I have the outline, as you can see, I'm writing it every day!
Just giving a 'Preview' of some pages.
It's in my hands now.
BTW, He turned 80 two days ago.
Last edited:
Reflections on the Life of a Hustler
- Thread starter mr3cushion
- Start date
Just giving a 'Preview' of some pages.
It's in my hands now.
BTW, He turned 80 two days ago.
Eric, if you have time, read through the partial pages of the chapters so far.I know……..
You won't be disappointed.
Thanks G!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
Because I mentioned Bugs Rucker this is as good as place as many to shift my attention from the rogue’s gallery to the truly great pool players I have known over the years. Bugs is right at the top of my list of great hustlers and real friends. North Side, South Side, Hammond or wherever, I always loved to hook up with a guy who was probably the best black pool artist of all time. We hit it off great, and over the years we hustled each other maybe twenty-five times through some of the best pool games I've ever played. Bugs was inducted into the One Pocket Hall of Fame and Bank Pool Hall of Fame shortly before he died in 2007.When they inducted me into the Hall of Fame bugs flew into Louisville, Kentucky as sick as he was. He showed up in a wheelchair and when he came into the room everyone stood up and applauded him. He was the happiest man in the world when he saw me. And he said I would not have flown here for anyone but you.
I mentioned before that Minnesota Fats used to get up a patter like Muhammad Ali, but Bugs was the real Muhammad Ali of pool because he could not only talk the talk but walk the walk. Forty years ago, in his prime Bugs would come in raping and woofing and dancing into Bensinger's with an entourage at his back, 6"3" and dressed to kill. In the wildest looking clothes, I wrote a Eulogy for Bug’s funeral, “Banking My Way to Heaven.” It’s one off the greatest articles ever in life. You can read it on One Pocket .org.
His confidence was matched only by his skill. He'd casually pull a cue off the rack as if to say "l don't need no fancy stick. I can beat you suckers with any cue stick I put my hands on." Then he'd proceed to pour powder onto his hands and slap them together so that there was white stuff everywhere on the green felt. It looked like he'd scattered a bag of cocaine all over the green felt.
He played with fierce energy and concentration, laughing and trash talking all the while. Like Ali, he intimidated his opponents. He was a great ball runner and could play banks and one pocket with anyone in the world and bet all the money on one game. Nobody could duplicate his style and dress and his ability and showmanship. He was truly one off a kind as a hustler his real games were Bank Pool and One Pocket. To beat Bugs, I had to play my real speed and keep patient because the only way to beat a player of his ability was to outmaneuver him and wait for a mistake.
I was a talented player, but I always knew there might be shooters with more raw skill. Since it places so much emphasis on positioning, blocking and trapping, One Pocket was the best game for me. It is a thinking man's game where you must keep your opponent from scoring balls as well as pocketing them yourself. You must keep putting pressure on your adversary, wearing him down, frustrating him, and goading him into taking a reckless shot that will give you the opening to counter attack. If straight pool is like a slam dunk contest, One Pocket is like chess. To compete with the best, you have to be mentally prepared.
One Pocket and Bank Pool are what we called Chicago-style games. The greatest players of these games came from Chicago, Detroit and other cities in the Midwest. The best straight pool players were mostly East Coast guys, because for one reason or another they played a lot of straight pool in New York, Boston and elsewhere in the East. Of course, the players in each area of the country believe their own game is the best. That’s as it should be. What you want to avoid is thinking you're your own abilities are so strong that you can beat the other guy playing his game. As I said earlier Minnesota Fats, a straight pool player who cut his teeth in the East, wouldn't make that mistake with me.
But I remember when a good player from New York, Gene Nagy, came out west to Bensinger’s looking to play me some One Pocket. Dumb move, Gene! We start playing for $300 a game. He goes off like a firecracker, running eight and out to win the first game. I give him credit. The guy could shoot, and he could run balls. But when it came down to it, he didn't have a clue how to play One Pocket. I proceeded to beat him the next eight games in a row, and he was finished. Nagy was one of those free-wheeling straight pool players that never seem to miss a ball, but when he's put off his tempo, when he has to stop and think, he loses his edge.
To be continued:
HALL OF FAME
Because I mentioned Bugs Rucker this is as good as place as many to shift my attention from the rogue’s gallery to the truly great pool players I have known over the years. Bugs is right at the top of my list of great hustlers and real friends. North Side, South Side, Hammond or wherever, I always loved to hook up with a guy who was probably the best black pool artist of all time. We hit it off great, and over the years we hustled each other maybe twenty-five times through some of the best pool games I've ever played. Bugs was inducted into the One Pocket Hall of Fame and Bank Pool Hall of Fame shortly before he died in 2007.When they inducted me into the Hall of Fame bugs flew into Louisville, Kentucky as sick as he was. He showed up in a wheelchair and when he came into the room everyone stood up and applauded him. He was the happiest man in the world when he saw me. And he said I would not have flown here for anyone but you.
I mentioned before that Minnesota Fats used to get up a patter like Muhammad Ali, but Bugs was the real Muhammad Ali of pool because he could not only talk the talk but walk the walk. Forty years ago, in his prime Bugs would come in raping and woofing and dancing into Bensinger's with an entourage at his back, 6"3" and dressed to kill. In the wildest looking clothes, I wrote a Eulogy for Bug’s funeral, “Banking My Way to Heaven.” It’s one off the greatest articles ever in life. You can read it on One Pocket .org.
His confidence was matched only by his skill. He'd casually pull a cue off the rack as if to say "l don't need no fancy stick. I can beat you suckers with any cue stick I put my hands on." Then he'd proceed to pour powder onto his hands and slap them together so that there was white stuff everywhere on the green felt. It looked like he'd scattered a bag of cocaine all over the green felt.
He played with fierce energy and concentration, laughing and trash talking all the while. Like Ali, he intimidated his opponents. He was a great ball runner and could play banks and one pocket with anyone in the world and bet all the money on one game. Nobody could duplicate his style and dress and his ability and showmanship. He was truly one off a kind as a hustler his real games were Bank Pool and One Pocket. To beat Bugs, I had to play my real speed and keep patient because the only way to beat a player of his ability was to outmaneuver him and wait for a mistake.
