Comeuppance
David E. Malone Feb 23, 2006
Wee Walter McCabe was perhaps the most irritating person you'd ever
want to meet. He was a short (maybe five three if he was an inch)
beady-eyed, bearded, mouthy individual with a short pony-tail, and a
beer gut which he carried in front of him with some pride. Not that
there aren't people like that everywhere and Walter wouldn't be at all
remarkable except for the fact that he was the best pool player in our
county. It was especially annoying because my buddy Jamie and me are
probably the number two and number three best players. Walter regularly
won the local Saturday night 8-ball tournament and pocketed a kingly
two hundred clams every time. Nobody else has ever won it, and, indeed,
Walter always bragged that he used to put it on his income tax return
in advance as unearned income. Not earned, you notice, unearned because
he said it was so easy he didn't consider it work.
His personality sucked. Whenever he saw Jamie or me, he would always
make some snide remark, such as "here come the loser brothers.." or
"been practicing, guys? God knows you need it..." I've come close to
knocking him off his bar stool just to take that evil smirk off his
hairy face once and for all. But he was right it seemed, whatever we
did, he had our number and we never came close to beating him in the
tourney. We even got together and planned a few harmless shark moves to
try and put him off his game. For example, one day we both would rack
the balls... and then go stand where he usually broke from and make him
have to ask us to move so he could break. Then before we moved, we'd
put a cube of chalk or two down on the rail exactly where he was going
to put his bridge hand so he'd have the additional annoyance of having
to move it before he shot. We kept that up for a whole tournament. One
time we even got wild Mary Hennessy to take her bra off, open a few
extra buttons and sit opposite him and pretend to tie her shoelaces.
Didn't help, didn't even throw off his pre-shot routine, and we we're
just too honest and upright to try any really big sharks. I don't know
how Jamie feels, but I would give my left nut to beat the jerk even
once.
One day, my daughter, Heather came home with a new boyfriend. Sven was
a big, blond, likeable oaf from Norway and after the first few weeks we
allowed him pretty much the run of the house like you would a family
dog... he may have been almost as smart as one. In fact, Jamie, who's a
bit of a wag, always referred to him as 'the great dane' which
irritated me a bit because after all he wasn't from Denmark. I don't
know why she liked him, but she did. Okay, I liked him too. It was
impossible not to like him - he was so big, and so goofy, and so
harmless. One of nature's friendliest people.
"He plays pool, Daddy" she said. "Why don't you take him down to
Dooley's and have a few games?"
I didn't take her up on this suggestion for a while - the last thing I
needed was for my concentration to be broken by having to shepherd Sven
around and make sure he didn't get into trouble. Plus I wasn't at all
sure if he was old enough to drink and I didn't want that on my
conscience either. But she persisted and eventually one day when Jamie
dropped in for a drink, I capitulated and suggested that we all go down
to Dooley's for a few games. I figured as long as he didn't sit on
anything fragile or break any house cues or other equipment we'd be
fine. Heather could look after him and at least she would be happy that
I was making an effort, as she put it, to be nice to her friends.
I found us a table at the very back of the pool hall, out of the way of
the regulars, and racked the balls for 8-ball.
"Go ahead and break..." I said, casually to Sven and started to walk
around the table.
Suddenly there was a sound like a cannon shot and I jumped like a
startled deer... it was Sven breaking up the balls with a house cue.
Holy Moses! I'd never seen anyone hit the balls that hard before and
with awesome control too. After jumping a foot in the air, the cue ball
not only stayed on the table but spun back a few inches to remain
nicely in the middle of the table. "Damn good break," I thought, and
there was more to come. His stroke was level and silky smooth and his
position play was exemplary. He rolled that cue ball around the table
like a pro and by the time he got to the 8-ball without making a
mistake, I knew he was a cut above anybody we knew, including the
moronic midget Walter McCabe. Then he did something that didn't make
any sense. He slammed the 8-ball in so hard with topspin that the cue
ball ricocheted about seven rails before scratching in a side pocket.
"What d'ja do that for?" said Jamie. "You just lost the game..."
"Ve haff a tradition in Norway..." explained Sven "ve always hit der
eight-ball as hard as ve can for good luck. Sometime it scratches and
sometime it don't, depending on how lucky you are that night... that
way you can see if der luck is positive or negative."
