A young boy, 8 years old, just arrived home from school. He drops his books down on the table in the den, and begins to pace around the house, waiting for his policeman father to come home from his shift. He's anxious, because he can't wait for the daily ritual that is his reward. But then this young boy remembers that in order to get the "reward," his father will first ask him if he did his homework! This young boy scrambles back to the den, cracks open the books, and hurriedly completes his homework. Just as he is completing his last assignment, he hears the keys in the front door, and his father walks in, the billyclub attached to his gear belt clanking against the doorframe as his father maneuvers to take his coat off. As he makes his way to his son, he takes off the gear belt and is holding it in his hand, ready to place it in the safe once he passes his son on the way to the bedroom. As he passes his son, he looks over his son's shoulder and takes a peek at his son's progress through his homework. Nodding in acknowledgment that his son is just about done with his homework, he makes his way to the bedroom and changes into regular clothes.
On the way back from the bedroom, he notices the books are closed and his son is standing, waiting for him. "Are you done with your homework, son?" he asks. This is a rhetorical question he already knows the answer for, but he wants to hear the answer nonetheless. "Yes, Dad, can we go now?" his son replies. His father loves to hear the enthusiasm. They set out together, the son walking side by side with his father down the sidewalk to the local bar. It is a bar that is a police hangout; it is dark, smoky, not the most clean place in the world, and has a very, very distinctive smell -- like a mixture of old cigarettes, oak wood paneling, leather police jackets, and beer.
But gosh, how the little boy loves going there! The men know the little boy by name, and greet him enthusiastically as soon as he enters. "Hey Seanie boy! Nice to see you little chap. Want a Coke?" the bartender asks in a thick Irish brogue. That's a silly question, of course, and the little boy eagerly accepts. Psssssssssssssshhhh.... clack! Ah, that sound of the tap -- the Coke being sprayed into the glass -- and the bartender enthusiastically setting the glass down at the edge of the bar for the boy to come up and reach it. As the boy begins to sip his Coke, he turns around for the real object of his fascination -- the pool table in the corner of the bar. Two men are already playing at the table. "Go on, here, put this quarter up on the table" says his Dad to his son. The boy eagerly accepts, and looks at the shiny new quarter his father just handed him. He notices the quarter is very shiny, and the year says 1974 -- this quarter is brand-new! His heart begins to pound as he approaches the pool table. Fortunately, he recognizes the two men playing at the table. They greet him just as enthusiastically as the bartender. One elbows the other, nods his head towards the little boy, and says, "Hey Pat, uh-oh, the little shark is here!" The boy patiently watches, and upon finishing their game, the little boy takes his quarter and lays it down, face up, into the circular cut-out on the weird, "bent tongue" contraption on the side of the pool table. With both thumbs on the upwards-bent portion of that tongue thing, he pushes hard into the table, pauses for a second until he hears that ball movement ceases inside the table, and then lets that tongue contraption spring back out. The crashing flurry of balls hits the wood lip at the edge of the ball tray. The boy notices that this noise has attracted the attention of the patrons of the bar, and they're watching him -- he notices his Dad amongst them, watching him with a knowing smile. The little boy walks over to the foot end of the table, places the wood triangle upon the green felt, and begins to arrange the balls within the triangle. As he's doing this, he hears commotion at the bar. "I got ten on the kid!" "Five on the kid for me." "Five on Pat!" "Twenty on my son!" The boy has no idea what these men, or his father, are talking about. But he knows the men enjoy watching him play, and this little boy just loves to play; math is his favorite subject, and the little boy loves solving the problem of how have one ball strike the other in a way that cause the other ball to roll towards and drop into an opening on the table. He loves the angles!
"Ca-crash!! clackety-clack, clack, clack..." is the next sound the boy hears as the man breaks the rack. But no ball drops into a pocket! The boy analyzes the table for a second, and notices this was a good break -- all the balls are spread out nicely. However, he notices the 8-ball has rested up against the foot rail, at about the second diamond. The boy is just tall enough for the pool table (the top of the table is just under chest-high for him) and he starts his pattern of sinking the striped balls. He has to shoot sidearm, since that's the only way he can get his elbow up above the edge of the table, and he has a very light stroke. "Eleven ball, side pocket." He gently taps the cue ball towards the 11-ball, and enjoys watching the cue-ball meet the 11-ball at the correct angle to cut it in the side pocket. The 11-ball roll towards the side pocket and drops in. "Yesssss!!" the boy says quietly, and walks around the table to the next shot. "Pat, I think you're in trouble, mate! The little guy's a shark!" says one man to the man that the little boy is playing. The little boy continues walking around the table, gently tapping the cue-ball towards the striped balls, and watches eagerly to see the results when the cue-ball meets the object ball. He loves solving angle problems! He once again hears commotion at the bar, as the men are raising their bets, but he has no idea what language this is that these men are speaking. He pockets the last striped ball into the side pocket, but then realizes he forgot where the 8-ball is! His opponent, Pat, smiles, realizing that he will get a turn at the table, afterall.