I was a talented player, but I always knew there might be shooters with more raw skill. Since it places so much emphasis on positioning, blocking and trapping, One Pocket was the best game for me. It is a thinking man's game where you must keep your opponent from scoring balls as well as pocketing them yourself. You must keep putting pressure on your adversary, wearing him down, frustrating him, and goading him into taking a reckless shot that will give you the opening to counter attack. If straight pool is like a slam dunk contest, One Pocket is like chess. To compete with the best, you have to be mentally prepared.
One Pocket and Bank Pool are what we called Chicago-style games. The greatest players of these games came from Chicago, Detroit and other cities in the Midwest. The best straight pool players were mostly East Coast guys, because for one reason or another they played a lot of straight pool in New York, Boston and elsewhere in the East. Of course, the players in each area of the country believe their own game is the best. That’s as it should be. What you want to avoid is thinking you're your own abilities are so strong that you can beat the other guy playing his game. As I said earlier Minnesota Fats, a straight pool player who cut his teeth in the East, wouldn't make that mistake with me.
But I remember when a good player from New York, Gene Nagy, came out west to Bensinger’s looking to play me some One Pocket. Dumb move, Gene! We start playing for $300 a game. He goes off like a firecracker, running eight and out to win the first game. I give him credit. The guy could shoot, and he could run balls. But when it came down to it, he didn't have a clue how to play One Pocket. I proceeded to beat him the next eight games in a row, and he was finished. Nagy was one of those free-wheeling straight pool players that never seem to miss a ball, but when he's put off his tempo, when he has to stop and think, he loses his edge.
To be continued:
Part 2
After the day's action I asked Nagy if he wanted to try again tomorrow, and he said no thank you. Smart move, Gene! As we used to say about East Coast straight pool players: "They want to play a hundred points for donuts and a cup of coffee.” Well, I’m sure they have stories about us too. Anyway, the greatest One Pocket players of my time among which, in all modesty I must include myself, Bugs Rucker, Eddie Taylor and Ronnie Allen. Both Rucker and Allen were power players who ran roughshod over lesser foes. They had strong personalities and were intimidating at the table, but neither of them mastered the strategic positional game that I did. Eddie Taylor was not only a nice guy and a terrific shooter, he was one of the few players who could drink steadily and still hold his form. That may not seem like a big deal, but it is very important in the old-time poolroom atmosphere where booze was usually part of the action.
Another first rater is Freddy "the Beard” Bentivegna. Freddy was maybe the smartest guy I ever played against, but he lacked the killer instinct. In my opinion he was too soft hearted to be a top notch hustler. He never enjoyed beating suckers but wanted always to be playing with champions. Freddy would get bored without keen competition. He didn't really care about money and wasn't afraid to go broke. Freddy was also a master card player and loved to handicap the ponies. He had a photographic memory and studied the game of pool like a professor of history. He wrote two important books about bank pool: "The Gospool” and "Banking with the Beard". On top of that Freddy the Beard was, and still is, a yarn spinner in a class with Minnesota Fats. There has never been a better ambassador for the game, and he deserves his spot in the Hall of Fame.
Pony Rosen and Bunny Rogoff were great Jewish players. Of course, they'd hustle you whether you were Jewish or not. Bunny was also an entertainer in the Reno mold. His nickname was "Pots and Pans" because on the side he sold kitchen hardware. At the tables he'd try to put up a case load of Corning Ware against a sucker’s cash. If that didn't work, he'd suck on a pint of whiskey, pretending to be drunk. He kept the bottle full of tea. He hustled pool all over Chicago carrying a big wallet attached to a chain and called himself Castro and putting on a Charlie Chaplin routine that made him look like a ten-carat sucker.
Like Bunny, Pony Rosen was a great jokester and Damon Runyon character that got the nickname from his love of the racetrack. One fateful day when I was playing Pony on a five by ten table with him two games ahead, he had a stroke and collapsed to the floor. Here he was getting ready to sink his game ball to win the match and dropped dead! Pony died hustling pool, and I think he would have wanted it that way. Both Pony Rosen and Bunny Rogoff have a place in the heavens because they were not only good players, but also made people laugh and had a lot of fun doing it.
As for the best straight pool players, Willie Mosconi is in a class by himself. He won the world championship nineteen times and had a high run of 526 balls in an exhibition game. Willie was used as an advisor on “The Hustler" film, but he should have been the star of the show. Minnesota Fats was a decent straight pool shooter, but he was not in the same league with Mosconi or some of the other top talents like Steve Mizerak or Ralph Greenleaf. Trick-shot artists are fun to watch, and these days the ESPN pool shows are full of it. The best practitioner I've ever seen is Mike Massey.
In the gentleman's game of Three Cushion Billiards, Willie Hoppe was the master. The Belgian Sir Raymond Ceulemans was another excellent player. I played plenty of Three Cushion Billiards myself, my specialty being the one-handed game. Ceulemans politely declined to take me on at the one-handed game. I once hustled Bill Romaine, one of the best Chicago Three Cushion players, out of several thousand dollars playing one- handed. Some of the other strong Three Cushion guys in Chicago were Joe Procita, Bud Harris, George Pentares, Louis Campos and Billy Smith. Billy was the youngest of the Best 3 cushion players in Chicago after only playing 3 or 4 years. He was also the biggest gambler, along with learning His trade of “Hustling” from being a ‘Bensinger’s Boy! He was the only 3 cushion player I knew that went around the city and country hustling it.
Bensinger's catered to many of these players. Some of them were businessmen who came into the joint at lunch time dressed like bankers. They rubbed elbows with the typical grunge meisters milling about Bensinger's and 2008 thought nothing of it. Pool is that kind of game, attracting the high-life and low-lives alike. It’s part of the democracy of America. As far as a hustler like me is concerned, whether you're wearing a thousand-dollar Brooks Brothers suit or a grease-stained T-shirt your money is always good. Nobody can say that **** *********** has a prejudiced bone in his body. As for all-around play, if I weren't so modest I might put myself on the A list.
