I hope she doesn't mind that I am spreading her blog, but it is just so hilarious...and so true! Why is it that we keep getting interrupted in practice?
The following is an excerpt from her blog. I highly recommend that you subscibe to it!
The following is an excerpt from her blog. I highly recommend that you subscibe to it!
"One fine afternoon, I decided I'd pop on down to my local pool hall and hit some balls. It was early, and there were not very many players present.
I got a table at the back of the room and set up a row of balls to practice a drill of cutting the object ball with draw.
I popped in my iPod earphones and I was ready to be whisked away to a pleasantly grueling practice session (mental meltdown optional).
I went through the drill once and set up the balls again. A guy took a table next to me and starting hitting balls, slamming the cue ball at a hundred miles an hour with each shot while strutting dramatically around the table. I was slightly irritated, because the whole row of tables was open, so he could have taken a table one over, thus giving both of us more room. But, whatever. You could tell, without a second look, that this was your typical frat-boy-wannabe-hustler. I made a mental note that he was an idiot, and continued with practice.
I was doing pretty good on the drill on my third try and I was bopping happily along to Sesame Street when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was Next Table Guy. He motioned for me to take out my earphones, so I did.
"You know, those shots you're practicing are all right, but there's one shot that's more important than any other shot."
Oh. Really. Greeeat. I really wanted to say, oh the Jack Daniels shot? Of which you've obviously had too many? But, as you know, I really am trying to be a Kinder, Gentler Asshole these days. I said (without any facial expression, so that I would not encourage his bad habit), "And what is that."
He leaned in conspiratorially with an expression leading me to believe he was about to impart something so monumental the balance of the universe would be tilted immediately in my favor once I knew what it was.
"That shot," he said, his very ear-hairs crinkling with excitement, "is--the BREAK."
At that moment, I realized I would never grow old. Why? Because I managed to keep a straight face. I think I have natural reservoirs of Botox under my skin. It's all part of being bitter and filled with venom.
"Is it now," I said, completely deadpan. "That's good to know."
I popped my earphones back in and got back to my drill. I had just lined up as children's voices were asking if I could tell them how to get to Sesame Street when--tap, tap--Next Table Guy was gesticulating yet again. Against my better judgment (but following my 12-step program of becoming a Kinder, Gentler Asshole--ask first, throw punches later), I turned and said, "What."
"You don't believe me?"
"Believe what."
"That the break is the most important shot?"
"I already knew that. Before you told me." I turned away, secure in the sense that in the shopping mall of the afterlife, I had unlimited store credit. I had the earphones close enough to hear the end of Sesame Street blending into Mr. Rogers Neighborhood when Next Table Guy did the unthinkable.
He took the balls on my table out of their neat military formation and racked them.
"Go ahead! I'll help you learn how to break," he grinned.
Arrgh.
There is a hypothesis that I must give off some sort of vibe or pheremone that attracts redonkulous idiots and their unsolicited help/advice. I am not sure where this comes from. I have carefully cultivated a perma-frown over the years, but I guess I need a suit of spikes or some similar armor. Maybe I need to quit showering.
Anyways, I took a deep, calming breath and counted to ten before saying, "Fine. But just once. And then you go back to your table."
I may miss everything I shoot at, I may play horrific patterns (which I do), I may choose the wrong shot (always), I might not know if the cue ball is going to stay on the table when I pull the trigger (fire in the hole!), and I might not know how to make toast (charcoal, anyone?), but there is one thing I can consistently do well, and that is: break.
It is my form of therapy. Life got you down? Crack a rack. It'll make you feel better. Or at least prevent you from cracking anything else.
He actually cut me off at the pass and re-racked the balls. "That's not bad for a girl! Do it again!"
Fine. I broke the balls again, getting two this time, and sitting the cue ball in the middle of the table like a fat buddha on a lotus. Next Table Guy seemed sufficiently impressed by this. I paused a moment, and when he had no reaction, I collected the balls and set up my drill again, a warm glow of righteous superiority filling my heart.
My song list had advanced to The Fonz and Happy Days (ah, yes, happy indeed), and I was once again in the fluid rhythm of practice when--tap, tap--yes, it was Next Table Guy again.
I shook my head at him. I was NOT going to encourage this idiot. He tapped me again. Oooh, that ticked me off. I am not a fan of people I don't know invading my personal space. I took out the earphones and was about to let loose a Howard-Stern-worthy stream of invective, but he once again cut me off at the pass and broke out with:
"So, you might know how to break," and as his very nose-hairs were wriggling with epiphany, he paused for dramatic effect and said,"But do you know how--to MASSE?"
