9BallPaul
Banned
Hard to believe it was 44 years ago when I stuck out my thumb on U.S. 40 in Denver, headed West.
Slung over my shoulder was a cheap cue I'd bought from Martin Kamen, known around Denver as Fat Marty. I was a full-time pool junkie, armed with a small bankroll, ready for action.
In the next month, I'd find some. First in Salt Lake, next in Boise, and then in Portland, where I camped out for a couple weeks. Played a downtown poolroom on the second floor and fattened my bankroll even further. They called me the Colorado Kid, and for a teenager it was very flattering.
Next I hit San Francisco during the Summer of Love. Naturally I headed for the Haight-Ashbury, but quickly it bored me. So I sniffed out the Tenderloin district on Market Street, where Paradise awaited. Down the street was the St. Francis Hotel, the city's best. Naturally I sprung for a room, a shower and a good sleep. Then on to the pool.
Inside the Palace poolroom were a couple dozen gorgeous tables and a full-service bar and lunch counter. By my Denver standards, this qualified as classy.
Across the street was Cochran's, another upstairs room, but as nasty as any I've ever encountered, air blue with tobacco smoke. Funny thing is, the best players I'd ever seen lined up to play one another in Cochran's. In one corner I ran into Billy Stroud, a bud of sorts from Colorado. In another I saw I guy named Dennis something-or-other (Searing?) who shot lights out. Every table featured hot sticks.
I crept across the street hoping to protect my bankroll, and lo and behold Paul Silva is playing alone at the Palace. He's a small-boned, mild-mannered man who strikes up a conversation. He entices me into a game.
I'd never seen him play before, but it seemed as though he played just a ball above me. I'd run a rack. He'd run two. He offered the 8-ball, I took it, and continued to lose.
The SOB robbed me, but did it slowly, elegantly and gentlemanly. I scooted out with tail between my legs and my ego in shreds. Making matters worse: My cue and handbag (with my dirty clothes!) had been stolen at Cochran's while I was sleeping in the spectator seats.
I hitchhiked home with nothing, surviving on the goodness of others. Didn't play another game until I got back to Denver.
Paul Silva has probably passed by now, but he deserves to be remembered as the guy who robbed a young kid on his first road trip.
Wish I could run into a kid like that today ... heh heh heh. So here's to the "real" 9BallPaul.
Slung over my shoulder was a cheap cue I'd bought from Martin Kamen, known around Denver as Fat Marty. I was a full-time pool junkie, armed with a small bankroll, ready for action.
In the next month, I'd find some. First in Salt Lake, next in Boise, and then in Portland, where I camped out for a couple weeks. Played a downtown poolroom on the second floor and fattened my bankroll even further. They called me the Colorado Kid, and for a teenager it was very flattering.
Next I hit San Francisco during the Summer of Love. Naturally I headed for the Haight-Ashbury, but quickly it bored me. So I sniffed out the Tenderloin district on Market Street, where Paradise awaited. Down the street was the St. Francis Hotel, the city's best. Naturally I sprung for a room, a shower and a good sleep. Then on to the pool.
Inside the Palace poolroom were a couple dozen gorgeous tables and a full-service bar and lunch counter. By my Denver standards, this qualified as classy.
Across the street was Cochran's, another upstairs room, but as nasty as any I've ever encountered, air blue with tobacco smoke. Funny thing is, the best players I'd ever seen lined up to play one another in Cochran's. In one corner I ran into Billy Stroud, a bud of sorts from Colorado. In another I saw I guy named Dennis something-or-other (Searing?) who shot lights out. Every table featured hot sticks.
I crept across the street hoping to protect my bankroll, and lo and behold Paul Silva is playing alone at the Palace. He's a small-boned, mild-mannered man who strikes up a conversation. He entices me into a game.
I'd never seen him play before, but it seemed as though he played just a ball above me. I'd run a rack. He'd run two. He offered the 8-ball, I took it, and continued to lose.
The SOB robbed me, but did it slowly, elegantly and gentlemanly. I scooted out with tail between my legs and my ego in shreds. Making matters worse: My cue and handbag (with my dirty clothes!) had been stolen at Cochran's while I was sleeping in the spectator seats.
I hitchhiked home with nothing, surviving on the goodness of others. Didn't play another game until I got back to Denver.
Paul Silva has probably passed by now, but he deserves to be remembered as the guy who robbed a young kid on his first road trip.
Wish I could run into a kid like that today ... heh heh heh. So here's to the "real" 9BallPaul.
