What a ball.
The DCC has something for everyone — player, rail bird, cue connoisseur, action junkie.
I awoke Sunday morning, showered, threw bag and case into the car, hit the Starbucks for a cappuccino and egg sandwich and hit the road for a pleasant four hour drive to the thriving metropolis of New Albany, continuing a few miles past along the banks of Ohio River to Harrah’s and check in.
Of course by midday the tournament is in full swing. I check in with the tournament office where Julie and crew handout player badges, lanyards, spectator wrist bands, event t-shirts and answer questions on all things Diamond and DCC. Julie tells me there are 298 in the 1pocket and 350 in the banks. I do my usual pass around the facilities, inspect the cues, gimcracks, and assorted apparel. This year there appeared to me to be fewer vendors and only one cue mechanic in attendance.
Eventually I hook up with kollegedave and I make numerous introductions to the various dignitaries in attendance such as Billy Incardona.
I see tons of folks from the groups and we all chat: Stu, Duke, Joe, Dennis, Elvi, Steve, Bernie, John, JP, Colonel Billie, Freddy, Jay, Rob, Mkbtank, Bruce, Ozzy from CSI, and many, many others whose names where lost in the great brain cell kill-off the next two nights. I also see Mark Wilson, whom I compliment on the publication of his extraordinary book and his nomination as MC captain and we talk for a while
There is an unusually large contingent from St. Louis present: Terry, Coop, Steve, Miller, Brendan, Vernon, Danny, Johnny, Julia, Jacob, and Dale, who has brought his two sons. When I talk to Dale he tells me his eldest, Drake, who is still in high school, has gone seven rounds deep in the banks, beating several notable players to include Earl. At the conclusion of that match Earl grabs the opportunity to make a memorable impression on this up and coming young player and mutters his usual cordials, commenting on Drake’s “luck” and how he hates the way kids dress nowadays. When Drake relates this to his father Dale cheerfully says to him, “Ah! You caught Earl on a good day!”
Eventually the draw for the 1pocket is accomplished and I find that, for the third time in one of these events, I have drawn John Brumback. I see John that afternoon and we joke about our repeated pairings and I offer to buy him a few Jack and Cokes before our match and he says “Fine. As long as we both do them.” I decline.
That afternoon I sweat a variety of matches, including one in particular that I invite several knowledgeable 1pocket players to witness. We all end up pretty amused, somewhat incredulous, and I receive numerous offers for any financial support I may want or would be generous enough to take.
Dinner is at Binion’s, the steak house. kollegedave, a meat man through and through, orders a steak that did not leave much cow behind (24 ounces) and is red enough that it appears a bandage and a little loving care could nurse back to health. It may have moved on his plate a few times on its own.
11pm finally arrives and Mr. Brumback and I lag. I win the lag. The first game I am up 6-1, bank a ball towards my hole and leave John at the other end of the table. There is a dead combination aimed at my hole, but also a carom that might go to his. I have attempted to leave him an angle that prohibits access to the carom, much less shooting the carom and gaining position. John fires at warp speed, makes a ball in both pockets, lands perfect for a baby shot on the end rail and proceeds to run out.
The second game we go down to the last three balls: he needs one, I need all three. I make a straight in; finesse a very narrow bank; and leave myself the six ball which is frozen on his side rail about two diamonds from his pocket with the cue ball at a steep angle for a cut back bank and I am totally lost. I am playing a match on Diamond for the first time since July of last year and I have zero clue as to what speed and spin to use. So I make my best guess, miss by half a diamond and leave a duck.
The last game I miss a nine ball on which I must play difficult position. I mis-judge and am stuck 5-0 when John sets up for a cross corner bank. Of course he nails it and then has two balls near his side pocket and the CB a couple of diamonds down from his pocket. IOWs, two straight backs. And here is the cool thing: John has this way of staring at a bank before he gets into shooting position and you look at his eyes and can see him dialing in the exact speed, spin, and angle. When he gets down on the bank you know he’s already made it before his bridge hand hits the cloth. Lou loses 3-0.
