A couple of weeks ago I'm in action with a very strong player who is a big, burly, very p-r-i-c-k-ly fellow with a history of, well, let's just call it unpredictability.
We're playing a set of 9b and he's giving me a generous spot racing to 7 for a c-note. I win 7-1 and he's extremely unhappy about it and shows it by banging his head hard on the slate a few times and grumbling. He throws my hundo up on a nearby shelf and starts to collect his gear. :angry:
The group of railbirds who were watching our match were all alarmed and quiet as church mice after this display; he was seriously pissed off. As usual, I like to try to inject humor into these kinds of situations and so I cut through the quiet by asking, "You wanna go again?" :grin-square: The railbirds all began laughing and to my astonishment he said "Sure Chicken, I'll torture myself some more", and so we began set #2.
He's starting to outrun the spot and goes up 4-3 but then he doesn't come back to the table the next 3 games and I'm on the hill. There is a wired 8-9 about 6" off the foot rail and I set up 2 times to bank at this dead combo both times missing it by a frog hair
BUT on the first miss the object ball goes around it 3 rails and into the side pocket. Then on the second attempt the object ball whistles right past it at 100 mph and goes in cross corner. In my peripheral vision I'm seeing steam come out his ears and he's starting to grumble more and squirm in his seat. :angry: My next shot I'm off angle too far to hold for a cross-side bank so I decide to try to kick it in, it was off the rail enough to get behind it and it looked good to me. I freakin miscue but still make the shot - it sounded horrible but the ball tracked dead center into the cross side. Holy shit, I think if I was him I would wanted to kill me, too.
:angry: :yikes: :bash:
I finish off the last couple balls and in utter disgust he walks away toward a far wall and begins whacking himself in the forehead and making this crazy noise I remember from old-cartoons when depicting a crazy person; sounds something like ayeyiyiyi. He starts getting his gear together again and no way am I asking this time if he wants to go one more time. He heads for the bathroom and then comes back and says "fvck you Chicken, I hate you' as he flings my c-note, all shredded in little pieces onto the table, and then leaves.
I know what I did.
WWYD?
best,
brian kc
