Tales from the Green Felt Jungle by Mike Ives

[JG-in-KY]

This article was published by the Miami Herald's Tropic magazine - May 5th 1985. I will break it down to several posts.

I stumble up to the table and put on my best moronic expression. I am wearing my tourist clothes, which is to say gray slacks and sandals and a bright blue Hawaiian shirt with red flowers and a sporty little cap advertising cheap vodka, so I figure I can pass for an idiot just about anywhere in this part of the world.
"How much are you guys playing for?" I ask.
Of course I already notice that they haven't passed any money, so I know they're just playing for giggles, but this is a good way to get them thinking that they're supposed to be playing for something.
The sucker is standing at the other end of the table waiting to break the balls. He's a young, blondish, chubby guy wearing expensive moccasins and khaki pants and a pastel golf shirt. He looks as if Daddy owns a bank or two. He stares at me like I just crawled out of a sewer and then says in a real snotty tone, "How much do you play for?"
I shrug my shoulders like I'm halfway scared and halfway embarrassed and I mumble, "Oh, I usually play for 20 bucks."
I notice a teeny flicker of shock in his eyes because he was expecting me to say a dollar or two dollars or some such nonsense, but he recovers and goes into his macho act.
"Well, I play for $50," he snaps. He is staring me down.
I hear a movement behind me and I know Boca Bobby and the Kid are about to jump right off their stools because they want me to lock this guy up quick, but I just let my jaw drop open and I say, "Fifty?"
"That's right," he says coldly. He thinks he's scared the liver right out of me. I dig around in my pocket and come out with a handful of $10s and $20s I always keep there for situations like this. I shuffle through them like I'm counting to see if I can afford to play, and then I mumble, "Well OK. I guess I'll play for $50, then."
Now I've got khaki pants here he can't back out without looking gutless. He doesn't really want to play for $50, but he's already talked himself into it.
He fiddles around with the chalk and saws away at his stroke for about two minutes before he breaks the balls, and he's so nervous he hits them weakly, and scratches. I pick up the cue ball and study the table for about three minutes, like it is a huge mystery. We are playing eight ball. The stripes are all opened up real nice and a couple of the solid balls are tied up, so I finally get down and bite my lip and make a very easy shot, pocketing a striped ball. I miss the next shot, because it is always a good idea to let the other fellow shoot a few times so he doesn't lose heart. He's got a little confidence now because he can see I'm almost helpless, so he runs three balls before he misses. I make a couple of easy shots and then hang up one of my stripes in a pocket, just an inch or three from one of his balls on the rail, blocking up any faint chance he has of running out.
I'm watching Woody out of the corner of my eye to see how he's reacting to this little charade. Woody is really why I'm in this little joint at this particular time. I notice he is watching our game pretty closely, which makes sense, since the stakes are $50 a game. That is Wood's kind of action.
I ease over to the bar and take a sip of orange juice. "What're you doin'?" Boca hisses. "Go ahead and beat this idiot."
"Don't worry," I whisper. "I'm just baiting the trap."

I should explain that Boca Bobby is what is called a steer guy. He drove me here tonight and told me everything I needed to know about this particular bar in North Broward, and about Woody, the man I am hoping to eventually play tonight. Boca Bobby's information was extensive, including the fact that the bar has two Irving Kaye tables with the big rock, which is good news to me because I favor little tables with a big cue ball. He has also told me that Woody is a shortstop who always carries a lot of ill-gotten cash and likes to play eight ball, which is good news because eight ball is my game, and that Woody will be no problem unless his friend Turk is around because Turk is what is known as a tush hog, which means a troublemaker. Turk, thankfully, is not around. Boca Bobby has not told me all this because he is my friend. He is, at least on this night at this bar, my business partner. He will take a percentage of what I win.