So they are a tad crazy where Sven comes from. We played for the rest
of the night with Sven winning easily despite his 8-ball celebrations.
In fact, he only scratched one other time but it sure struck us as an
odd thing to do. Maybe one of them Norwegian bar-table traditions -
what did I know.
About ten o'clock, it came to us. The big idea, that is. I don't know
why we didn't think of it earlier, but suddenly Jamie looked up with a
wild surmise and said, "I wonder...?" and I knew immediately what he
was thinking. There was little doubt that Sven would likely beat Walter
if he entered the weekly 8-ball tournament and it would surely shut him
up for a while. And it would give us some on-going heavy ammunition to
counter his persistent trash talk. Sven agreed to do it with very
little persuasion, noting that he'd won many a pool tournament in his
native country. In fact, he was rather eager to participate. The
tournament wasn't handicapped, so there would be no reason for any of
the regulars or the tournament organizers to see him play beforehand.
We would just spring the monster on Walter next Saturday and see what
happened. As Jamie said, "I think we can arrange a little action on the
side." because no-one in their right mind in Sierra County would bet
against Walter McCabe.
When Saturday night came around, we arrived at Dooley's a little early
and I went to have a chat with the Tournament Director, and Dooley's
resident barman, Ernie Stallen...
"My daughter's boyfriend is here from Norway..." I said. "Is it okay if
he plays in the tournament?"
"Does he play well enough to not make an ass out of himself..?" he
said, quizzically.
"I think so..." I said. "Sign the three of us up... the worst he can do
is go two and out."
"True." He said, taking the money. "I'll keep an eye on him anyway."
While I was talking to Ernie, Jamie was going around taking bets at two
to one against Walter winning the tournament. He collected nearly two
thousand dollars before I got there and people were still queuing up to
take his offer. Looked like we'd be in for at least three or four
thousand bucks before it was all over, but I was confident Sven would
prevail. There was only one niggling little concern I had at the back
of my mind and eventually I took Sven aside and made him promise not to
hit the eight-ball so hard for luck.
"This is a tournament not a friendly game. Just hit it very gently...
pooch it... pocket speed at the most..." I said. "Promise me...?"
"I'll try my best.." is all he would say.
The draw had me against Walter in the first round and I ended up on the
one-loss side in short order. "You haven't improved, Davey old boy..."
he sneered. "It's like taking candy from a baby." Normally I'd have
called him an asshole and suggested we take it outside, but today I was
in a good mood because his comeuppance was arriving in due course and I
could wait. Jamie and Sven were on the other side of the draw and
played each other in the second round. Predictably, Sven rolled over
him like a beer barrel over a centipede on crutches. Seven to two, I
think, in a race to seven even though Sven told me afterwards he let up
on him so he wouldn't feel too bad. Things were working out as I
planned - it looked like Sven wouldn't get to play Walter until the
finals, assuming they both went all the way. That suited us just fine.
I leaned over and tapped Walter on the shoulder at one point as we
watched Sven drill yet another hapless opponent and said, "Hey, Walt,
seems like the big kid knows how to play a little..." Walter snapped
back, "Are you kidding? The dumbass kid doesn't know what the hell he's
doing..." I chuckled to myself. I hadn't heard that tone of voice from
him before - he actually sounded nervously uncertain, and maybe a
little angry as well. Is it a sin to feel happy at another person's
discomfort? If that was the case I was sinning big-time... and enjoying
it tremendously.
As expected, the final was a Walter versus Sven matchup. It was a race
to eleven as usual and Walter won the lag to break first. He ran out
the first table. It seemed that he wasn't going to give up his title
easily and I began to see aspects of his game that he had never shown
before. People said he was a hustler once before he retired and used to
hang out at Pro tournaments and take money from the winners afterwards.
And the way he was playing, there may have been some truth in it. This
made me think and I anxiously started to do some math - what was four
grand at two to one... lessee... eight, that's eight, big ones. I began
to sweat bullets and pray for Walter to miss. I talked to God directly
and tried to call in all the favors I figured I must have amassed for
good behavior.
Eventually he did miss, but only after clearing the first three tables
in a row. I may have been sweating, but Sven apparently wasn't at all
flustered and played cooly and methodically, putting an amazing five
pack on him. You could see the stress on Walter's face now. I think he
realized he was in over his head, but when his turn came again he
buckled down and played out of his shoes... evening up the match.
