Russ Chewning said:
[...] Barry Emerson once came into City Lights in Tacoma and ran seven racks on someone on a side table for a small amount. [...]
I've got a funny Barry Emerson story. But to lead into it, here's a forward I wrote for a project I'm not spending enough time working on:
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Smack dab between the 1961 release of The Hustler and the 1986 release of The Color of Money, I was a suburban New York fifteen-year old spending nearly as much time playing pool as going to school. Though I was far from good at the game, I was sufficiently credible that I was a marginal member of a community, of a fraternal order of sorts. I understood a language foreign to my non-pool-playing friends. I interacted with people my non-pool-playing friends crossed the street to avoid. I listened to the depression-era stories of old guys with names like Bama (Alabama) and Fat Bob.
Then I boarded a life train headed far away from that community and neither got off nor looked back for two and a half decades, when--after my wife suggested we get a pool table for our basement--I walked into the poolhall in my new home town of Fargo, North Dakota. Within ten minutes I was in a small game of stake in which I promptly lost fifteen dollars. More significantly though, I’d done what people say can’t be done. I’d come home. Twenty-five years and fifteen hundred miles later, I’d reunited with an old friend. My old friend looked good—hadn’t changed much at all. That was nine years ago, and we’ve been catching up ever since.
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So here's the rest of the story. I walked into that nearly empty afternoon poolhall in late 1997 a 41-year-old C-level player who literally had not stepped into a pool hall in 25 years. I grabbed a house stick and a bar table and wondered--having no idea--how I might compare to a typical person who might be renting a table in Fargo, ND. After ten minutes, an energetic young fellow came up to me and said he was waiting for somebody and would I like to play a few games. I barely knew the rules to 9-ball (We played only straight pool when I was a kid. Even on a king-of-the-hill table, it was straight-pool to 15).
I suggested races to 4 for $5. He said how about races to 3 for $5. It must have been clear to him that this was lunch money at best, because he started running tables like a man possessed, grabbing the coin and saying "call it" before I had a chance to evaulate. I was amazed at the performance of this--as far as I knew--typical Fargo player. After three quick races to 3, I interupted his coin flip and said "I'm done."
He replied, extending his hand, "That's a funny name. I'm Barry."
After I refused his offer for a game on the wire, he told me he was waiting to play someone for $1000 (I think that was Rob Mattsen, but I'm not sure). He said, "I'm a gambler. That's what do."
I think he actually got stuck in Fargo for a few days after the police stopped him. He had traffic or drivers license issues from the state of WA that got their attention. He said he tried to explain to the police that he was just a gambler passing through. He even pulled his big bankroll out of his pocket to corroborate his story and reassure them. He's a pretty smooth talker, but somehow he had to wait for a Monday court time anyway.
