ah man, now you guys got me all nostalgic with these old trip reports. So here's mine from the same event:
(insert flashback music)
Well, I be back from the NYC and have finally caught up on my sleep time, so I thought I'd share some random thoughts about the Open. Since others, notably Gideon, have done an excellent job recapping the games, I'll just give you the Andy Rooney coverage.
I flew into NY courtesy of a wonderful TWA counter agent named Bonnie. When I arrived at Lambert International I found my 11 am flight had been cancelled. All other TWA flights were full, so she quite literally ran over to the Delta counter and got me a seat via Cincinnati that arrived early enough that I didn't have to eat my $70 Friday evening ticket.
For those of you that have never flown into JFK, it’s akin to touching down during the Fall of Saigon. Total madness.
I called a Super Shuttle, a "Fodor's recommendation," and was told it'd be a 30 minute wait. So I go outside to the cab line. 30 people in line and no cabs.
Then I see a bus claiming "All NY Hotels $13." I climb aboard and we zoomed into rush hour traffic. The fifteen-mile ride took an hour with the most interesting sight on the way in being the cemeteries — huge, really big cemeteries that stretch far away into the distance. (It really kind puts the start of your trip into perspective.) After transferring to another shuttle, I found my hotel, two blocks from the tournament. A king-size bed, but the space between it and the walls would have required the shorty cue.
The Roseland Ballroom is tucked away on 52nd West, just off Broadway, a few
blocks from Times Square. It's a room that obviously seen better days, but the tournament promoters have created a small island of pool perfection on a thick, bright red carpet on which they’ve set six gold crowns covered in Simonis 860. Highly polished Centennials floated on the tables. Special bleachers, reputedly flown in from England, courtesy of Barry Hearns, fence in three sides of the arena, while the fourth side has a tall riser hidden by black curtains atop which are the Accu-Stats cameras, booth, and assorted officials and players.
I watch Dallas West play Ginky. Ginky looks like he's put on some weight. In any case he plays poorly and Dallas wins one for the old timers, 150-101. I also watch Rempe smoothly take out Engert, 150-103. Bob Jewett walks by but doesn't recognize me. In his defense, the last time we saw each other was at an ACUI tournament more than 25 years ago. He looks much older now. Bob walks with this mad scientist look on his face and a thin Samsonite brief case that appears welded to his right hand. (What kind of a guy brings a briefcase to a pool tournament?!) No other RSBers in sight. By the time I get out of the tournament it's 1am.
Even in the "city that doesn't sleep" finding substanance at that hour is tough. I figure Times Square is my best bet so I walk the few blocks there and find out that besides the giant billboards, lights, and jumbotrons, Times Square is mainly populated at that hour by local gentlemen who have parked their cars, vans, or other preferred mode of private transportation curbside. All of these vehicles have had "substantial" modifications made to their sound systems. I am not quite sure whether the idea is music appreciation, music sampling with and eye towards selling CDs, or attracting females. Maybe all of the above. So it was McDonalds and off to bed.
Saturday morning it was a croissant and cappuccino at the corner deli. I feel like a New Yorker shouting out my order to the counter man. Back at Roseland I am again drawn to match involving Dallas West, this time against the young gun, John Schmidt. Schmidt shoots fast, smooth, and accurate. He's young and good looking and is nattily dressed. I hate him. But though he gets at least three golden opportunities, Schmidt can't close and old age and cunning again triumph over youth and idealism, 150-148.
Robles gets hot and in total dead punch and puts Archer in a comma with a 148, missing a long straight in that he should have made. I think he was already thinking about the applause for the 152 and out. He wins anyway, 150-24.
Walter has a chance to beat The Magician. He's on a 140 with a perfect break ball on the two and over cuts it. On the women's side, I've fallen in love with the Swede with the wild red hair, Ulrika Andersson. I've decided that if called upon, I will allow her to take me back to her room and do what she will with me. Gerda is also very cute, as is Aileen Pippin. But frankly, their play is, at best, a decaf version of 14.1. I'm all for equal opportunity, but the matching prize fund for this level of play...
At a break I'm determined to eat a real meal and traipse over to Ruby Foo's for some delicious lobster and shrimp spring rolls an some pork and shitake mushroom shu mai.
Back at the tournament, Reyes keeps West in the chair with 140. During an
intentional safety battle against the side of the stack Reyes touches the cue
ball with his ferrule and West calls a deliberate foul. The rule books are brought out and West is found to be correct. Reyes must break all 15 and looks pissed. He wins anyway.
Watching Dick Lane shoot, I conclude there is not a one of us that should ever complain about anything playing pool. The man’s grip arm has the serious shakes and he must take his warm up strokes by rolling his cue tip in a circle from the bottom of the cue ball up to the top and back down again over and over. After a few of these — when I suppose he finally passes over the spot on the cue ball he wants to hit — he quickly pulls the trigger.
I spot Fred Agnir, whom I met at the Derby tournament. I stroll over and whisper "Computer geeks must die." With him are Jimbo (think a just slightly shorter Goldberg who doesn't train quite as hard); Jeff Weiss, a quiet fellow who always seems to have a somewhat worried look on his face, but is very quick with the witty comment; and Gideon. Gideon doesn't say much, but when he does he makes it count.
Me: "What do you think Bob has in the briefcase?”
Gideon: "The master copy of the Jacksonville Project.”
At some point several of us break for dinner at a steak house across the street. We are joined by Mark Griffin and his wife, Sue, of Anchorage Billiards. We enjoy general pool camaraderie, hand-cut, aged steaks, and $5 baked potatoes. With more good grace than we deserve Mark and Sue pick up the tab.
Back at the tournament for the finals we generally cut up, gossip about all of you and occasionally watch the last
match of the night. Fortunately, we're not tossed out on our collective ears. Wei stops by to say hello. I've just missed Tom Simpson. Afterwards we head to Chelsea's to shoot some but lose Jeff along the way. They get carded, I get waived in :-(
Chelsea's is a two-story affair with very, very loud music. We go to the lower level. Conversation is all but impossible. The lighting is terrible, with two industrial style lamps over each table. The ends of the table are total darkness. Saturday night in NY, $25 an hour table time. So Fred, Jimbo, Gideon and I play some nine ball. I've forgotten how to shoot balls in rotation. But, all hands are
more than happy to demonstrate how it's done.
I get to bed around 3 am and am back at JFK for far too early a return flight to St. Louis.
Lou Figueroa
