Agree with Randy, plus 61 isn't really old.
Quick story - 1980's, Nashville, bar box scene. Road players everywhere, always action. When the bars closed, there was one little crappy 24-hour diner in the seedy part of town, ghetto really, with 2 valley coin ops.
Mr B was an unassuming, kind, gentle black man in his 70's. When he walked, his pace was slow and deliberate, yet smooth. He shot standing STRAIGHT UP, because his back wouldn't allow him to bend.
This lil diner was HIS domain. Hookers, pimps and the occasional trucker would frequent the place at 3:00 am, but Mr B was alway on the pool side, patiently waiting. 2 bar boxes, 2 small diner tables and 6 or chairs. That was it.
He knew that some roadie, either down on his luck or jacked up from a night of winning, would walk through that door any minute now, wide eyed and looking for action.
In a non-threatening, friendly way he would kindly ask - wanna play some 8-ball for $20 a rack?
If you responded with "9-ball", or "rack of 9 and rack of 6", or any other variable, he'd politely decline. He played 8 ball. On THIS table. For ANY amount, but not under $20.
To the untrained eye, his cue was off the wall. No, not with an ivory ferrule. His stroke was so smooth, so effortless, I often wondered how the cue ball moved so far. His stroke was slo-mo, like time stopped.
Then you see it happen - he escaped your locked-up trap with a kick-bank-carom shot that you still wonder how he saw. He never looked. The table just talked to him.
Wait - another kick-carom, then later another 3-rail bank-carom. WTH is going on here, you might ask. Then again, he's out. Again. And again.
Just a typical night getting beat by Mr B.
It happened to everyone, including all the big names.
Mr B was a legend, and I'm blessed to have spend time with him.
RIP, you old Master.
-von