9BallPaul
Banned
Been planning this trip for months now, and am very excited to hit the road. Am holed up tonight in a Best Western in Waukeegen, Kan., and planning to hit the bar tables at a joint up the street.
Got things rolling last night with a friendly game of 9-ball with a guy in a local bar in Golden, Colo. Ran the table twice from the break and he quit me after a $20 score. So that paid for our drinks and dinner, which was all I was looking for.
That's a far cry from the old days when I was a kid and playing at Cochran's in the Tenderloin of San Francisco. What a trip, all by thumb. I'd done very well in Salt Lake, Boise and Portland, but a guy named Paul Silva robbed me playing 9-ball at The Palace, a huge room just across Market Street from Cochran's.
The players in those days were awesome to my 18-year-old eyes. Denny Searcy, I remember well, and many others whose names I never knew. Because I was broke, I kept getting hit on by queers and that pissed me off continuously. Especially those who picked me up hitchhiing and figured I owed them something.
Anyways, I ran into Bill Stroud who was locked in a 9-ball match with some player I didn't know. I'd known Bill from Aspen in 1966 when I moved there to ski, and he was living in town. Later we'd see each other at the Family Fun Center in Denver, where I watched him lose a wad to the "Knoxville Bear" Eddie Taylor on the old billiards table that is now long gone.
It was obvious to Billy that I was busted, so he gave me an excellent steer on a player looking for action, and I made enough to get out of town and back to Denver.
Not to make this my damn life story, but I pretty much quit pool after that and only played in bars after selling my soul to a corporation, where I became a monster. Enough said on that.
In retirement, I've regained my sanity, if not my health. Skiing is in my past, I hit the big 6-oh last year, and pool is one sport that I figure I can play until I croak.
I'll arrive at the casino Tuesday afternoon and will be spending three nights there while Becky and the mutts visit her family in northern Indiana. Good God, three days in a casino with a wad of traveler's checks in my pocket, and licking my chops to hit the action room. I can hear the divorce lawyers sharpening their swords.
I'll let you know how it goes, and you're all invited to tag along. Cheerio.
Got things rolling last night with a friendly game of 9-ball with a guy in a local bar in Golden, Colo. Ran the table twice from the break and he quit me after a $20 score. So that paid for our drinks and dinner, which was all I was looking for.
That's a far cry from the old days when I was a kid and playing at Cochran's in the Tenderloin of San Francisco. What a trip, all by thumb. I'd done very well in Salt Lake, Boise and Portland, but a guy named Paul Silva robbed me playing 9-ball at The Palace, a huge room just across Market Street from Cochran's.
The players in those days were awesome to my 18-year-old eyes. Denny Searcy, I remember well, and many others whose names I never knew. Because I was broke, I kept getting hit on by queers and that pissed me off continuously. Especially those who picked me up hitchhiing and figured I owed them something.
Anyways, I ran into Bill Stroud who was locked in a 9-ball match with some player I didn't know. I'd known Bill from Aspen in 1966 when I moved there to ski, and he was living in town. Later we'd see each other at the Family Fun Center in Denver, where I watched him lose a wad to the "Knoxville Bear" Eddie Taylor on the old billiards table that is now long gone.
It was obvious to Billy that I was busted, so he gave me an excellent steer on a player looking for action, and I made enough to get out of town and back to Denver.
Not to make this my damn life story, but I pretty much quit pool after that and only played in bars after selling my soul to a corporation, where I became a monster. Enough said on that.
In retirement, I've regained my sanity, if not my health. Skiing is in my past, I hit the big 6-oh last year, and pool is one sport that I figure I can play until I croak.
I'll arrive at the casino Tuesday afternoon and will be spending three nights there while Becky and the mutts visit her family in northern Indiana. Good God, three days in a casino with a wad of traveler's checks in my pocket, and licking my chops to hit the action room. I can hear the divorce lawyers sharpening their swords.
I'll let you know how it goes, and you're all invited to tag along. Cheerio.