But I have to award pool the honor of best all-around player to the great Harold Worst from Grand Rapids, Michigan. He played straight pool, Snooker and Three Cushion Billiards with ivory balls, which require much greater skill at shot-making than with today's standard plastic balls. He had the most powerful stroke in the game and could he make those ivory balls dance! Harold started out playing Three Cushion Billiards. He was the best in the world for twelve years to the point where no one wanted to play him for money. So, he took up straight pool and quickly became a master at that game, betting his own money and beating everybody he played with ridiculous ease. He didn't bother much with hustler games like One Pocket, but I'm sure that if I could have taught him the strategies, he would have cleaned up on that game like he did everything else. Harold Worst died young, of leukemia, at age thirty-seven. He was a great loss to the game, a legend in his own time.
After the day's action I asked Nagy if he wanted to try again tomorrow, and he said no thank you. Smart move, Gene! As we used to say about East Coast straight pool players: "They want to play a hundred points for donuts and a cup of coffee.” Well, I’m sure they have stories about us too. Anyway, the greatest One Pocket players of my time among which, in all modesty I must include myself, Bugs Rucker, Eddie Taylor and Ronnie Allen. Both Rucker and Allen were power players who ran roughshod over lesser foes. They had strong personalities and were intimidating at the table, but neither of them mastered the strategic positional game that I did. Eddie Taylor was not only a nice guy and a terrific shooter, he was one of the few players who could drink steadily and still hold his form. That may not seem like a big deal, but it is very important in the old-time poolroom atmosphere where booze was usually part of the action.
Another first rater is Freddy "the Beard” Bentivegna. Freddy was maybe the smartest guy I ever played against, but he lacked the killer instinct. In my opinion he was too soft hearted to be a top notch hustler. He never enjoyed beating suckers but wanted always to be playing with champions. Freddy would get bored without keen competition. He didn't really care about money and wasn't afraid to go broke. Freddy was also a master card player and loved to handicap the ponies. He had a photographic memory and studied the game of pool like a professor of history. He wrote two important books about bank pool: "The Gospool” and "Banking with the Beard". On top of that Freddy the Beard was, and still is, a yarn spinner in a class with Minnesota Fats. There has never been a better ambassador for the game, and he deserves his spot in the Hall of Fame.
Pony Rosen and Bunny Rogoff were great Jewish players. Of course, they'd hustle you whether you were Jewish or not. Bunny was also an entertainer in the Reno mold. His nickname was "Pots and Pans" because on the side he sold kitchen hardware. At the tables he'd try to put up a case load of Corning Ware against a sucker’s cash. If that didn't work, he'd suck on a pint of whiskey, pretending to be drunk. He kept the bottle full of tea. He hustled pool all over Chicago carrying a big wallet attached to a chain and called himself Castro and putting on a Charlie Chaplin routine that made him look like a ten-carat sucker.
Like Bunny, Pony Rosen was a great jokester and Damon Runyon character that got the nickname from his love of the racetrack. One fateful day when I was playing Pony on a five by ten table with him two games ahead, he had a stroke and collapsed to the floor. Here he was getting ready to sink his game ball to win the match and dropped dead! Pony died hustling pool, and I think he would have wanted it that way. Both Pony Rosen and Bunny Rogoff have a place in the heavens because they were not only good players, but also made people laugh and had a lot of fun doing it.
As for the best straight pool players, Willie Mosconi is in a class by himself. He won the world championship nineteen times and had a high run of 526 balls in an exhibition game. Willie was used as an advisor on “The Hustler" film, but he should have been the star of the show. Minnesota Fats was a decent straight pool shooter, but he was not in the same league with Mosconi or some of the other top talents like Steve Mizerak or Ralph Greenleaf. Trick-shot artists are fun to watch, and these days the ESPN pool shows are full of it. The best practitioner I've ever seen is Mike Massey.
In the gentleman's game of Three Cushion Billiards, Willie Hoppe was the master. The Belgian Sir Raymond Ceulemans was another excellent player. I played plenty of Three Cushion Billiards myself, my specialty being the one-handed game. Ceulemans politely declined to take me on at the one-handed game. I once hustled Bill Romaine, one of the best Chicago Three Cushion players, out of several thousand dollars playing one- handed. Some of the other strong Three Cushion guys in Chicago were Joe Procita, Bud Harris, George Pentares, Louis Campos and Billy Smith. Billy was the youngest of the Best 3 cushion players in Chicago after only playing 3 or 4 years. He was also the biggest gambler, along with learning His trade of “Hustling” from being a ‘Bensinger’s Boy! He was the only 3 cushion player I knew that went around the city and country hustling it.
Bensinger's catered to many of these players. Some of them were businessmen who came into the joint at lunch time dressed like bankers. They rubbed elbows with the typical grunge meisters milling about Bensinger's and 2008 thought nothing of it. Pool is that kind of game, attracting the high-life and low-lives alike. It’s part of the democracy of America. As far as a hustler like me is concerned, whether you're wearing a thousand-dollar Brooks Brothers suit or a grease-stained T-shirt your money is always good. Nobody can say that **** *********** has a prejudiced bone in his body. As for all-around play, if I weren't so modest I might put myself on the A list.
But I have to award pool the honor of best all-around player to the great Harold Worst from Grand Rapids, Michigan. He played straight pool, Snooker and Three Cushion Billiards with ivory balls, which require much greater skill at shot-making than with today's standard plastic balls. He had the most powerful stroke in the game and could he make those ivory balls dance! Harold started out playing Three Cushion Billiards. He was the best in the world for twelve years to the point where no one wanted to play him for money. So, he took up straight pool and quickly became a master at that game, betting his own money and beating everybody he played with ridiculous ease. He didn't bother much with hustler games like One Pocket, but I'm sure that if I could have taught him the strategies, he would have cleaned up on that game like he did everything else. Harold Worst died young, of leukemia, at age thirty-seven. He was a great loss to the game, a legend in his own time.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
Bensinger's closed down for good in the 70s. After that there were still great pool rooms like the North Shore Billiard Club on Clark Street, but as time went on the hustling game in Chicago began to fade. By then I had been playing in my hometown for many years and had a wide reputation. It's nice to be recognized as a strong player. But since a hustler needs fresh blood to work his trade, from time to time it is usually necessary for him to go on the road. The good thing about being on the road is that the local suckers don't know you as well as the Chicago boys do. The bad thing about being on the road is that you're not always wise to the local conditions and can get yourself into big trouble if you're not careful whom you're dealing with. To me it was important to work with steer men wherever I went. These were the local contacts that knew the territory and could steer me to the best pool rooms and suckers and big money games. Just like an entrepreneur in business works with his investment banker, a hustler works with his backers and steer men. Teamwork pays off.