Despite Walter's heroics, Sven took a clear lead and was soon on the
hill leading 10 - 7. He had the break and it seemed it was all over at
that point. I began to relax slightly inside. After the break, Sven was
a little bit hooked, didn't have a clear shot at anything and attempted
a bold kick to sink a stripe instead of playing safe.
Uncharacteristically, he missed. This time when Walter approached the
table his face had changed. You could see the relief - he obviously
hadn't expected to get to the table again - and he began to play with a
grim determination that made me admire his spirit even though I still
hated his guts. The man wasn't a quitter and he obviously still thought
he could win.
The spectators were hushed as he began to inexorably chip away at
Sven's lead but at hill-hill, he finally missed a very fine cut into
the side pocket and stood there dazed like an orphan who had been
tossed out of the orphanage. I almost felt sorry for him as Sven
smoothly dropped the remaining solids and lined up on the 8-ball.
Something about the way he was lining up tipped me off and I
desperately tried to get his attention. He must have forgotten about
his promise to hit it gently and, as I watched with horrified
fascination, slammed it hard in celebration. It went in, of course, but
the whole room watched mesmerized as the cue ball flew around the table
from rail to rail. I saw it in slow motion and I can still see it to
this day like an out-take clip from a movie. Not many people could hit
a ball that hard and this one went eight full rails before finally
coming to rest... in the top corner pocket.
I don't think I cried. It was just too awful. Jamie and I were out
around eight or so big ones, our wives would kill us, and Walter had
won yet again...
As he went up to be presented with his two hundred dollar weekly
'salary', he looked directly at me as he passed and covertly gave me
the finger with some enthusiasm. At that point, I simply didn't have
the energy to respond. A sick feeling told me I'd be hearing about this
for the next twenty years.
Now old Ernie is a smart guy and doesn't miss a thing. He tapped me on
the shoulder as we were leaving.
"I knew that would happen...", he said.
"Oh, yeah...?" I said. "Sure you did."
"Well, if you think about it, it's a well known fact... "
He grinned broadly.
"Yes? " I said.
"Everybody knows you can lead a Norse to Walter... but you can't make
him dink."
David "The punny Hamster" Malone
David E. Malone Feb 23, 2006
Wee Walter McCabe was perhaps the most irritating person you'd ever
want to meet. He was a short (maybe five three if he was an inch)
beady-eyed, bearded, mouthy individual with a short pony-tail, and a
beer gut which he carried in front of him with some pride. Not that
there aren't people like that everywhere and Walter wouldn't be at all
remarkable except for the fact that he was the best pool player in our
county. It was especially annoying because my buddy Jamie and me are
probably the number two and number three best players. Walter regularly
won the local Saturday night 8-ball tournament and pocketed a kingly
two hundred clams every time. Nobody else has ever won it, and, indeed,
Walter always bragged that he used to put it on his income tax return
in advance as unearned income. Not earned, you notice, unearned because
he said it was so easy he didn't consider it work.
His personality sucked. Whenever he saw Jamie or me, he would always
make some snide remark, such as "here come the loser brothers.." or
"been practicing, guys? God knows you need it..." I've come close to
knocking him off his bar stool just to take that evil smirk off his
hairy face once and for all. But he was right it seemed, whatever we
did, he had our number and we never came close to beating him in the
tourney. We even got together and planned a few harmless shark moves to
try and put him off his game. For example, one day we both would rack
the balls... and then go stand where he usually broke from and make him
have to ask us to move so he could break. Then before we moved, we'd
put a cube of chalk or two down on the rail exactly where he was going
to put his bridge hand so he'd have the additional annoyance of having
to move it before he shot. We kept that up for a whole tournament. One
time we even got wild Mary Hennessy to take her bra off, open a few
extra buttons and sit opposite him and pretend to tie her shoelaces.
Didn't help, didn't even throw off his pre-shot routine, and we we're
just too honest and upright to try any really big sharks. I don't know
how Jamie feels, but I would give my left nut to beat the jerk even
once.
One day, my daughter, Heather came home with a new boyfriend. Sven was
a big, blond, likeable oaf from Norway and after the first few weeks we
allowed him pretty much the run of the house like you would a family
dog... he may have been almost as smart as one. In fact, Jamie, who's a
bit of a wag, always referred to him as 'the great dane' which
irritated me a bit because after all he wasn't from Denmark. I don't
know why she liked him, but she did. Okay, I liked him too. It was
impossible not to like him - he was so big, and so goofy, and so
harmless. One of nature's friendliest people.
