Bernie, if you are in NYC, then you must know of Julians, formerly of 14th St. For those who don't know of Julians, it was--pre Color of Money--the classic old style, seedy pool room, complete with daily attendence by a bunch of guys smoking cigars, faces pressed to racing sheets, all on the lookout for some easy way to make a buck. If there was any music, it came softly from the guy with the transistor stuck to his ear, during commecial breaks from whatever ballgame he was listening to. To enter Julians, you had to make way through the junkies to climb the piss encrusted steps.
The tables were ancient Gold Crowns (GC 1's, I believe) that were only recovered when the bed color turned from green to gray, as the frail worn threads finally gave way to slate. The rubber rails had the responsiveness of masonery and few had intact covering after decades of cigarette burn torture.
Yet Julians did have a kind of perverse charm. And the resident house pro, George Makula, was one of the most talented all around players I've ever seen. Now and then, one of the top pros would come around. I recall Danny Diliberto playing one pocket with George in an all day match that ended dead tied.
It's a wonder Peter Falk ever became "Columbo," because he was so addicted to pool--and maybe the unique atmosphere of Julians--he frequently skipped auditions to continue playing or just bs.
Despite all this, Julians was a fun place to play pool or just breeze the local pool gossip and road rumors. And for many years, it was the only pool room in Manhattan. Period!
One day a guy came in and said he was doing research for a new movie. He was writing the screen play for it and wanted to talk to some of us to get an idea of how things worked in a pool room. He spend two days hanging out, asking questions, mostly talking to George, and the buzz around the room thereafter was this new "Hustler" movie. Louie, the guy with the transistor radio, was particularly energized--a very rare spectacle for Louie--because he remembered the windfall days following the "Hustler." After a few days, though, things returned to normal and talk returned to horses and baseball.
"The Color of Money," came and went. "Wasn't that the movie George talked to that guy about?" Louie asked Spanish Mike.
Spanish Mike grudgingly replied, "Ummm." He didn't give a shit about movies. His attention was riveted to his pick in the third at Belmont. I doubt any of the regulars saw the movie. "Pay eight bucks to see a f*cking movie. Are you kidding me?"
Apparently, lots of other people did see the movie. Soon there was a new buzz: a big new pool room opened over on 21st St! Really? Fifty brand new Gold Crowns, carpeted floors, plants!, 12' snooker tables--it was magnificent. "Yeah, shit," said Louie, "I hear they're charging six bucks an hour for one player. Ten bucks at night! Who's going to pay that kind of money to play pool?" Indeed, Louie had a point. Julians was $2 an hour. "Are you shittin' me, ten bucks an hour to play pool. No one's gonna play there."
Six months later, Chelea Billiards had to raise their rates. The crowds waiting for a table swarmed the front desk such that, if you had a table by the desk, you didn't have room to shoot. By 8pm every evening you figured on 1-2 hours wait for a table. The price had gone up to $12/hour, and $2/hour for each additional player. Music blared at night as if it were a festival. Many nights, at 1am in the morning, you still had to wait for a table.
The owner, Gene, encouraged gamblers and pros to come to Chelsea. Special tight pocket tables were set up in the corners and downstairs. He figured the crowds wanted to see real hustlers. I guess Gene knew the underside of peoples' souls, given that he was a former minister.
Soon top pros like Grady Mathews and Mike Sigel started showing up and some seriously talented unnamed road players. Ginky, Tony Robles, Frankie Hernandez, Neptune Joe and Johnny Ervolino were regulars.
Anyway, Gene made a bundle from Chelsea Billiards, but not from Spanish Mike and Louie.
The tables were ancient Gold Crowns (GC 1's, I believe) that were only recovered when the bed color turned from green to gray, as the frail worn threads finally gave way to slate. The rubber rails had the responsiveness of masonery and few had intact covering after decades of cigarette burn torture.
Yet Julians did have a kind of perverse charm. And the resident house pro, George Makula, was one of the most talented all around players I've ever seen. Now and then, one of the top pros would come around. I recall Danny Diliberto playing one pocket with George in an all day match that ended dead tied.
It's a wonder Peter Falk ever became "Columbo," because he was so addicted to pool--and maybe the unique atmosphere of Julians--he frequently skipped auditions to continue playing or just bs.
Despite all this, Julians was a fun place to play pool or just breeze the local pool gossip and road rumors. And for many years, it was the only pool room in Manhattan. Period!
One day a guy came in and said he was doing research for a new movie. He was writing the screen play for it and wanted to talk to some of us to get an idea of how things worked in a pool room. He spend two days hanging out, asking questions, mostly talking to George, and the buzz around the room thereafter was this new "Hustler" movie. Louie, the guy with the transistor radio, was particularly energized--a very rare spectacle for Louie--because he remembered the windfall days following the "Hustler." After a few days, though, things returned to normal and talk returned to horses and baseball.
"The Color of Money," came and went. "Wasn't that the movie George talked to that guy about?" Louie asked Spanish Mike.
Spanish Mike grudgingly replied, "Ummm." He didn't give a shit about movies. His attention was riveted to his pick in the third at Belmont. I doubt any of the regulars saw the movie. "Pay eight bucks to see a f*cking movie. Are you kidding me?"
Apparently, lots of other people did see the movie. Soon there was a new buzz: a big new pool room opened over on 21st St! Really? Fifty brand new Gold Crowns, carpeted floors, plants!, 12' snooker tables--it was magnificent. "Yeah, shit," said Louie, "I hear they're charging six bucks an hour for one player. Ten bucks at night! Who's going to pay that kind of money to play pool?" Indeed, Louie had a point. Julians was $2 an hour. "Are you shittin' me, ten bucks an hour to play pool. No one's gonna play there."
Six months later, Chelea Billiards had to raise their rates. The crowds waiting for a table swarmed the front desk such that, if you had a table by the desk, you didn't have room to shoot. By 8pm every evening you figured on 1-2 hours wait for a table. The price had gone up to $12/hour, and $2/hour for each additional player. Music blared at night as if it were a festival. Many nights, at 1am in the morning, you still had to wait for a table.
The owner, Gene, encouraged gamblers and pros to come to Chelsea. Special tight pocket tables were set up in the corners and downstairs. He figured the crowds wanted to see real hustlers. I guess Gene knew the underside of peoples' souls, given that he was a former minister.
Soon top pros like Grady Mathews and Mike Sigel started showing up and some seriously talented unnamed road players. Ginky, Tony Robles, Frankie Hernandez, Neptune Joe and Johnny Ervolino were regulars.
Anyway, Gene made a bundle from Chelsea Billiards, but not from Spanish Mike and Louie.
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