Some of my biggest scores on the road and also some of the hairiest situations came on my winter trips to Florida and California. I'd get fed up with the cold winds in Chicago the "hawk" we called it and start itching for a little relaxation in the sun. In a town like Miami, I'd want to hustle up some action but also take in the party scene. In the days when l was still drinking pretty good the combination of work and play would get me into some crazy scrapes. I went down to Florida for the first time with my friend Rory O'Shea. Our plan was to hustle pool, but from the moment we got on the plane in Chicago we were drinking like sailors on a spree. Once we landed, we kept going that way for days at a time. An angel must have been watching over me because somehow, I managed to keep from getting my ass kicked in the redneck bars and pool halls where we spent most of our time.
In one joint called the Crossroads they were playing Nine Ball with a guy called Big Henry, who was built like King Kong and looking for trouble. He could barely make a ball, but it didn't matter, since when he lost, he would just glare at you without paying and when he won, he'd collect every nickel. He and his redneck buddies filled the bar and were looking to start a fight every ten minutes. They'd go out back and hit each other with two by fours while their girlfriends screamed "can't you hit him any harder?" Then they'd come back in bleeding and hugging each other and setting up another round of drinks. Back in Chicago I'd been part of some pretty crazy scenes, but these down-home rednecks were ready to cut each other’s ears off just for laughs. And here Rory and I are so drunk we're just standing there waiting to get beat up or rolled or worse. Eventually I did make a good score at the Congress Bowl, which was the best hustle joint in Miami, nailing a sucker for sixteen grand playing One Pocket. I filled up a whiskey bottle with water and pretended to be drunk the whole time I played him. To tell you the truth, I didn't have to pretend a whole lot.
Then we went up to visit Rory's cousin in Jacksonville, where we also just happened to visit some local poolrooms. We hustled a few guys and finally wound up in a big money game with a couple of hustlers named Harley and Sammy Blumenthal. Rory was drunk and I was half drunk (what else is new?) and Sammy Blumenthal, who drank a pint of bourbon every morning before he'd start playing, well, he was drunk too. "Never play an alcoholic and a fat man at the same time," Rory mumbled in my ear. I had no idea what he was talking about. The fat guy he was referring to 2092 in Jacksonville was a dude named Harley. This Harley got very angry because not only had we invaded his turf but also Rory had started calling him “Fatso”. Rory won't shut up, so Harley pulls out a gun and tells Rory, "If you call me Fatso one more time, I'm gonna blow your fuckin' head off!" “Put down that gun and we'll settle this outside!" Rory says. I don't know where Rory got that line, probably out of some John Wayne movie.
By now I'm pretty drunk myself, but something tells me this argument is not going very well for our side. Luckily things cool down for a few minutes before Horace decides he wants to arm wrestle us for a thousand dollars. Horace has arms like my thighs, Harley has some kind of luger in his jacket, and he won't take no for an answer he wants some of Rory for calling him Fatso. I manage to get the conversation back to playing One Pocket on a snooker table for one thousand dollars a game. Seeing as we were strangers, Harley and his friends wouldn't go for that action.
To be continued:
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
Bensinger's closed down for good in the 70s. After that there were still great pool rooms like the North Shore Billiard Club on Clark Street, but as time went on the hustling game in Chicago began to fade. By then I had been playing in my hometown for many years and had a wide reputation. It's nice to be recognized as a strong player. But since a hustler needs fresh blood to work his trade, from time to time it is usually necessary for him to go on the road. The good thing about being on the road is that the local suckers don't know you as well as the Chicago boys do. The bad thing about being on the road is that you're not always wise to the local conditions and can get yourself into big trouble if you're not careful whom you're dealing with. To me it was important to work with steer men wherever I went. These were the local contacts that knew the territory and could steer me to the best pool rooms and suckers and big money games. Just like an entrepreneur in business works with his investment banker, a hustler works with his backers and steer men. Teamwork pays off.
Some of my biggest scores on the road and also some of the hairiest situations came on my winter trips to Florida and California. I'd get fed up with the cold winds in Chicago the "hawk" we called it and start itching for a little relaxation in the sun. In a town like Miami, I'd want to hustle up some action but also take in the party scene. In the days when l was still drinking pretty good the combination of work and play would get me into some crazy scrapes. I went down to Florida for the first time with my friend Rory O'Shea. Our plan was to hustle pool, but from the moment we got on the plane in Chicago we were drinking like sailors on a spree. Once we landed, we kept going that way for days at a time. An angel must have been watching over me because somehow, I managed to keep from getting my ass kicked in the redneck bars and pool halls where we spent most of our time.
In one joint called the Crossroads they were playing Nine Ball with a guy called Big Henry, who was built like King Kong and looking for trouble. He could barely make a ball, but it didn't matter, since when he lost, he would just glare at you without paying and when he won, he'd collect every nickel. He and his redneck buddies filled the bar and were looking to start a fight every ten minutes. They'd go out back and hit each other with two by fours while their girlfriends screamed "can't you hit him any harder?" Then they'd come back in bleeding and hugging each other and setting up another round of drinks. Back in Chicago I'd been part of some pretty crazy scenes, but these down-home rednecks were ready to cut each other’s ears off just for laughs. And here Rory and I are so drunk we're just standing there waiting to get beat up or rolled or worse. Eventually I did make a good score at the Congress Bowl, which was the best hustle joint in Miami, nailing a sucker for sixteen grand playing One Pocket. I filled up a whiskey bottle with water and pretended to be drunk the whole time I played him. To tell you the truth, I didn't have to pretend a whole lot.
