living the dream - does this count?
Late Night Match With Efren
by kickin' chicken
How the following could have actually happened, given his history, makes little sense now.
It's 1971 and I'm in a small PI village well west of Quezon City and Manilla, in Olongapo on the eastern side of Subic Bay.
In addition to my custom Palmer, I have also brought a solid rep for playing strong for the cash and never cracking under pressure. Back then I could come with the big shots when needed at an alarmingly high success rate. Needless to say, I was a confident young man. Why else would I be in the PI looking for money games?
I had just finished a delicious dinner at a run-down village eatery simply called "Mama's". I ordered their special: braised chicken and pork adobo in oil, vinegar, and garlic sauce, with a generous mound of orange rice plopped on the side. With a full belly, I set out to see if I could make a game.
For the week I was there it had been easy to get into small action with the locals who were more than eager to try me out. I was doing good with them overall though I was struck with their high quality of play, especially the solid defense. Even the very young guns.
There was only a day or two left before I had to make my way back home and I had been hearing a lot about a kid they called “Bata” *, and that I should match up with him. They said his people would gamble high on him but from me he would need the 8 ball **. I was cocky and confident enough to agree and said I would play his preferred race to 21 in 9 ball for their minimum wager of $300 US. Remember, this was the early 70's and that was a decent chunk of dough back then.
It was on for the next afternoon at the Baloy Beach Café. They had the best table, loosely resembling a Gold Crown. This one had lots of character but played true.
I was there an hour before our scheduled 3 o'clock match, getting in stroke, when the chatter level in the bar increased as a skinny kid with a well-worn black cue case walked in.
Accompanying him were 3 friendly looking guys and they all made their way over to take a seat at an adjacent cafe table near where I was warming up. My opponent, the young man, Bata, came up to me, shook hands and said hello. That was about all the English he had for me, but the exquisitely cute waitress who had been taking care of me joined us and acted as our translator. After pleasantries, we posted our bets and we had action.
He practiced by himself for about 10 minutes, and I had to admit, he looked real impressive.
Okay, remember, we're racing to 21, 9 ball, I'm giving up the 8.
We got underway and it was see-sawing back and forth.
He was kicking like a mule. I kicked a little better.
He was getting great shape. I was getting better.
I stayed focused and consistent and beat him 21-18.
With a smile on his face, he came over to shake my hand. Following pool etiquette, not wanting to quit winner, I offered to roll it back, but he had enough, and he and his boys were gone just as quickly as they arrived.
I pulled the covers up to my chin, smiled, rolled over onto my pillow, and within 10 minutes I was back in action, this time it was with Earl.
We were matched up at a redneck joint called The Cow Palace in Houston. It was summer 1978 and hotter than Hades. He was wearing this light blue polyester jump suit looking getup. . . . .
Late Night Match With Efren
by kickin' chicken
How the following could have actually happened, given his history, makes little sense now.
It's 1971 and I'm in a small PI village well west of Quezon City and Manilla, in Olongapo on the eastern side of Subic Bay.
In addition to my custom Palmer, I have also brought a solid rep for playing strong for the cash and never cracking under pressure. Back then I could come with the big shots when needed at an alarmingly high success rate. Needless to say, I was a confident young man. Why else would I be in the PI looking for money games?
I had just finished a delicious dinner at a run-down village eatery simply called "Mama's". I ordered their special: braised chicken and pork adobo in oil, vinegar, and garlic sauce, with a generous mound of orange rice plopped on the side. With a full belly, I set out to see if I could make a game.
For the week I was there it had been easy to get into small action with the locals who were more than eager to try me out. I was doing good with them overall though I was struck with their high quality of play, especially the solid defense. Even the very young guns.
There was only a day or two left before I had to make my way back home and I had been hearing a lot about a kid they called “Bata” *, and that I should match up with him. They said his people would gamble high on him but from me he would need the 8 ball **. I was cocky and confident enough to agree and said I would play his preferred race to 21 in 9 ball for their minimum wager of $300 US. Remember, this was the early 70's and that was a decent chunk of dough back then.
It was on for the next afternoon at the Baloy Beach Café. They had the best table, loosely resembling a Gold Crown. This one had lots of character but played true.
I was there an hour before our scheduled 3 o'clock match, getting in stroke, when the chatter level in the bar increased as a skinny kid with a well-worn black cue case walked in.
Accompanying him were 3 friendly looking guys and they all made their way over to take a seat at an adjacent cafe table near where I was warming up. My opponent, the young man, Bata, came up to me, shook hands and said hello. That was about all the English he had for me, but the exquisitely cute waitress who had been taking care of me joined us and acted as our translator. After pleasantries, we posted our bets and we had action.
He practiced by himself for about 10 minutes, and I had to admit, he looked real impressive.
Okay, remember, we're racing to 21, 9 ball, I'm giving up the 8.
We got underway and it was see-sawing back and forth.
He was kicking like a mule. I kicked a little better.
He was getting great shape. I was getting better.
I stayed focused and consistent and beat him 21-18.
With a smile on his face, he came over to shake my hand. Following pool etiquette, not wanting to quit winner, I offered to roll it back, but he had enough, and he and his boys were gone just as quickly as they arrived.
I pulled the covers up to my chin, smiled, rolled over onto my pillow, and within 10 minutes I was back in action, this time it was with Earl.
We were matched up at a redneck joint called The Cow Palace in Houston. It was summer 1978 and hotter than Hades. He was wearing this light blue polyester jump suit looking getup. . . . .