"He plays pool, Daddy" she said. "Why don't you take him down to
Dooley's and have a few games?"
I didn't take her up on this suggestion for a while - the last thing I
needed was for my concentration to be broken by having to shepherd Sven
around and make sure he didn't get into trouble. Plus I wasn't at all
sure if he was old enough to drink and I didn't want that on my
conscience either. But she persisted and eventually one day when Jamie
dropped in for a drink, I capitulated and suggested that we all go down
to Dooley's for a few games. I figured as long as he didn't sit on
anything fragile or break any house cues or other equipment we'd be
fine. Heather could look after him and at least she would be happy that
I was making an effort, as she put it, to be nice to her friends.
I found us a table at the very back of the pool hall, out of the way of
the regulars, and racked the balls for 8-ball.
"Go ahead and break..." I said, casually to Sven and started to walk
around the table.
Suddenly there was a sound like a cannon shot and I jumped like a
startled deer... it was Sven breaking up the balls with a house cue.
Holy Moses! I'd never seen anyone hit the balls that hard before and
with awesome control too. After jumping a foot in the air, the cue ball
not only stayed on the table but spun back a few inches to remain
nicely in the middle of the table. "Damn good break," I thought, and
there was more to come. His stroke was level and silky smooth and his
position play was exemplary. He rolled that cue ball around the table
like a pro and by the time he got to the 8-ball without making a
mistake, I knew he was a cut above anybody we knew, including the
moronic midget Walter McCabe. Then he did something that didn't make
any sense. He slammed the 8-ball in so hard with topspin that the cue
ball ricocheted about seven rails before scratching in a side pocket.
"What d'ja do that for?" said Jamie. "You just lost the game..."
"Ve haff a tradition in Norway..." explained Sven "ve always hit der
eight-ball as hard as ve can for good luck. Sometime it scratches and
sometime it don't, depending on how lucky you are that night... that
way you can see if der luck is positive or negative."
So they are a tad crazy where Sven comes from. We played for the rest
of the night with Sven winning easily despite his 8-ball celebrations.
In fact, he only scratched one other time but it sure struck us as an
odd thing to do. Maybe one of them Norwegian bar-table traditions -
what did I know.
About ten o'clock, it came to us. The big idea, that is. I don't know
why we didn't think of it earlier, but suddenly Jamie looked up with a
wild surmise and said, "I wonder...?" and I knew immediately what he
was thinking. There was little doubt that Sven would likely beat Walter
if he entered the weekly 8-ball tournament and it would surely shut him
up for a while. And it would give us some on-going heavy ammunition to
counter his persistent trash talk. Sven agreed to do it with very
little persuasion, noting that he'd won many a pool tournament in his
native country. In fact, he was rather eager to participate. The
tournament wasn't handicapped, so there would be no reason for any of
the regulars or the tournament organizers to see him play beforehand.
We would just spring the monster on Walter next Saturday and see what
happened. As Jamie said, "I think we can arrange a little action on the
side." because no-one in their right mind in Sierra County would bet
against Walter McCabe.
When Saturday night came around, we arrived at Dooley's a little early
and I went to have a chat with the Tournament Director, and Dooley's
resident barman, Ernie Stallen...
"My daughter's boyfriend is here from Norway..." I said. "Is it okay if
he plays in the tournament?"
"Does he play well enough to not make an ass out of himself..?" he
said, quizzically.
"I think so..." I said. "Sign the three of us up... the worst he can do
is go two and out."
"True." He said, taking the money. "I'll keep an eye on him anyway."
While I was talking to Ernie, Jamie was going around taking bets at two
to one against Walter winning the tournament. He collected nearly two
thousand dollars before I got there and people were still queuing up to
take his offer. Looked like we'd be in for at least three or four
thousand bucks before it was all over, but I was confident Sven would
prevail. There was only one niggling little concern I had at the back
of my mind and eventually I took Sven aside and made him promise not to
hit the eight-ball so hard for luck.
"This is a tournament not a friendly game. Just hit it very gently...
pooch it... pocket speed at the most..." I said. "Promise me...?"
"I'll try my best.." is all he would say.