Then we went up to visit Rory's cousin in Jacksonville, where we also just happened to visit some local poolrooms. We hustled a few guys and finally wound up in a big money game with a couple of hustlers named Harley and Sammy Blumenthal. Rory was drunk and I was half drunk (what else is new?) and Sammy Blumenthal, who drank a pint of bourbon every morning before he'd start playing, well, he was drunk too. "Never play an alcoholic and a fat man at the same time," Rory mumbled in my ear. I had no idea what he was talking about. The fat guy he was referring to 2092 in Jacksonville was a dude named Harley. This Harley got very angry because not only had we invaded his turf but also Rory had started calling him “Fatso”. Rory won't shut up, so Harley pulls out a gun and tells Rory, "If you call me Fatso one more time, I'm gonna blow your fuckin' head off!" “Put down that gun and we'll settle this outside!" Rory says. I don't know where Rory got that line, probably out of some John Wayne movie.
By now I'm pretty drunk myself, but something tells me this argument is not going very well for our side. Luckily things cool down for a few minutes before Horace decides he wants to arm wrestle us for a thousand dollars. Horace has arms like my thighs, Harley has some kind of luger in his jacket, and he won't take no for an answer he wants some of Rory for calling him Fatso. I manage to get the conversation back to playing One Pocket on a snooker table for one thousand dollars a game. Seeing as we were strangers, Harley and his friends wouldn't go for that action.
To be continued:
Part 2
Eventually we figured there was no use hanging around and started to back out of the place. “Sorry we didn't get to show you our game," I said to one of the old-time sweaters standing in the doorway. “That’s all right," he drawled in his redneck way. "I almost got to see a pretty good shootin'!” All of a sudden, I decided I wanted to head back to Chicago. Rory refused to go, he needed more sun or more booze or more of whatever he needed. So, I gave him all my money except for a couple hundred to get me home and jumped on a plane.
I was still so drunk and ornery and proceeded to behave like such a mad man on the flight that they had to make an unscheduled landing in Mississippi to put me off. When we landed the FBI met the plane and took me off to jail. I guess they decided that I was just crazy drunk and let me sleep it off before putting me on another flight to Chicago. Here I was a swearing drunk mad man from Chicago without a dollar in his pocket in the middle of Mississippi! Who 2123 knows how close I was to winding up on one of those chain gains in the swamps? When I sobered up, I realized that I had to stop drinking. Booze was making me act nuts. Sooner or later, I was going to get myself into the hospital or onto a chain gang or dead if I didn't stop.
Back in Chicago I got a call from Fat Jerry in California. He promised me some ripe pickings on the West Coast, where nobody knew me, so I flew to LA. With. Jerry and I made a good buck hustling the locals. One way we worked it was to put on a show with Fat Jerry beating me like a rented mule so that everybody figured I was a pushover sucker. From LA Midwest with plenty of money to lose. I'd get good spots from hustlers at rooms like the “Palace” in San Francisco, then spring the trap on them. Of course, I could do this only so long before the wise guys marked me as a big-time hustler, there were even times when people decided to get their money back by robbing me, but because Fat Jerry knew his way around, we managed to stay clear of the stick-up artists.
This is the problem with being on the road. You don't have a lot of muscle or friends around you. You don't really know the people you are dealing with and taking big money from, so you could be setting yourself up to get hurt bad. I was still young and took too many risks, especially when I was drinking. Somehow, I managed to survive some tough towns like Detroit, Hammond, Peoria, Milwaukee, Louisville and New Orleans where there were great pool halls and great players like Cornbread Red, Butter Milk, Peoria Joe, Michigan City Sam, Al Sherman, Racetrack Phil, George Brunt, Billy Smith, Clyde Childers, Gar Frazier, my old pal Peaches and many more.
I want to say a bit more about Fat Jerry, because he was one of my great partners and friends over the years. Jerry finally came back to Chicago to stay. He was one of the great hustlers and was best man at my wedding. Fat Jerry had a weight problem, to put it mildly. Once when he was around 280 he decided to go on a diet. He got his weight down to around 200 and he looked great. A couple weeks later Jerry is lounging around the poolroom, and he's depressed. “What's the matter?" I ask him. "Nobody calls me 'Fat Jerry' no more!" he moans. "It's like I'm a different person and nobody knows me. I don't know who the hell I am." So, Jerry starts eating again and pretty soon he's up over 300. Now he's Fat Jerry again and he's happy. By the time he died he must have been over 400 pounds. He was one of the nicest guys I knew but he had a deep-down loneliness in him. He loved food and he loved sex he couldn't get enough of either one. He used to hustle a pimp named Tex and Tex would pay Jerry off with tricks from his whore. He was happier than if Tex had given him money.
Of all the places I played on the road, by far the best action and the toughest competition came out of Detroit. It would be hard to say if Chicago or Detroit was the capital of hustler pool in those days. Let's call it a draw. At “The Rack” in Detroit when you pulled into the parking lot, you’d see maybe twenty or thirty cars with out of state plates. Among the regulars you'd find players like Cornbread Red Burge, Detroit Whitey Beauchene, Marvin Henderson, Billy Smith, Pittsburgh John, Mike Carrillo, Jimmy (The Philly Flash) Fusco, Pittsburgh Billy Incardona, Freddy Salem, Jew Paul Brusloff, Super Fly, Baby Face Whitlow, Allen (Young Hoppe) Hopkins and many more.
Eventually we figured there was no use hanging around and started to back out of the place. “Sorry we didn't get to show you our game," I said to one of the old-time sweaters standing in the doorway. “That’s all right," he drawled in his redneck way. "I almost got to see a pretty good shootin'!” All of a sudden, I decided I wanted to head back to Chicago. Rory refused to go, he needed more sun or more booze or more of whatever he needed. So, I gave him all my money except for a couple hundred to get me home and jumped on a plane.
