Hustle in Kansas City
About 30 years ago, give or take a year, I experienced a player you may only read about in a lifetime of pool playing. As I think of the great road hustlers we know the names of, such as Cornbread Red, I will always wonder who was that drunk man shooting with the bar stick with the missing tip.
While waiting for a friend singing in the band in the room next to the bar, I decide to shoot a few games on the lone table next to the bar. This was not one of my usual hangouts. This particular establishment, in the northwest part of Kansas City, happened to be a Country and Western club. I was more into rock those days. Since then I have converted and you may think of me as a slight redneck in musical preferences now.
He approached me and was insistent we play for a few bucks. Not a buck or a beer as was usual in those days to break the ice. At first I was hesitant. The old man wreaked of alcohol and had a difficult time walking and talking.
I prided myself on spotting tells. These can be tough to spot if the Hustler is one of the best. I had only been fooled twice before and was not looking for number three. In those days I rarely lost on a barbox playing eight ball when given the break. If the opponent broke, it was advisable for him to run the table. (I say he because I refused to play women for money after losing to Donna Ries when I was about 18. She spotted me 75 to 100 in 14.1 and I lost)
The game was on. The young shooter trying to hustle the old man at least twice my age. It was my nature to slow play for money and in this case did not wish to take advantage of the man if he truly was impaired enough to make bad financial decisions.
In the first game I noticed the missing tip, advised him to chose a more appropriate cue (also wondering at what point does he go get his own cue). He seemed oblivious to the fact that it made a difference and it turned out that in the next many games I cannot recall many if any miscues. For appearing polluted, he manged a proficient stroke using only the center ball hit. At this point I realized we were both hustling each other. Game On. The early games for $5 and then $10 I played well enough to win by a small margin. I noticed he was getting more serious so I also gradually progressed. By $20 a game I was wondering when he would show me some of his real game, so I stepped it up too much. I changed my strategy hoping to draw him out and proceeded to put on a clinic for the ever increasing crowd gathering to experience the caliber of play most had never seen. As the spectators looked on, I was in my element and was urged on by the oohs and aahs as I unleashed an arsenal of shots. I no longer trusted the old man. It was just a matter of time. He showed me a progression of competition, but I wanted his A game with any cue.
The old guy never chose to show me. Possibly I was the best. I think not. He was looking for a fish. I was looking for the fisherman. We played a couple games or more for $50. At this point he was through.
I expected to progress to more money. I never played there again. Never saw him again. We came together on the table one honkytonk night to remember. I would pay dearly to know his name.
About 30 years ago, give or take a year, I experienced a player you may only read about in a lifetime of pool playing. As I think of the great road hustlers we know the names of, such as Cornbread Red, I will always wonder who was that drunk man shooting with the bar stick with the missing tip.
While waiting for a friend singing in the band in the room next to the bar, I decide to shoot a few games on the lone table next to the bar. This was not one of my usual hangouts. This particular establishment, in the northwest part of Kansas City, happened to be a Country and Western club. I was more into rock those days. Since then I have converted and you may think of me as a slight redneck in musical preferences now.
He approached me and was insistent we play for a few bucks. Not a buck or a beer as was usual in those days to break the ice. At first I was hesitant. The old man wreaked of alcohol and had a difficult time walking and talking.
I prided myself on spotting tells. These can be tough to spot if the Hustler is one of the best. I had only been fooled twice before and was not looking for number three. In those days I rarely lost on a barbox playing eight ball when given the break. If the opponent broke, it was advisable for him to run the table. (I say he because I refused to play women for money after losing to Donna Ries when I was about 18. She spotted me 75 to 100 in 14.1 and I lost)
The game was on. The young shooter trying to hustle the old man at least twice my age. It was my nature to slow play for money and in this case did not wish to take advantage of the man if he truly was impaired enough to make bad financial decisions.
In the first game I noticed the missing tip, advised him to chose a more appropriate cue (also wondering at what point does he go get his own cue). He seemed oblivious to the fact that it made a difference and it turned out that in the next many games I cannot recall many if any miscues. For appearing polluted, he manged a proficient stroke using only the center ball hit. At this point I realized we were both hustling each other. Game On. The early games for $5 and then $10 I played well enough to win by a small margin. I noticed he was getting more serious so I also gradually progressed. By $20 a game I was wondering when he would show me some of his real game, so I stepped it up too much. I changed my strategy hoping to draw him out and proceeded to put on a clinic for the ever increasing crowd gathering to experience the caliber of play most had never seen. As the spectators looked on, I was in my element and was urged on by the oohs and aahs as I unleashed an arsenal of shots. I no longer trusted the old man. It was just a matter of time. He showed me a progression of competition, but I wanted his A game with any cue.
The old guy never chose to show me. Possibly I was the best. I think not. He was looking for a fish. I was looking for the fisherman. We played a couple games or more for $50. At this point he was through.
I expected to progress to more money. I never played there again. Never saw him again. We came together on the table one honkytonk night to remember. I would pay dearly to know his name.