And then the debauchery starts.
Miller buys me a beer and shortly thereafter I am hailed to the bar. Miller, Brendan and I begin drinking more beers. In short order we are joined by Colonel Billie, John Brumback, and an attractive young lady whose identity I will protect. At some point we have all decided that we have sufficiently seasoned our internal organs and upgrade to hard liquor. Rounds are bought and then additional rounds are bought and consumed with gay abandon. Somewhere around 4am someone floats the concept of grabbing a cab into Louisville to continue the carousing and find "a titty bar.” I demure. My defense is that as much as I enjoy looking at nekked women I have already been up for close to 24 hours and am out of training for this amount of “hydration.” I am called a wuss by all present and bid the group adieu. Blessedly, I have been assigned a quiet room and I blissfully pass out on my king sized bed.
Monday morning arrives and with great effort, I pry open my two peepers. I garner a double cappuccino and stumble down to the tournament room. Almost immediately John Brumback comes up to me. John looks like eight miles of bad road this morning but I can tell he has something urgent he wants to tell me. “Lou, someone told me that someone posted on AZ that I said you played bad our match. I never said. I would never say that. I respect your game and I admire your discipline at the table.” I tell John that I was standing right there when the conversation with that individual took place and tell him, “John, I was standing right there and I know you didn’t say anything like that. But even if I hadn’t been standing there I know you’d never say that.” John smiles and says, “Thanks, Lou.”
At 6pm I am to play Evan Lunda, Jr., a young man who I believe is from the Detroit area, though I could be wrong about that. I’m sitting on a stool in the corner while he warms up and I see John Schmidt standing a table length away. As regular readers might recall, John and I had exchanged pleasantries in Las Vegas the year before. So I was a little apprehensive as he walks up to me. I stood.
And John says, “I want to apologize for Vegas. You didn’t deserve that. I was told by someone that you said something about me and when I told them that I had confronted you I could tell they started to back peddle. And I got upset and told them that you and I had almost had a fight over it.” I tell him, “John I accept your apology and I want to apologize also, I was no class act either. I have always admired you and your game. You’re a champion.” And, although we didn’t exactly kiss and hug, another handshake was exchanged and I believe John and I are good.
So now it is time for me to play Evan and I win another lag.
I just want to say that Evan might just have *the* best touch of any player I have ever played or seen. He made everything from everywhere with a soft, gentle, precise stroke. After he won the first game, every time I came to the table I had to ponder long and hard on where on the table I could possibly put him and not give up a shot that he’d casually walk up to, shoot and make. I lose the second game but am able to triumph in the third. The fourth game I have a chance to win the game and go hill-hill, but slightly over cut a long distance cut shot on a ball peeking out from behind the stack. Game over, Lou loses 3-1.
It does not take long for the debauchery to resume. Terry, owner of The Break, my home room, graciously takes kollegedave and I to dinner at Binion’s. We then adjourn to the bar, and are joined by Miller. The company and conversation are funny, raucous and hugely entertaining as we needle each other, talk about all things pool, and murder countless brain cells where they sit. We call it a wrap late at night and as I’m walking by the tournament room on the way back to my room I decide, whaddahey, I’ll use up the $10 of tokens I’m carrying around and hit some balls. In between strokes I watch the next table where a tall pony-tailed brunette from Colorado dismantles a young lad playing a 9ball money match. Near the end of my hour of play my Ginacue (the five-point travel one) makes a very horrible sound and I run my thumb up against my tip and it easily pops off. Well, at least it made it through the Derby, 2014.
Tuesday morning I use my phone’s Starbucks ap to find the nearest Starbucks on my way out of New Albany and get a triple cappuccino with an extra shot and make it home to St. Louis without falling asleep.
If you haven’t been to the DCC you gotta go. There’s something for everyone... Might even be a little booze left
Lou Figueroa
The DCC has something for everyone — player, rail bird, cue connoisseur, action junkie.