I was still so drunk and ornery and proceeded to behave like such a mad man on the flight that they had to make an unscheduled landing in Mississippi to put me off. When we landed the FBI met the plane and took me off to jail. I guess they decided that I was just crazy drunk and let me sleep it off before putting me on another flight to Chicago. Here I was a swearing drunk mad man from Chicago without a dollar in his pocket in the middle of Mississippi! Who 2123 knows how close I was to winding up on one of those chain gains in the swamps? When I sobered up, I realized that I had to stop drinking. Booze was making me act nuts. Sooner or later, I was going to get myself into the hospital or onto a chain gang or dead if I didn't stop.
Back in Chicago I got a call from Fat Jerry in California. He promised me some ripe pickings on the West Coast, where nobody knew me, so I flew to LA. With. Jerry and I made a good buck hustling the locals. One way we worked it was to put on a show with Fat Jerry beating me like a rented mule so that everybody figured I was a pushover sucker. From LA Midwest with plenty of money to lose. I'd get good spots from hustlers at rooms like the “Palace” in San Francisco, then spring the trap on them. Of course, I could do this only so long before the wise guys marked me as a big-time hustler, there were even times when people decided to get their money back by robbing me, but because Fat Jerry knew his way around, we managed to stay clear of the stick-up artists.
This is the problem with being on the road. You don't have a lot of muscle or friends around you. You don't really know the people you are dealing with and taking big money from, so you could be setting yourself up to get hurt bad. I was still young and took too many risks, especially when I was drinking. Somehow, I managed to survive some tough towns like Detroit, Hammond, Peoria, Milwaukee, Louisville and New Orleans where there were great pool halls and great players like Cornbread Red, Butter Milk, Peoria Joe, Michigan City Sam, Al Sherman, Racetrack Phil, George Brunt, Billy Smith, Clyde Childers, Gar Frazier, my old pal Peaches and many more.
I want to say a bit more about Fat Jerry, because he was one of my great partners and friends over the years. Jerry finally came back to Chicago to stay. He was one of the great hustlers and was best man at my wedding. Fat Jerry had a weight problem, to put it mildly. Once when he was around 280 he decided to go on a diet. He got his weight down to around 200 and he looked great. A couple weeks later Jerry is lounging around the poolroom, and he's depressed. “What's the matter?" I ask him. "Nobody calls me 'Fat Jerry' no more!" he moans. "It's like I'm a different person and nobody knows me. I don't know who the hell I am." So, Jerry starts eating again and pretty soon he's up over 300. Now he's Fat Jerry again and he's happy. By the time he died he must have been over 400 pounds. He was one of the nicest guys I knew but he had a deep-down loneliness in him. He loved food and he loved sex he couldn't get enough of either one. He used to hustle a pimp named Tex and Tex would pay Jerry off with tricks from his whore. He was happier than if Tex had given him money.
Of all the places I played on the road, by far the best action and the toughest competition came out of Detroit. It would be hard to say if Chicago or Detroit was the capital of hustler pool in those days. Let's call it a draw. At “The Rack” in Detroit when you pulled into the parking lot, you’d see maybe twenty or thirty cars with out of state plates. Among the regulars you'd find players like Cornbread Red Burge, Detroit Whitey Beauchene, Marvin Henderson, Billy Smith, Pittsburgh John, Mike Carrillo, Jimmy (The Philly Flash) Fusco, Pittsburgh Billy Incardona, Freddy Salem, Jew Paul Brusloff, Super Fly, Baby Face Whitlow, Allen (Young Hoppe) Hopkins and many more.
Part 3
Everything in Detroit was big time, so I guess it makes sense that one of the all-time great suckers also played there the legendary Rosey, whom we all called “Airplane Bill" (don’t ask me why). He was fabulously rich. Airplane had more money than all the rest of us put together. But at pool he would never win. And he proved it in court! Because of all the checks he was writing to suspicious characters Airplane was hauled into court to explain the $15,000,000 he signed off on over the years. “I lost it all playing pool," Airplane told the judge. “How could you lose that much money playing pool?” exclaimed the judge. "How about your winnings?” “Your honor, I never won,” says Airplane. “Well why in the world would you keep playing and losing that way?" 2184 responds the judge. "If you had to gamble, why didn’t you bet on something else, like baseball"? “Oh, I could never do that, your honor,” explains Airplane. "I don't really know anything about baseball.”
Detroit in those days was a Mecca for gamblers. There were not only big money pool games but also all kinds of heavyweight card games poker, pinochle, gin rummy, you name it. Also, big time backgammon and craps. Whatever you wanted to play you were sure to find somebody who'd take you on. When I came to Detroit, I found out that my reputation had preceded me. The wise guys at the “Rack” knew that I had outplayed Bugs Rucker back in Chicago. That meant a lot to all the fine black players like Marvin Henderson and guys who went by names like “Smooth” and “Cletus’. Of course, the white players took note of it too. They all knew what a great player Bugs Rucker was.
In a town like Detroit, with all the big money flying around, you needed to have smart and dependable backers. I had one of the best in Al Sherman, who was he, one of the smartest hustlers and con men that I've ever known. Al always had his marks lined up. I'm just glad I was never one of them! I did all right in Detroit. I made plenty of money playing One Pocket against some great competition. But one of my saddest memories also came out of my time in that town, and it involved a great young player we called Detroit Jimmy.
Jimmy was a young hustler with lots of promise. When I came to Detroit, he sought me out and asked me if I would give him some pointers on how to improve his game. Just like that. I was a little bit surprised, but somehow, I warmed up to the kid. He really wanted to learn, to try to be the best, and it reminded me of myself when I was his age. So, I sort of took Detroit Jimmy under my wing. I told him to come down to Chicago and I would work with him. He came and I proceeded to rehearse him on all the fundamentals of the game shot making, strategies, observation of opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, mind games and the whole psychology of competitive pool as I knew it. He took it all in and was a wonderful student. I was proud, because here I had a real protégé, an incredibly promising young player who would go out and do great things. But all of it eventually came crashing down when Fate took a hand in this particular game.
