Buddy had seen people lose their temper, cuss, and kick the table. But nothing that he had ever imagined, could have prepared him for what was in store at Mountain's Billiards in NC.
Buddy and Red Palmer entered the pool room in mid afternoon. Mountain had a nice room but almost everything in it was old. Old machines and old cash register, and ten old pool tables. A showcase behind the counter displayed an expensive line of new custom sticks and cases. The only outside light came through a large plate glass window. It faced the main street of town, at the front of the room.
Buddy went to the cigarette machine to buy a pack of smokes, and noticed the machine was caved in toward the middle. He asked a customer, "What happened to this machine? Does it work?"
Buddy bought the cigarettes, ambled around the room, looked at photographs on the walls, and joined red back at the counter. Buddy and Red were speculating about the dented up cigarette machine When Mr mountain arrived himself.
Judging by the nickname, Buddy expected a huge mountain of a man, But Mountain was about 5'9" and couldnt have weighed mroe that 130 pounds. He was very pleasant and hospitable soul. Hel welcomed them with coffee and donuts, on the house. Buddy and Mountain matched up to play 9 ball for 5 a game. TO start with. Mountain picked the table, and removed and expensive looking cue stick from the showcase. The first half hour, or so, passed without incident. Both players were winning an even share of games. Mountain made some great shots. He had to, because he couldn't control the cue ball very well. Then, he missed an easy shot, and the snowball that turns in an avalanche appeared.
After that miss, Mountain held the tip of his cue in front of his nose, and began talking ot the cue stick. He spoke with sincerity, as though he was trying to reason with a friend who had disappointed him, "NOW, I DO UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS TOUGH" he told the stick "I know that. But you just cant do me that way. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" After a brief pause, Mountain continued, "OK! I'm glad we understand each other. Don't let me down, or you wont like it." Then, he went to the end of the table, and racked the balls for the next game.
Buddy sipped his coffee, and looked at Red. Buddy's expression was asking, How about that?
Red leaned over and whispered, "Do ya reckon this fellow might be a bubble or two off level?"
Buddy summoned all of his energy to focus on the game. The anticipation of waiting for something else to happen was almost too much to bare. He didn't have to endure the suspense very long. A few racks later, Mountain drove another easy shot straight into the goodyear.
Mountain grabbed the shaft of his cue stick in both hands. He looked like a werewolf strangling an innocent victim. His face and ears turned beet red, as he informed the stick exactly how it was. "NOW LISTEN!" he exclaimed, slapping the tip of the cue with backhanded swat. Then, he inquired, "Are you LISTENING?! OK Now, that I've got your attention. That's about enough out of YOU! I cant't let you get by with things like that. ENOUGH is ENOUGH! One more time like that, and it's all over for you." Loosening his strangle hold, Mountain went back to the table, and racked the balls for the next game.
Buddy fought to keep from laughing aloud, and he fought harder to keep foucus on the game. It wasn't getting any easier. Then, the inevitable happened in the very next rack. Mountain missed the 9 ball. Like labor pains, Mountain's mistakes were coming closer and closer together, and a FRANKENSTEIN was about to be born.
Mountain stroked the shot, and before the balls made contact, he knew that he had missed . He leaped into the air, as though someone had goosed him from behind, screaming, "That's it! You're FIREWOOD!" Leaning the cue stick against a chair, Mountain went airborne again. Both feet came down squarely on the joint of the cue, and in Mountain's mind, the cue had been warned, it was justifiable homicide.
He picked up the pieces, threw them in the trash, and went to the showcase behind the counter. He selected another cue stick, identical to the one he had just destroyed. He tapped the tip, chalked it up, and returened to the table as though nothing had happened.
As the match continued, Buddy's firepower became too much much for Mountain, Buddy was getting stronger and stronger, while Mountain was getting weaker by the game. Before long, Mountain ran another rack of balls up to the 9 ball, and missed another case ball.
The new cue didn't get any preliminary warnings. As Buddy tapped in the hanger, Mountain hurled his cue stick across the room. He had the form of an Olympic javelin thrower. The stick penetrated the platerboard wall about two feet, and hung there vibrating like a tuning fork.
Then, he turned towards the cigarette machine, lowered his head, and began to SNORT. Raking his feet across the floor, his snorts grew louder and louder. Then, charging the machine like a bull attacking a matador's cape, he ran full speed and dove head first, into the machine. His body was horizontal, a good two feet off the floor, when his head made contact. The machine moved backward about a foot.
Mountain rose to his feet as though he was getting up after a good nights rest, and nothing unusual had happened. Showing no signs of pain or injury, he serenely strolled over to the wall, withdrew the cue, cleaned it with #600 sandpaper, and returned to the front line of battle.