Now my sucker steps up and makes the only ball available and then he's standing there scratching his head because his is in a hopeless trap and he's just beginning to realize it. Finally he tries an impossible shot and misses and I step up there with all my balls spread out very nicely. I run them off without using any kind of fancy English, but I make a little error so the only way I can get position on the eight is to draw this big rock the length of the table, which is not a simple matter, especially when you are using a crooked house cue with a tip like a piece of granite. I've got to go ahead and do it, though, because I'm not about to blow $50 to a stone cold sucker, so I turn my back and pull out my scuffer and rough up this tip real good, and then I pull out my own chalk out of my pocket (my opponent begins to look very uncomfortable) and chalk it up smooth, and then I step up there and fire that sucker in the hole like it had eyes, and the rock draws back the length of the table pretty as you please. Then I tap the eight in the corner pocket and the game is over.
I'm stealing a glance at Woody and he's sitting there with a funny little smirk on his face, so I figure I didn't fool him one even a little bit. Khaki pants goes in his wallet, tosses a C-note on the table, and I make change for him and damned if he doesn't shove two more quarters in the slot and start racking them up again.
His face is bright red and I can tell he is a little warm but I can't believe he's going to play again.
I break the balls wide open, sink a solid, and now they are sitting there just perfect, waiting for me to run them. I consider stalling again, but Woody already knows I can play, and I do not enjoy robbing the helpless, evne someone as disagreeable as this fellow. So I just run them on out without giving my man a chance to shoot. Now he realizes he's been hustled and he just throws the $50 on the table and stomps out of the joint with his neck glowing bright red. I feel sort of bad about running him off like that but maybe next time he'll think twice before he tells a total stranger he likes to play for $50 a game.

 

[Johnnyt]

Great story JG. Your buddy can really write. Thank you for putting it up. Johnnyt

 

[ShootingArts]

well written

This article was published by the Miami Herald's Tropic magazine - May 5th 1985. I will break it down to several posts.

Nice, very well written as I would expect for something appearing in the Miami Herald's magazine.

Hu

 

[JG-in-KY]

Part 2

Most of the straight world thinks people like me are a figment of somebody's imagination. The hardest question I ever have to answer, because I like to be truthful but the truth can hurt my business, is "What do you do for a living?" What I do for a living is play pool.

Maybe you play a little pool, and maybe you thing you are pretty good. A pretty good amateur pool player, playing on a bar table, will be able to break and run three or four balls, will usually go for the easiest shot on the table, occasionally thing one shot ahead, seldom play for position, never plan a complete runout. An excellent amateur will enjoy an occasional run of eight or nine balls, will usually play for position, and will sometimes connive successfully to leave his opponent without a shot. A professional plans everything in advance an controls the cue ball so precisely that there is no guesswork in the game. He can sink a ball and then place the cue ball anywhere he wishes, withing a square inch or so. He has mastered the art of English so precisely that he can make the cue ball jump over or curve around another ball.

I am a professional. I do not mean to brag, for there are a small army of players around the country as skilled as I, and perhaps half a hundred who are better, but you probably have never seen a pool player of my caliber.

I am what is known as a roadrunner. I travel the country playing pool. The only home address I have is a poolroom in Tennessee. I do not lie or cheat but I will steal your money playing pool if your are foolish or drunk enough to let me. I try to live by one rule only: If I make more than $100 in a night, I sleep in a motel. If I make less, I sleep in my '69 chevy van. I sleep in the van a lot.

It is a precarious existence, with occasional big scores and occasional financial calamities, for there is more good pool being played by innocent-looking locals in America today than ever before. I blush to tell you that I have been beaten in such off-the-wall places as Pocatello, Idaho; Clinton, Iowa; and Longdale, Oklahoma. I've also been beaten in towns you may have heard of. I also have won as much as $2,200 in a single night. In Florida and most other states, gambling on games of skill is illegal. In Florida, as in most other states, the law is seldom if ever enforced. Police don't worry me; losing does. And so wherever I am I try to tip the odds in my favor as best I can. I specialize in bar tables, which are toys - 3 1/2 by 7 feet, compared to pool hall tables which are 4 1/2 by 9 feet. I specialize in tables with a big, heavy cue ball. I specialize in eight ball. And sometimes I employ the services of a steer guy like Boca Bobby.