I awoke Sunday morning, showered, threw bag and case into the car, hit the Starbucks for a cappuccino and egg sandwich and hit the road for a pleasant four hour drive to the thriving metropolis of New Albany, continuing a few miles past along the banks of Ohio River to Harrah’s and check in.
Of course by midday the tournament is in full swing. I check in with the tournament office where Julie and crew handout player badges, lanyards, spectator wrist bands, event t-shirts and answer questions on all things Diamond and DCC. Julie tells me there are 298 in the 1pocket and 350 in the banks. I do my usual pass around the facilities, inspect the cues, gimcracks, and assorted apparel. This year there appeared to me to be fewer vendors and only one cue mechanic in attendance.
Eventually I hook up with kollegedave and I make numerous introductions to the various dignitaries in attendance such as Billy Incardona.
I see tons of folks from the groups and we all chat: Stu, Duke, Joe, Dennis, Elvi, Steve, Bernie, John, JP, Colonel Billie, Freddy, Jay, Rob, Mkbtank, Bruce, Ozzy from CSI, and many, many others whose names where lost in the great brain cell kill-off the next two nights. I also see Mark Wilson, whom I compliment on the publication of his extraordinary book and his nomination as MC captain and we talk for a while
There is an unusually large contingent from St. Louis present: Terry, Coop, Steve, Miller, Brendan, Vernon, Danny, Johnny, Julia, Jacob, and Dale, who has brought his two sons. When I talk to Dale he tells me his eldest, Drake, who is still in high school, has gone seven rounds deep in the banks, beating several notable players to include Earl. At the conclusion of that match Earl grabs the opportunity to make a memorable impression on this up and coming young player and mutters his usual cordials, commenting on Drake’s “luck” and how he hates the way kids dress nowadays. When Drake relates this to his father Dale cheerfully says to him, “Ah! You caught Earl on a good day!”
Eventually the draw for the 1pocket is accomplished and I find that, for the third time in one of these events, I have drawn John Brumback. I see John that afternoon and we joke about our repeated pairings and I offer to buy him a few Jack and Cokes before our match and he says “Fine. As long as we both do them.” I decline.
That afternoon I sweat a variety of matches, including one in particular that I invite several knowledgeable 1pocket players to witness. We all end up pretty amused, somewhat incredulous, and I receive numerous offers for any financial support I may want or would be generous enough to take.
Dinner is at Binion’s, the steak house. kollegedave, a meat man through and through, orders a steak that did not leave much cow behind (24 ounces) and is red enough that it appears a bandage and a little loving care could nurse back to health. It may have moved on his plate a few times on its own.
11pm finally arrives and Mr. Brumback and I lag. I win the lag. The first game I am up 6-1, bank a ball towards my hole and leave John at the other end of the table. There is a dead combination aimed at my hole, but also a carom that might go to his. I have attempted to leave him an angle that prohibits access to the carom, much less shooting the carom and gaining position. John fires at warp speed, makes a ball in both pockets, lands perfect for a baby shot on the end rail and proceeds to run out.
The second game we go down to the last three balls: he needs one, I need all three. I make a straight in; finesse a very narrow bank; and leave myself the six ball which is frozen on his side rail about two diamonds from his pocket with the cue ball at a steep angle for a cut back bank and I am totally lost. I am playing a match on Diamond for the first time since July of last year and I have zero clue as to what speed and spin to use. So I make my best guess, miss by half a diamond and leave a duck.
The last game I miss a nine ball on which I must play difficult position. I mis-judge and am stuck 5-0 when John sets up for a cross corner bank. Of course he nails it and then has two balls near his side pocket and the CB a couple of diamonds down from his pocket. IOWs, two straight backs. And here is the cool thing: John has this way of staring at a bank before he gets into shooting position and you look at his eyes and can see him dialing in the exact speed, spin, and angle. When he gets down on the bank you know he’s already made it before his bridge hand hits the cloth. Lou loses 3-0.