The draw had me against Walter in the first round and I ended up on the
one-loss side in short order. "You haven't improved, Davey old boy..."
he sneered. "It's like taking candy from a baby." Normally I'd have
called him an asshole and suggested we take it outside, but today I was
in a good mood because his comeuppance was arriving in due course and I
could wait. Jamie and Sven were on the other side of the draw and
played each other in the second round. Predictably, Sven rolled over
him like a beer barrel over a centipede on crutches. Seven to two, I
think, in a race to seven even though Sven told me afterwards he let up
on him so he wouldn't feel too bad. Things were working out as I
planned - it looked like Sven wouldn't get to play Walter until the
finals, assuming they both went all the way. That suited us just fine.
I leaned over and tapped Walter on the shoulder at one point as we
watched Sven drill yet another hapless opponent and said, "Hey, Walt,
seems like the big kid knows how to play a little..." Walter snapped
back, "Are you kidding? The dumbass kid doesn't know what the hell he's
doing..." I chuckled to myself. I hadn't heard that tone of voice from
him before - he actually sounded nervously uncertain, and maybe a
little angry as well. Is it a sin to feel happy at another person's
discomfort? If that was the case I was sinning big-time... and enjoying
it tremendously.
As expected, the final was a Walter versus Sven matchup. It was a race
to eleven as usual and Walter won the lag to break first. He ran out
the first table. It seemed that he wasn't going to give up his title
easily and I began to see aspects of his game that he had never shown
before. People said he was a hustler once before he retired and used to
hang out at Pro tournaments and take money from the winners afterwards.
And the way he was playing, there may have been some truth in it. This
made me think and I anxiously started to do some math - what was four
grand at two to one... lessee... eight, that's eight, big ones. I began
to sweat bullets and pray for Walter to miss. I talked to God directly
and tried to call in all the favors I figured I must have amassed for
good behavior.
Eventually he did miss, but only after clearing the first three tables
in a row. I may have been sweating, but Sven apparently wasn't at all
flustered and played cooly and methodically, putting an amazing five
pack on him. You could see the stress on Walter's face now. I think he
realized he was in over his head, but when his turn came again he
buckled down and played out of his shoes... evening up the match.
Despite Walter's heroics, Sven took a clear lead and was soon on the
hill leading 10 - 7. He had the break and it seemed it was all over at
that point. I began to relax slightly inside. After the break, Sven was
a little bit hooked, didn't have a clear shot at anything and attempted
a bold kick to sink a stripe instead of playing safe.
Uncharacteristically, he missed. This time when Walter approached the
table his face had changed. You could see the relief - he obviously
hadn't expected to get to the table again - and he began to play with a
grim determination that made me admire his spirit even though I still
hated his guts. The man wasn't a quitter and he obviously still thought
he could win.
The spectators were hushed as he began to inexorably chip away at
Sven's lead but at hill-hill, he finally missed a very fine cut into
the side pocket and stood there dazed like an orphan who had been
tossed out of the orphanage. I almost felt sorry for him as Sven
smoothly dropped the remaining solids and lined up on the 8-ball.
Something about the way he was lining up tipped me off and I
desperately tried to get his attention. He must have forgotten about
his promise to hit it gently and, as I watched with horrified
fascination, slammed it hard in celebration. It went in, of course, but
the whole room watched mesmerized as the cue ball flew around the table
from rail to rail. I saw it in slow motion and I can still see it to
this day like an out-take clip from a movie. Not many people could hit
a ball that hard and this one went eight full rails before finally
coming to rest... in the top corner pocket.
I don't think I cried. It was just too awful. Jamie and I were out
around eight or so big ones, our wives would kill us, and Walter had
won yet again...
As he went up to be presented with his two hundred dollar weekly
'salary', he looked directly at me as he passed and covertly gave me
the finger with some enthusiasm. At that point, I simply didn't have
the energy to respond. A sick feeling told me I'd be hearing about this
for the next twenty years.
Now old Ernie is a smart guy and doesn't miss a thing. He tapped me on
the shoulder as we were leaving.
"I knew that would happen...", he said.
"Oh, yeah...?" I said. "Sure you did."
"Well, if you think about it, it's a well known fact... "
He grinned broadly.
"Yes? " I said.
"Everybody knows you can lead a Norse to Walter... but you can't make
him dink."
David "The punny Hamster" Malone