Bobby and I met shortly after I arrived in Florida several months ago. We were introduced by the Jersey Kid, a scrawny little pool player who once lived in New Jersey, or at least passed through there. The reason they call him the Kid is because he looks like he is maybe 16 years old. He is about the size of a small jockey with huge, innocent eyes an curly Italian hair and a large smile for everybody, especially if they look like they might be inclined to bet American money on a pool game. (Sound like anyone you know? Maybe with the initals T.K. LOL - JGinKY). The Kid is really 20 years old and about as innocent as a water moccasin. The way I met him is that I stumbled into a bar in Orlando and announced that I like to play eight ball for $20 a game, which is a very crude way of doing business, but sometimes successful. Naturally, everybody in the joint started whispering and buzzing and staring at me and about 20 minutes later this little kid popped in and walked right up to me and said with this great smile, "You wanna play me some eight ball?"
"Sure," I said, and we cranked it right off for $20 a rattle, and he lost $100 or so and started trying to negotiate, which meant he was begging for a little handicap.
But I said no because I could tell he was a quality player, so he just unscrewed his cue and we got to talking. I told him the truth, which was that I was a roadrunner heading south, and he mentioned a couple of spots where I might make a little money and I gave him a couple of spots in Georgia where he might make some money and that was that.

I WILL FINISH THE REST TOMORROW.

 

[hilla_hilla]

Awesome! Thanks for sharing! :thumbup:

 

[Dead Money]

Good stuff!

 

[JG-in-KY]

Part 3

I didn't think any more about the Kid until about a week later when I walked into a late night joint in West Palm around midnight and there he was, all dressed up in his punk rock clothes hustling nine ball on the first table. I picked out a seat in the corner and he snapped to me right away, but he didn't act like he knew me until nobody was paying any attention and then he came over and said, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't get in this game because I stand to make some money here if you leave me alone."

I told him that was OK with me, and then he pointed out a guy with a big nose and said "That guy there might lose something if he don't know you. He likes to play eight ball and he plays OK, too."

Well, I asked the nose to play some eight ball and I got him down for $10 a rattle on the second table. I ending up busting the beak in about an hour and a half - about $70 worth - and by the time I was done the Kid had won too. I already noticed that he was running with another guy - sort of a handsome-looking dude, in a mean kind of way. The Kid introduced me to his partner, who was Boca Bobby, of course. "He's the best steer guy in South Florida," says the Kid. "He knows every bar between West Palm and Key West. We've made some serious dough in South Florida, me and Boca."

And that was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Beautiful is not the right word. Boca Bobby was the scion of a wealthy Palm Beach country family, disinherited by his father for his decadent ways. Bobby and I got along fine. It was from him that I found out how ripe South Florida is for persons of my trade. More than any other state, it seems to abound with the hustler's ideal clientele: bar owners, bookies and dope dealers. All three have access to a ready supply of cash and are used to turning it over. Florida may offer the professional the best action of any state, which may explain why so many of the country's best players call Florida home. And it may explain why the action, like at this bar in North Broward, can be pretty steep.

With khaki pants out of the way, we are trying to figure a way to talk our way into the game we had come for when Woody, the mark, saves us the trouble. He gets off his stool and moves to shake hands with Boca and the Kid.
"I see you got yourself another player," Woody says to Boca.
Introductions are made. Woody says hello with the pool players's usual dead fish handshake. "Where are you from? he asks.
"Tennessee," I reply before I even think. As I mentioned, I'm not from anywhere in particular, but I've got Tennessee tags on my van, so that's what I usually tell people.
"Ummm. If I remember correctly, it was North Carolina the last time we spoke," says Woody with a smile.
Oops. I stare at him real hard, but I can't place him.
"We played one-pocket in a poolroom in Miami four months ago," he reminds me.
Now it comes back to me. I have only played about a thousand guys in the last four months, and I'm supposed to remember him anyway because we only played for $10 or $20 a game, which is a very cheap one-pocket game. And nobody won. I remember the guy struck me as a nit, because he wanted to start out for $10.
So he has snapped to me. Evidently, he isn't intimidated.
He shrugs and points to the bar table. "How much were you playing for on this table?" he asks.
"Fifty."'
"Would you like to play me for $50?"
"Sure," I say.
"Would you like to play for more?"
"Sure," I say,
"How much more?"
"I dunno," I say real carefully. "How much you got?"
I use that line a lot when people are trying to high-roll me. It usually strikes some kind of a nerve and they get a little warmed up, but this Woody stays pretty cool.
"Oh, I've got plenty," he deadpans. "The thing is, I like to play for a lot of money. I like to play for $500 a game. Would you care to play for that?"
This is what I like to call a Major Moment. It summons up a lot adrenaline. Everything I am and have trained a lifetime to be is on the line at a moment like this.
I don't even blink.
"Sure," I say.

