I was asked to post this in it's own thread, so, here it is:
How the following could have happened makes little sense now.
It's 1971 and I'm in a small PI village well west of Quezon City & Manilla, in Olongapo on the east side of Subic Bay.
In addition to my custom Palmer, I have brought with me 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 games?
Just having finished a delicious dinner at a village eatery, simply called "Mama's", consisting of braised chicken and pork adobo in oil, vinegar, and garlic sauce, with a generous mound of orange rice plopped on the side, I set out to see if I could make a game.
For the nearly one 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 having pretty good success with them overall though I was struck with their high quality of play and especially their 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 from the locals about a kid they called Bata, that I should match up with him. They said his people would gamble pretty 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 9b for his minimum wager of $300 US. Remember, this was early 70's and that was a pretty good chunk of change back then.
It was on for the next afternoon at Baloy Beach Cafe, they had the best table, loosely resembling a Gold Crown. This one had lots of character but played pretty 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 guy 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 adjascent cafe table near me. My opponent, the young man called Bata, came up to me and shook hands and said hello. That was about all the English he had for me but the attractive 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 admit, he looked impressive.
Okay, remember, we're racing to 21, 9b, 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 better.
He was playing great shape, I was getting better.
I stayed focused and consistent and beat him 21-18.
He smiled, shook my hand, and him and his boys were gone just as quickly as they arrived.
I pulled the covers up to my chin, smiled, rolled over on my pillow, and within 10 minutes I was back in action, this time it was Earl.
We were matched up at The Cow Palace in Houston. It was summer 1978, hotter than Hades, he was wearing this light blue jump suit looking getup. . . . .
best,
brian kc
How the following could have happened makes little sense now.
It's 1971 and I'm in a small PI village well west of Quezon City & Manilla, in Olongapo on the east side of Subic Bay.
In addition to my custom Palmer, I have brought with me 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 games?
Just having finished a delicious dinner at a village eatery, simply called "Mama's", consisting of braised chicken and pork adobo in oil, vinegar, and garlic sauce, with a generous mound of orange rice plopped on the side, I set out to see if I could make a game.
For the nearly one 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 having pretty good success with them overall though I was struck with their high quality of play and especially their 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 from the locals about a kid they called Bata, that I should match up with him. They said his people would gamble pretty 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 9b for his minimum wager of $300 US. Remember, this was early 70's and that was a pretty good chunk of change back then.
It was on for the next afternoon at Baloy Beach Cafe, they had the best table, loosely resembling a Gold Crown. This one had lots of character but played pretty 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 guy 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 adjascent cafe table near me. My opponent, the young man called Bata, came up to me and shook hands and said hello. That was about all the English he had for me but the attractive 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 admit, he looked impressive.
Okay, remember, we're racing to 21, 9b, 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 better.
He was playing great shape, I was getting better.
I stayed focused and consistent and beat him 21-18.
He smiled, shook my hand, and him and his boys were gone just as quickly as they arrived.
I pulled the covers up to my chin, smiled, rolled over on my pillow, and within 10 minutes I was back in action, this time it was Earl.
We were matched up at The Cow Palace in Houston. It was summer 1978, hotter than Hades, he was wearing this light blue jump suit looking getup. . . . .
best,
brian kc
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