It was amazing! Mountain racked the balls, and with a calm tone, he said, "Break em." Buddy stood with his mouth open, dumbfounded, looking at Red; both were speechless. What can anyone do, or say, after witnessing such a spectacle? Buddy took a deep breath, focused his attention on the game, and broke the balls. He was learning to care of business, regardless of conditions, and the was a true test.
For a good while after that, it seemed that Mountain had let off all the steam he needed to. Whenever he missed a shot, he only grunted and clenched his fist tightly, Although his knuckles were turning white, he was containing his outbursts. He would walk to the end of the table, and wait patiently for Buddy to run the remaining balls. All the fight was being shot out of his heart, and he was being demoted from a pool player, to a frustrated rack man.
The match lasted until dawn. The bets had had been raised a couple of times Buddy and Red had won close to $1000. His frustration reached its peak, when Buddy made him pay the penalty for missing another shot.
The normal mode of surrender is to unscrew your cue stick, and shake hands. Mountain did neither. Instead, he threw both hands in the air, as though he was being robbed by Jesse James, and cried with anguish, " I DON'T NEED ANY MONEY! I DON'T DESERVE ANY MONEY! I DON'T WANT ANY MONEY!" Pulling the cash register off the counter, and with a karate type yell mixed with a grunt, " EEeee..YuuMmPPpHhhh,!" he threw it through the plate glass window into the street.
This man had to have the hardest head of any living human being. A customer told Red of the time, when a big tush hog bully of a man heard about the pool room that not only had a hard head, he was proud of it. The tough guy thought he had the nuts, and he came to Rocky Mount to butt heads for money with Mountain. The tush hog outweighed Mountain two to one at least, and wanted to butt heads for 100. Mountain made a counter offer saying, " For $500, I'll spot you a football helmet."
It was an offer the tush hog couldn't refuse. Thinking that he couldn't lose, he wasted no time raising the other $400. Who can imagine the surprise of the bully, when he regained consciousness in the hospital. He had a cracked skull and brain concussion. It was six weeks before he was discharged. Mountain kept the helmet as a trophy, and offered the proposition to anyone who wanted it. If they accepted, they had to be responsible for their medical expenses. Butting heads was one game that Mountain played world class, and no one ever asked for a rematch.
Buddy and Red Palmer entered the pool room in mid afternoon. Mountain had a nice room but almost everything in it was old. Old machines and old cash register, and ten old pool tables. A showcase behind the counter displayed an expensive line of new custom sticks and cases. The only outside light came through a large plate glass window. It faced the main street of town, at the front of the room.
Buddy went to the cigarette machine to buy a pack of smokes, and noticed the machine was caved in toward the middle. He asked a customer, "What happened to this machine? Does it work?"
Buddy bought the cigarettes, ambled around the room, looked at photographs on the walls, and joined red back at the counter. Buddy and Red were speculating about the dented up cigarette machine When Mr mountain arrived himself.
Judging by the nickname, Buddy expected a huge mountain of a man, But Mountain was about 5'9" and couldnt have weighed mroe that 130 pounds. He was very pleasant and hospitable soul. Hel welcomed them with coffee and donuts, on the house. Buddy and Mountain matched up to play 9 ball for 5 a game. TO start with. Mountain picked the table, and removed and expensive looking cue stick from the showcase. The first half hour, or so, passed without incident. Both players were winning an even share of games. Mountain made some great shots. He had to, because he couldn't control the cue ball very well. Then, he missed an easy shot, and the snowball that turns in an avalanche appeared.
After that miss, Mountain held the tip of his cue in front of his nose, and began talking ot the cue stick. He spoke with sincerity, as though he was trying to reason with a friend who had disappointed him, "NOW, I DO UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS TOUGH" he told the stick "I know that. But you just cant do me that way. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" After a brief pause, Mountain continued, "OK! I'm glad we understand each other. Don't let me down, or you wont like it." Then, he went to the end of the table, and racked the balls for the next game.
Buddy sipped his coffee, and looked at Red. Buddy's expression was asking, How about that?
Red leaned over and whispered, "Do ya reckon this fellow might be a bubble or two off level?"
Buddy summoned all of his energy to focus on the game. The anticipation of waiting for something else to happen was almost too much to bare. He didn't have to endure the suspense very long. A few racks later, Mountain drove another easy shot straight into the goodyear.