 

[JG-in-KY]

Part 4

Trial lawyers and surgeons, both of whom must perform under the most hellish of pressure, will describe a strange sense of serenity that comes over them when they practice their craft; it has something to do with excercising supreme control in a limited theater, of being able to concentrate on one thing to the total exclusion of the rest of the world. They get lost in their job.
I get lost in playing pool.
"I've been hooked on it for 29 years. I had families and a real career once, but through it all I played pool. It was the great escape. Other people, when the world crumbles around them, they go jump off a bridge or drown themselves in a bottle or stick needles in their arm. I always went to the poolroom. It was like stepping into another world. As a young man, I played marathons - 12, 14, even 17 hours at a stretch.
Of course, this kind of behavior does not go over well with wives. I had a couple of pretty good ones, but deep down, I don't think they believed I was at the poolroom. I think they thought I was out chasing skirts somewhere. Who had time for women? I was too busy playing pool.

I never was eaten up with responsibility, but at least I always had a job, writing for one newspaper or another. I always paid the bills and the child support and other obligatory family duties. But after the second divorce I bailed out for good. I packed up a cue stick and a couple changes of clothes and drove off with $300 in my pocket.
It was like jumping right off the end of the world...and discovering you can fly.

Now most pool players go on the road for the first time when they are 17 or 18 years old, and by the time they're in their 20s they've got enough seasoning to stay alive out there. I went on the road for the first time five years ago, at the age of 39. I guess everybody thought I was crazy. Most people claim you reach your peak as a pool player when you are around 30. From there on it's all downhill, supposedly. So here I was, an old crock, on the road by myself with a bankroll that was a joke. Most players don't like to start out with less than a thousand. I started with $300, and it got a lot smaller than that before it got bigger.

I've always been a great one for taking directions, too. If somebody tells me to go east, I'll just naturally go west. I learned that in the Army - always hated taking orders. All the smart pool players told me to go to Texas because there was plenty of action in the Lone Star State. So I went to Idaho.
I went because I'd never been there. And it was summertime, and I figured if I had to end up sleeping in my car, I wanted to sleep where it was cool. Texas is not cool in the summertime.
So I ended up sleeping in my car in Idaho. And Utah. And Colorado and Washington and Oregon. I had a little Datsun then. You ever spend many nights in a Datsun? You wake up with a crick in your neck and a pain in your back. So I learned how to play pool with a crick in my neck and a pain in my back. I learned to play drunk. I learned to play angry.
I learned to play under the damnedest conditions you ever heard of. And I learned to play on those tiny bar boxes. They are my specialty, and there are maybe only a dozen and a half people in this country who are better at them than I.
And that is the kind of table that was staring me in the face when Woody made his $500 challenge.

I catch The Kid's eye and nod toward the door. "Go get it," I say. He gets the keys from Boca Bobby and hustles out the door and returns with my cue, which is nothing anybody's gonna get excited about. It's an old Sneaky Pete, which looks just like a regular house stick except it's a two piece cue. I carry it around in an old cardboard tube covered with duct tape. I've got a couple of fancy leather cases in my van, but the duct tape looks so incredibly ratty that I've got to go with it. When a sucker gets a look at my case he knows deep in his heart that I must be some kind of fool.

I can see Woody has gone of to the side and is in conference with stake horse, a lanky guy in the corner. Woody and a couple of drunks are all telling the guy that Woody can rob me. I don't know if he believes it or not, but I don't. Woody has played a few games and I've been clocking his speed and I like what I see. He shoots pretty straight and he thinks pretty good, too. But he doesn't see the patterns like a really fine eight ball player. Eight ball is a thinking game. You've got to figure out all your moves in advance, and if you make one wrong decision you're going to end up in a trap. I've got a feeling that Woody's going to put himself in a trap.

Pretty soon he comes over and says to me, "Look, my people want to bet a $1,000 and play five ahead for the $1,000." This means we play games until one of us gets five games ahead of the other, and then the game is over, winner take all. This is major stakes, but less risky than his first proposal.
I turn around to Boca and The Kid. "What do you want to do?" I ask. Half the $1,000 will be theirs.
"Bet," says the Kid.
"Bet," says Boca.
"Fine," I say. "let's do it."

 

[JG-in-KY]

Part 5

Woody and I put up five bucks apiece and buy a roll of quarters, which we spread out on the rail of the table to discourage challengers, although I am not very worried that anybody's going to try to butt into this game because Woody's friend Turk, who I notice with some alarm has just entered the joint, is real good at discouraging challengers. Woody's friend Turk is a very menacing individual.