The little boy stands there, pondering what to do. The cue ball is on the rail near the side pocket, about a diamond away nearer to the head string, where it came to rest after he tapped the last striped ball into the nearest side pocket. The 8-ball is on the end rail, middle diamond. There's a very severe angle there, seemingly almost 90 degrees to this little boy. He knows this is a very tough shot. He knows nothing about bank shots, only about solving angles that make the ball head straight towards a pocket. He hears his Dad call out to him, "Remember what I showed you about that kind of shot, son. Ball, and rubber of the cushion, at the very same time. Put the cue-ball right there." There's another commotion at the bar, but this time it's hushed -- the little boy hears the men whispering to each other. "8-ball, corner pocket," the little boy says as he indicates by pointing at the pocket with the cue. "Oh, I gotta see this!" says his opponent, Pat. He analyzes the shot, and gets down, carefully aiming, with his hand in an open bridge, fist-like, thumb slightly sticking out. He sights down the cue, placing his chin literally on top of it, and pauses with the tip of the cue almost touching the cue-ball. Concentrating, he aims the cue-ball right where his father had showed him -- to make the cue-ball hit the 8-ball and the rubber of the cushion at the same time, and give it some oomph. There is a hushed silence at the bar, as the boy pulls the cue back, pauses, and pushes the cue forward with as much controlled strength as he can muster, all the while concentrating on keeping that cue aimed towards that "magic spot" where it needs to hit the 8-ball and the cushion at the same time. Poonk! -- that sound the cue makes when he hits the cue-ball with force. The little boy stays right in place, looking down the table in line where the cue-ball is traveling. He's watching to see if the cue-ball will hit right in that "magic spot" his father showed him. Everyone at the bar rears up and watches in disbelief. The next sound heard is two sounds mixed together, a thump and a click simultaneously. The cue-ball bounces off that "magic spot" he was aiming at, and rolls down the middle of the table. The black 8-ball, meanwhile, rolls sideways, seemingly end over end, the "8" printed on the ball appearing and disappearing, towards the corner pocket. It starts to slow down as it approaches the pocket, and the little boy is worried that he didn't hit it hard enough. The 8-ball enters the mouth of the pocket, sitting momentarily right at the precipace where the slate ends and the chasm of the pocket begins. The boy anxiously cheers for the ball to fall, and so does the rest of the bar -- "Look at this, LOOK AT THIS... oooooooooooooo... YEAHHHHHHHH!!!!" The 8-ball rolls one additional eighth-inch and drops into the pocket. The bar expodes in a frenzy, people cheering, tapping their glasses on the bar top, some even running over to the little boy, grabbing him by the shoulders, telling him what a fantastic shot he just made. His opponent, Pat, also comes over and shakes his hand. "Gosh, I never had an 8-year old kid run a rack on me!" "What a shot!" The little boy is shaking in disbelief at what he just did -- he just ran a rack of 8-ball, something he'd never done before.
That year was 1974. To this day, I remember that day like it was yesterday. Although addicted to the game of pool ever since my father started teaching me the game in that bar, I'd permanently been "infected" with the pool bug ever since then. On and off in middle and high school, I'd make my way to the local game room after doing my homework, and played pool with a clique of boys that I befriended via this wonderful game. I was one of the best in the area; only one other boy had the same skills I did at pocketing balls, and making the cue-ball "walk and talk around the table" (as we came to call it). Whenever this boy and I matched up, it was like World War III -- it seemed the neighborhood poured into the game room when word spread that we'd just matched up.
I continued playing the game right through my 8-year stint in the U.S. Navy, stationed about the U.S.S. Briscoe (DD-977) at Norfolk, VA. Naturally, I couldn't play while the ship was deployed at sea, but whenever we pulled into port, I was itching to play and immediately grabbed my pool case, waiting on the quarterdeck, when the ship was mooring into port. I was always one of the first ones bounding down the gangplank. If the port was our homeport in Norfolk, I headed right over to Q-Masters, which, during that time (middle 1980s) was located on 6214 Sewell's Point Road, Norfolk, VA. It was my favorite place, and I spent many late evenings and nights playing on the tables in that back room, which had a row of benches for railbirds. Won and lost a lot of money there, but always, ALWAYS, had an enjoyable time. Got to know Barry Behrman on a first name basis, but with all the changes that Q-Masters has gone through (including starting up the now famous U.S. Open), I doubt he might remember me. (Barry, if you're reading this, this is Sean, the Navy guy that very nearly lived there in the middle to late 1980s, once in a while showing up in his dress blues, shot with a couple very expensive Meuccis that he bought from you, and "shot a mean stick" as you once complimented me.) I disappeared from the Tidewater/Norfolk area around early 1990, after my term was complete, and headed back home to NY.
After my stint in the Navy, I started my career -- the very thing I'm doing today, information technologies. Unfortunately, because my career was so hectic, I took at 14-year hiatus from this game I love. My cues found themselves buried at the back of a closet, not seeing the light of day until about three years ago, when the "pool bug" was biting so hard, I couldn't not play any longer.
The "bug" is with me now, something fierce. I have a lot of time to make up for. And you know what? That little boy is still there, still as fascinated as ever with solving angles using two spheres.
Hope this was enjoyable reading!
Warmest regards to everyone,
-Sean