Jimmy had a girlfriend he'd lived with for years. They'd had a son together, who was Jimmy’s pride and joy. To make a long story short, one day the girlfriend tells Jimmy she's decided to go back to her old boyfriend and that she's taking the little boy with her. Not only that, but she also tells Jimmy the boy is not really his biological son! Jimmy goes a little bit crazy and takes the girl to court. But the DNA tests do indeed show that Jimmy is not the father. Furthermore, the court decides that Jimmy although he's been the only father the little boy has ever known has no rights whatsoever where the child is concerned. He has no visiting privileges, nothing. Detroit Jimmy, one of the most promising young players and nicest kids I'd ever known, went to pieces and soon after killed himself. I was heartbroken. Jimmy was like a younger brother to me. I was also very angry at a judicial system that could not only allow such travesties of justice to occur but to actually put the stamp of law upon them. Well, it wasn’t the first time that I'd run afoul of “The System", and it would not be the last time either, as I will relate to you in a later chapter.
Everything in Detroit was big time, so I guess it makes sense that one of the all-time great suckers also played there the legendary Rosey, whom we all called “Airplane Bill" (don’t ask me why). He was fabulously rich. Airplane had more money than all the rest of us put together. But at pool he would never win. And he proved it in court! Because of all the checks he was writing to suspicious characters Airplane was hauled into court to explain the $15,000,000 he signed off on over the years. “I lost it all playing pool," Airplane told the judge. “How could you lose that much money playing pool?” exclaimed the judge. "How about your winnings?” “Your honor, I never won,” says Airplane. “Well why in the world would you keep playing and losing that way?" 2184 responds the judge. "If you had to gamble, why didn’t you bet on something else, like baseball"? “Oh, I could never do that, your honor,” explains Airplane. "I don't really know anything about baseball.”
Detroit in those days was a Mecca for gamblers. There were not only big money pool games but also all kinds of heavyweight card games poker, pinochle, gin rummy, you name it. Also, big time backgammon and craps. Whatever you wanted to play you were sure to find somebody who'd take you on. When I came to Detroit, I found out that my reputation had preceded me. The wise guys at the “Rack” knew that I had outplayed Bugs Rucker back in Chicago. That meant a lot to all the fine black players like Marvin Henderson and guys who went by names like “Smooth” and “Cletus’. Of course, the white players took note of it too. They all knew what a great player Bugs Rucker was.
In a town like Detroit, with all the big money flying around, you needed to have smart and dependable backers. I had one of the best in Al Sherman, who was he, one of the smartest hustlers and con men that I've ever known. Al always had his marks lined up. I'm just glad I was never one of them! I did all right in Detroit. I made plenty of money playing One Pocket against some great competition. But one of my saddest memories also came out of my time in that town, and it involved a great young player we called Detroit Jimmy.
Jimmy was a young hustler with lots of promise. When I came to Detroit, he sought me out and asked me if I would give him some pointers on how to improve his game. Just like that. I was a little bit surprised, but somehow, I warmed up to the kid. He really wanted to learn, to try to be the best, and it reminded me of myself when I was his age. So, I sort of took Detroit Jimmy under my wing. I told him to come down to Chicago and I would work with him. He came and I proceeded to rehearse him on all the fundamentals of the game shot making, strategies, observation of opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, mind games and the whole psychology of competitive pool as I knew it. He took it all in and was a wonderful student. I was proud, because here I had a real protégé, an incredibly promising young player who would go out and do great things. But all of it eventually came crashing down when Fate took a hand in this particular game.
Jimmy had a girlfriend he'd lived with for years. They'd had a son together, who was Jimmy’s pride and joy. To make a long story short, one day the girlfriend tells Jimmy she's decided to go back to her old boyfriend and that she's taking the little boy with her. Not only that, but she also tells Jimmy the boy is not really his biological son! Jimmy goes a little bit crazy and takes the girl to court. But the DNA tests do indeed show that Jimmy is not the father. Furthermore, the court decides that Jimmy although he's been the only father the little boy has ever known has no rights whatsoever where the child is concerned. He has no visiting privileges, nothing. Detroit Jimmy, one of the most promising young players and nicest kids I'd ever known, went to pieces and soon after killed himself. I was heartbroken. Jimmy was like a younger brother to me. I was also very angry at a judicial system that could not only allow such travesties of justice to occur but to actually put the stamp of law upon them. Well, it wasn’t the first time that I'd run afoul of “The System", and it would not be the last time either, as I will relate to you in a later chapter.
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Really starting to cook now!
Hu
Hu
Some of the Best is yet to come!
I’m sure. But I liked the early life experience part. Interesting to read about and how it influenced his outlook on life. And a little thing - when he talked about being in South Haven. My father was a little older and was one
Of the Chicagoans who went to South Haven some during that time. His experience was very different though as a kid born in Chicago though…
He came from 'War torn Europe' to NYC then directly to South Haven, a year later they moved to Chicago.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
Looking back at your life you can see certain turning points where you have a choice to go down one road or another. You choose one, or it is chosen for you, and everything changes. Why did the right road take the wrong turn? Well, not everything because you still have to walk around in the same body no matter where you go. But still, you start growing in another direction and a lot of things are different where you live, your friends and sometimes your line of work.
The turning points in my life are clear in my mind. The first three were turned for me, mainly by my mother. First, when she decided to hitch up the wagon and leave Romania ahead of the Russian’s. Without that choice I would have had a very different life or maybe no life at all. Second, when my family left Austria to come to the United States. Who knows what kind of person I would have become if I'd stayed in Attnang Buchheim. And third, when my mother bundled us all off to Chicago. It was in that "City of the Big Shoulders" where I myself started to make choices and eventually found my groove in the hustling life. The next turning point came when I decided that I'd had enough of Chicago pool rooms, enough of Chicago itself and enough rattling around on the road hustling games.
