to five. When people got down playing sets they would often quit you if they got even. One reason for letting people up the bet, so they never got back to even. A little ahead or behind they would keep playing. There was a psychological thing about getting back to zero after being in the hole that made it a good time to quit. I learned never to let someone get back to even, a little ahead or behind was much better! Playing by the game you could let the other person win some, sets were usually one and done. Had to win the first since in the real world most people gladly quit winner if it had been a hard fight. Had to win the second set to avoid letting the person get even and it was rare somebody two sets down went for three in routine play. Somebody that would hang in for hours playing sets was usually a road player or full time gambler. Talking things you already know but I'm sure many readers don't. There is a rhythm to the gambling dance and it took a few years to learn it.
The small time hustlers would keep stalling while raising the bet. It was funny. I was stalling too but with them letting me win I was building a small pile of their money. In the bars in the sixties or seventies the time to make a move was usually twenty a game, sometimes fifty if I was waving around a fairly thick roll. There would be a slight change in their posture or movements and it was obvious that they had came off the stall. I did too, and the game was on! The funny part, I was playing on their money every inch of the way. I often made a week or so pay without risking a cent of my money other than the first game. I loved to compete with the road players but the local wannabe hustlers were easy money in the bank. I liked to hit balls so I was a grinder by nature.
Jay, dirt tracking is when things get deep! I was spun out in the fourth turn. Could have caught it but first place would have been more like fifth or I might get hung on the steel wall and not cash at all. Instead, I romped on the throttle, steered to tighten the spin instead of come out of it, and finished in first place while spinning a few hundred feet! Anudder time I flew through the air far enough to stand the car on it's nose and the damned thing stood there! The announcer said I had flipped, people came running, finally it fell greasy side down! I finished the race.
You can get out the hip boots anytime I start a story "Me and Bobby". He could get in crap just walking to his mailbox a hundred feet from his house. Anything that included Bobby was an adventure. I saw him run eight racks dead cold. Took him on the road two days later. I don't think I ever saw him string more than two racks again, lifetime! I guess he had incentive when he ran eight racks. We had been pulling wrenches under an eighteen wheeler all day and we were playing partners for a beer each. I had gotten up twice when I had thirteen beers in front of me and hadn't ran a rack.
Hu