And then the debauchery starts.
Miller buys me a beer and shortly thereafter I am hailed to the bar. Miller, Brendan and I begin drinking more beers. In short order we are joined by Colonel Billie, John Brumback, and an attractive young lady whose identity I will protect. At some point we have all decided that we have sufficiently seasoned our internal organs and upgrade to hard liquor. Rounds are bought and then additional rounds are bought and consumed with gay abandon. Somewhere around 4am someone floats the concept of grabbing a cab into Louisville to continue the carousing and find "a titty bar.” I demure. My defense is that as much as I enjoy looking at nekked women I have already been up for close to 24 hours and am out of training for this amount of “hydration.” I am called a wuss by all present and bid the group adieu. Blessedly, I have been assigned a quiet room and I blissfully pass out on my king sized bed.
Monday morning arrives and with great effort, I pry open my two peepers. I garner a double cappuccino and stumble down to the tournament room. Almost immediately John Brumback comes up to me. John looks like eight miles of bad road this morning but I can tell he has something urgent he wants to tell me. “Lou, someone told me that someone posted on AZ that I said you played bad our match. I never said. I would never say that. I respect your game and I admire your discipline at the table.” I tell John that I was standing right there when the conversation with that individual took place and tell him, “John, I was standing right there and I know you didn’t say anything like that. But even if I hadn’t been standing there I know you’d never say that.” John smiles and says, “Thanks, Lou.”
At 6pm I am to play Evan Lunda, Jr., a young man who I believe is from the Detroit area, though I could be wrong about that. I’m sitting on a stool in the corner while he warms up and I see John Schmidt standing a table length away. As regular readers might recall, John and I had exchanged pleasantries in Las Vegas the year before. So I was a little apprehensive as he walks up to me. I stood.
And John says, “I want to apologize for Vegas. You didn’t deserve that. I was told by someone that you said something about me and when I told them that I had confronted you I could tell they started to back peddle. And I got upset and told them that you and I had almost had a fight over it.” I tell him, “John I accept your apology and I want to apologize also, I was no class act either. I have always admired you and your game. You’re a champion.” And, although we didn’t exactly kiss and hug, another handshake was exchanged and I believe John and I are good.
So now it is time for me to play Evan and I win another lag.
I just want to say that Evan might just have *the* best touch of any player I have ever played or seen. He made everything from everywhere with a soft, gentle, precise stroke. After he won the first game, every time I came to the table I had to ponder long and hard on where on the table I could possibly put him and not give up a shot that he’d casually walk up to, shoot and make. I lose the second game but am able to triumph in the third. The fourth game I have a chance to win the game and go hill-hill, but slightly over cut a long distance cut shot on a ball peeking out from behind the stack. Game over, Lou loses 3-1.
It does not take long for the debauchery to resume. Terry, owner of The Break, my home room, graciously takes kollegedave and I to dinner at Binion’s. We then adjourn to the bar, and are joined by Miller. The company and conversation are funny, raucous and hugely entertaining as we needle each other, talk about all things pool, and murder countless brain cells where they sit. We call it a wrap late at night and as I’m walking by the tournament room on the way back to my room I decide, whaddahey, I’ll use up the $10 of tokens I’m carrying around and hit some balls. In between strokes I watch the next table where a tall pony-tailed brunette from Colorado dismantles a young lad playing a 9ball money match. Near the end of my hour of play my Ginacue (the five-point travel one) makes a very horrible sound and I run my thumb up against my tip and it easily pops off. Well, at least it made it through the Derby, 2014.
Tuesday morning I use my phone’s Starbucks ap to find the nearest Starbucks on my way out of New Albany and get a triple cappuccino with an extra shot and make it home to St. Louis without falling asleep.
If you haven’t been to the DCC you gotta go. There’s something for everyone... Might even be a little booze left
Lou Figueroa
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I get my very, very small pension after I turn 65 in July I'll save that money every month and maybe able to make it. Sure would like to!