After Bensinger's closed the best action pool hall for hustlers in the ‘70s was the North Shore Billiard Club on Clark Street, which was opened up by Freddie "the Beard" Bentivegna, Bobby Wilkinson and “Racetrack” Phil Gagliardo. North Shore was a great pool hall. All the first-class players from around the country would come there, and the hustling was great. But for some reason the Chicago police decided to crack down on the place. This happens every once in a while with pool rooms. You can go along for years hustling and gambling. As long as you aren't creating a public nuisance, the cops leave you alone. Or maybe there's a payoff here and there to keep them out of your hair.
All of a sudden, the cops start barging into North Shore. They start flashing guns around. They start harassing the customers and threatening to arrest people for illegal gambling. So, the players and backers start to avoid the place. To top it off, the North Shore gets stuck up. Four guys come in with guns to rob the joint. They tie up twelve of us face down on the floor. Here I am with a gun pressed to my head by some hophead that might just decide to pull the trigger. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe that is, if I get out of this alive l shouldn't begin to think about another line of work in another place. Any place but here! Other things were going on. I'd been married to a lovely Chicago girl named Carol Mullins, but that didn't work out. The hours and travel habits of a pool hustler don't mix very well with home and family. My mother had died she was killed in a railway accident on the El tracks. My father had also passed away, and the family was pretty much disintegrated. Even some of my friends had died heart attacks, victims of booze or depression or violence.
I was about 36 years old, and I needed a change of scenery. I remembered the old saying, "Go west young man!" Go west and seek your fortune. Well, I wasn't that young anymore, but I still felt that I had plenty of juice left in me. So, I move out to the craziest western hustler and gambler and con artist town there was. I moved to Las Vegas. At first, I figured to hustle pool for a living, but before long it became clear to me that the day of the pool hustler was becoming a thing of the past. This was the 1980s and the game itself was changing.
Pool rooms were coming out of the dark into the light of day. The new pool halls had potted plants in the comer and fashionably colored tables red, yellow, purple, every color of the rainbow. They were clean, well-lighted places where you wouldn't mind bringing your girlfriend or even your mother for a friendly round of eight ball. The old joints in Chicago and elsewhere were closing the vice squads were cracking down on gambling and drugs. The public was encouraged to look upon the "new pool" if they looked upon the game at all as a wholesome sport Women took up the game professionally. Television got into the act: they started airing major tournaments and setting up matches among the top players and various celebrities who could barely hold a cue. It was all supposed to be good fun, and maybe it was, but it had nothing to do with hustling.
To be continued:
SUCKERVILLE, U.S.A.
Looking back at your life you can see certain turning points where you have a choice to go down one road or another. You choose one, or it is chosen for you, and everything changes. Why did the right road take the wrong turn? Well, not everything because you still have to walk around in the same body no matter where you go. But still, you start growing in another direction and a lot of things are different where you live, your friends and sometimes your line of work.
The turning points in my life are clear in my mind. The first three were turned for me, mainly by my mother. First, when she decided to hitch up the wagon and leave Romania ahead of the Russian’s. Without that choice I would have had a very different life or maybe no life at all. Second, when my family left Austria to come to the United States. Who knows what kind of person I would have become if I'd stayed in Attnang Buchheim. And third, when my mother bundled us all off to Chicago. It was in that "City of the Big Shoulders" where I myself started to make choices and eventually found my groove in the hustling life. The next turning point came when I decided that I'd had enough of Chicago pool rooms, enough of Chicago itself and enough rattling around on the road hustling games.
After Bensinger's closed the best action pool hall for hustlers in the ‘70s was the North Shore Billiard Club on Clark Street, which was opened up by Freddie "the Beard" Bentivegna, Bobby Wilkinson and “Racetrack” Phil Gagliardo. North Shore was a great pool hall. All the first-class players from around the country would come there, and the hustling was great. But for some reason the Chicago police decided to crack down on the place. This happens every once in a while with pool rooms. You can go along for years hustling and gambling. As long as you aren't creating a public nuisance, the cops leave you alone. Or maybe there's a payoff here and there to keep them out of your hair.
All of a sudden, the cops start barging into North Shore. They start flashing guns around. They start harassing the customers and threatening to arrest people for illegal gambling. So, the players and backers start to avoid the place. To top it off, the North Shore gets stuck up. Four guys come in with guns to rob the joint. They tie up twelve of us face down on the floor. Here I am with a gun pressed to my head by some hophead that might just decide to pull the trigger. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe that is, if I get out of this alive l shouldn't begin to think about another line of work in another place. Any place but here! Other things were going on. I'd been married to a lovely Chicago girl named Carol Mullins, but that didn't work out. The hours and travel habits of a pool hustler don't mix very well with home and family. My mother had died she was killed in a railway accident on the El tracks. My father had also passed away, and the family was pretty much disintegrated. Even some of my friends had died heart attacks, victims of booze or depression or violence.
I was about 36 years old, and I needed a change of scenery. I remembered the old saying, "Go west young man!" Go west and seek your fortune. Well, I wasn't that young anymore, but I still felt that I had plenty of juice left in me. So, I move out to the craziest western hustler and gambler and con artist town there was. I moved to Las Vegas. At first, I figured to hustle pool for a living, but before long it became clear to me that the day of the pool hustler was becoming a thing of the past. This was the 1980s and the game itself was changing.
Pool rooms were coming out of the dark into the light of day. The new pool halls had potted plants in the comer and fashionably colored tables red, yellow, purple, every color of the rainbow. They were clean, well-lighted places where you wouldn't mind bringing your girlfriend or even your mother for a friendly round of eight ball. The old joints in Chicago and elsewhere were closing the vice squads were cracking down on gambling and drugs. The public was encouraged to look upon the "new pool" if they looked upon the game at all as a wholesome sport Women took up the game professionally. Television got into the act: they started airing major tournaments and setting up matches among the top players and various celebrities who could barely hold a cue. It was all supposed to be good fun, and maybe it was, but it had nothing to do with hustling.
To be continued:
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Me too! I'm learning a lot more here, thanks to Billy, about someone who I only knew as a legendary money player from Chicago. I do know about some of his outrageous gambling escapades in Vegas, second only to Archie in money won....and lost. What a life he lived!I know……..
Bill, Glad to see Book coming to Life!!!!