Some days, it doesn't pay to open your eyes, much less get out of bed."
I got a table at the back of the room and set up a row of balls to practice a drill of cutting the object ball with draw.
I popped in my iPod earphones and I was ready to be whisked away to a pleasantly grueling practice session (mental meltdown optional).
I went through the drill once and set up the balls again. A guy took a table next to me and starting hitting balls, slamming the cue ball at a hundred miles an hour with each shot while strutting dramatically around the table. I was slightly irritated, because the whole row of tables was open, so he could have taken a table one over, thus giving both of us more room. But, whatever. You could tell, without a second look, that this was your typical frat-boy-wannabe-hustler. I made a mental note that he was an idiot, and continued with practice.
I was doing pretty good on the drill on my third try and I was bopping happily along to Sesame Street when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was Next Table Guy. He motioned for me to take out my earphones, so I did.
"You know, those shots you're practicing are all right, but there's one shot that's more important than any other shot."
Oh. Really. Greeeat. I really wanted to say, oh the Jack Daniels shot? Of which you've obviously had too many? But, as you know, I really am trying to be a Kinder, Gentler Asshole these days. I said (without any facial expression, so that I would not encourage his bad habit), "And what is that."
He leaned in conspiratorially with an expression leading me to believe he was about to impart something so monumental the balance of the universe would be tilted immediately in my favor once I knew what it was.
"That shot," he said, his very ear-hairs crinkling with excitement, "is--the BREAK."
At that moment, I realized I would never grow old. Why? Because I managed to keep a straight face. I think I have natural reservoirs of Botox under my skin. It's all part of being bitter and filled with venom.
"Is it now," I said, completely deadpan. "That's good to know."
I popped my earphones back in and got back to my drill. I had just lined up as children's voices were asking if I could tell them how to get to Sesame Street when--tap, tap--Next Table Guy was gesticulating yet again. Against my better judgment (but following my 12-step program of becoming a Kinder, Gentler Asshole--ask first, throw punches later), I turned and said, "What."
"You don't believe me?"
"Believe what."
"That the break is the most important shot?"
"I already knew that. Before you told me." I turned away, secure in the sense that in the shopping mall of the afterlife, I had unlimited store credit. I had the earphones close enough to hear the end of Sesame Street blending into Mr. Rogers Neighborhood when Next Table Guy did the unthinkable.
He took the balls on my table out of their neat military formation and racked them.
"Go ahead! I'll help you learn how to break," he grinned.
Arrgh.
There is a hypothesis that I must give off some sort of vibe or pheremone that attracts redonkulous idiots and their unsolicited help/advice. I am not sure where this comes from. I have carefully cultivated a perma-frown over the years, but I guess I need a suit of spikes or some similar armor. Maybe I need to quit showering.
Anyways, I took a deep, calming breath and counted to ten before saying, "Fine. But just once. And then you go back to your table."
I may miss everything I shoot at, I may play horrific patterns (which I do), I may choose the wrong shot (always), I might not know if the cue ball is going to stay on the table when I pull the trigger (fire in the hole!), and I might not know how to make toast (charcoal, anyone?), but there is one thing I can consistently do well, and that is: break.
It is my form of therapy. Life got you down? Crack a rack. It'll make you feel better. Or at least prevent you from cracking anything else.
He actually cut me off at the pass and re-racked the balls. "That's not bad for a girl! Do it again!"
Fine. I broke the balls again, getting two this time, and sitting the cue ball in the middle of the table like a fat buddha on a lotus. Next Table Guy seemed sufficiently impressed by this. I paused a moment, and when he had no reaction, I collected the balls and set up my drill again, a warm glow of righteous superiority filling my heart.
My song list had advanced to The Fonz and Happy Days (ah, yes, happy indeed), and I was once again in the fluid rhythm of practice when--tap, tap--yes, it was Next Table Guy again.
I shook my head at him. I was NOT going to encourage this idiot. He tapped me again. Oooh, that ticked me off. I am not a fan of people I don't know invading my personal space. I took out the earphones and was about to let loose a Howard-Stern-worthy stream of invective, but he once again cut me off at the pass and broke out with:
"So, you might know how to break," and as his very nose-hairs were wriggling with epiphany, he paused for dramatic effect and said,"But do you know how--to MASSE?"
Some days, it doesn't pay to open your eyes, much less get out of bed."