Mountain grabbed the shaft of his cue stick in both hands. He looked like a werewolf strangling an innocent victim. His face and ears turned beet red, as he informed the stick exactly how it was. "NOW LISTEN!" he exclaimed, slapping the tip of the cue with backhanded swat. Then, he inquired, "Are you LISTENING?! OK Now, that I've got your attention. That's about enough out of YOU! I cant't let you get by with things like that. ENOUGH is ENOUGH! One more time like that, and it's all over for you." Loosening his strangle hold, Mountain went back to the table, and racked the balls for the next game.
Buddy fought to keep from laughing aloud, and he fought harder to keep foucus on the game. It wasn't getting any easier. Then, the inevitable happened in the very next rack. Mountain missed the 9 ball. Like labor pains, Mountain's mistakes were coming closer and closer together, and a FRANKENSTEIN was about to be born.
Mountain stroked the shot, and before the balls made contact, he knew that he had missed . He leaped into the air, as though someone had goosed him from behind, screaming, "That's it! You're FIREWOOD!" Leaning the cue stick against a chair, Mountain went airborne again. Both feet came down squarely on the joint of the cue, and in Mountain's mind, the cue had been warned, it was justifiable homicide.
He picked up the pieces, threw them in the trash, and went to the showcase behind the counter. He selected another cue stick, identical to the one he had just destroyed. He tapped the tip, chalked it up, and returened to the table as though nothing had happened.
As the match continued, Buddy's firepower became too much much for Mountain, Buddy was getting stronger and stronger, while Mountain was getting weaker by the game. Before long, Mountain ran another rack of balls up to the 9 ball, and missed another case ball.
The new cue didn't get any preliminary warnings. As Buddy tapped in the hanger, Mountain hurled his cue stick across the room. He had the form of an Olympic javelin thrower. The stick penetrated the platerboard wall about two feet, and hung there vibrating like a tuning fork.
Then, he turned towards the cigarette machine, lowered his head, and began to SNORT. Raking his feet across the floor, his snorts grew louder and louder. Then, charging the machine like a bull attacking a matador's cape, he ran full speed and dove head first, into the machine. His body was horizontal, a good two feet off the floor, when his head made contact. The machine moved backward about a foot.
Mountain rose to his feet as though he was getting up after a good nights rest, and nothing unusual had happened. Showing no signs of pain or injury, he serenely strolled over to the wall, withdrew the cue, cleaned it with #600 sandpaper, and returned to the front line of battle.
It was amazing! Mountain racked the balls, and with a calm tone, he said, "Break em." Buddy stood with his mouth open, dumbfounded, looking at Red; both were speechless. What can anyone do, or say, after witnessing such a spectacle? Buddy took a deep breath, focused his attention on the game, and broke the balls. He was learning to care of business, regardless of conditions, and the was a true test.
For a good while after that, it seemed that Mountain had let off all the steam he needed to. Whenever he missed a shot, he only grunted and clenched his fist tightly, Although his knuckles were turning white, he was containing his outbursts. He would walk to the end of the table, and wait patiently for Buddy to run the remaining balls. All the fight was being shot out of his heart, and he was being demoted from a pool player, to a frustrated rack man.
The match lasted until dawn. The bets had had been raised a couple of times Buddy and Red had won close to $1000. His frustration reached its peak, when Buddy made him pay the penalty for missing another shot.
The normal mode of surrender is to unscrew your cue stick, and shake hands. Mountain did neither. Instead, he threw both hands in the air, as though he was being robbed by Jesse James, and cried with anguish, " I DON'T NEED ANY MONEY! I DON'T DESERVE ANY MONEY! I DON'T WANT ANY MONEY!" Pulling the cash register off the counter, and with a karate type yell mixed with a grunt, " EEeee..YuuMmPPpHhhh,!" he threw it through the plate glass window into the street.
This man had to have the hardest head of any living human being. A customer told Red of the time, when a big tush hog bully of a man heard about the pool room that not only had a hard head, he was proud of it. The tough guy thought he had the nuts, and he came to Rocky Mount to butt heads for money with Mountain. The tush hog outweighed Mountain two to one at least, and wanted to butt heads for 100. Mountain made a counter offer saying, " For $500, I'll spot you a football helmet."
It was an offer the tush hog couldn't refuse. Thinking that he couldn't lose, he wasted no time raising the other $400. Who can imagine the surprise of the bully, when he regained consciousness in the hospital. He had a cracked skull and brain concussion. It was six weeks before he was discharged. Mountain kept the helmet as a trophy, and offered the proposition to anyone who wanted it. If they accepted, they had to be responsible for their medical expenses. Butting heads was one game that Mountain played world class, and no one ever asked for a rematch.
I miss my copy of Rags to Rifleman. I must have read it 10x.