The first thing I do is get out of line and I have to hop a ball right off the bat. So I jack up and hop this big rock over one of his balls - and fire my ball right in the corner. It was one of the sweeter shots of my life. Then I run on out to the ball before the eight and I'm out of line again, so I just fire in a long rail bank that splits the wicket and I leave myself perfect on the eight, which I pop right in the hole.
I notice that a bunch of people have drifted in to watch, so word of the big game is spreading. When I make the eight the joint is like a tomb. Nobody says a word. They just witnessed one of the great runouts in the history of organized pool and nobody peeps!

They don't say much next game, either. Woody gets one shot and doesn't run out, so I get up there and hammer all the balls in the hole and again the place is a tomb.

Next game I break the balls like a cannon and start running out again. I get all the way down to the last ball, which I've got to hit pretty well to make the cue ball reverse off two rails so I can get on the eight in the side.
I hit it perfectly, too, but when the cue ball comes off the last rail it makes almost a U-turn and slides in behind a couple of his balls where I've got no shot whatsoever. This is what is known as a bad roll. It happens because of a flaw in the slate of the table.
As it turns out, I have to kick at the eight ball, and of course I don't make the shot so he's got all his balls spread out easy. He sweats and struggles and finally runs out, and the joint erupts like he just won the heavyweight title. People are screaming and clapping and hollering "Beautiful" and "Great shooting" and all of that stuff, and the Turk throws his arm around Woody's shoulders and pounds him on the back.

I am used to this. I am a roadrunner. Roadrunners are the visiting team.
I look over at my cheerleaders. Boca Bobby is scowling fiercely. The Jersey Kid is laughing. I catch his eye and shrug. "That was the most cold-blooded, brutal roll I've ever seen in my whole life," he says.
Next game Woody gets up there and runs out just like a champion. I can see it's going to be a struggle now because he's got his confidence back and all these sweaters are slapping him on the back and telling him he's God.

Sure enough, we seesaw for two or three hours. I'll get two or three games ahead and then he'll crawl back to even, and then I'll take him on up again and he'll struggle back to even. We go through one roll of quarters and are halfway through another when one of the bouncers opens the outside door and the light comes blasting through. It's broad daylight out there!

I'm playing the next game when I hear an argument break out. Boca and The Kid and Woody and Turk and the stake horse are all yammering over in the corner. I walk over to see what's going on.
"They're gonna close the joint at 8 and it's already 7 and they say they aren't going to prorate it if we don't get five games ahead, moans The Kid.
I've been very polite all night, so I walk up to Woody and the stake horse and say "We're playing for $200 a game here, you know. It's not hard to figure that out."

Before Woody can say anything the stake horse snarls, "No prorate. If they close up, it's over." Meaning, if I am four ahead, we get nothing.
I begin to get angry. Loud angry.
Turk comes flying over like I just cussed the pope. "Act like a gentleman here. This man is worth a lot of money."

I yank Boca and The Kid into a corner. I tell them this is not worth getting killed over. I tell them I will get five ahead in the next hour, and I mean it. Actually, this is exactly what I need. My mind was getting sort of sluggish and I wasn't thinking clearly, but now the adrenaline is pumping and I know exactly what I have to do. I have to win four more games, fast.

I slow down and start planning my patterns like I'm supposed to , and I run the next two racks to get three ahead.

Now the stake horse is racking the balls for Woody, and he's taking his own sweet time doing it, too. He spends about five minutes racking them, and I can see Boca is about to jump in his face. I shake my head at Boca because I don't want him messing this deal up.

Finally the stake horse steps away and I blast them. I make two solids and a stripe on the break. The balls are lying perfectly so I take a deep breath and step up there and run them on out. We only need one game to win.

The stake horse goes through his stall routine with the rack again, and a huge bouncer comes by and says, "Last game, fellas. We're gonna have to close it up."

I'm concentrating so hard I'm getting dizzy, but I'm not missing any balls or getting out of line. I come right down to the wire and I've two balls left and I slow-roll one at the side pocket - and damned if it doesn't roll off again! Bounces off the point. The Kid sort of groans on the sidelines.

The Turk lets out a roar when the ball rolls off and Woody jumps out of his seat all flushed. His balls are spread out pretty easy, but I'm not giving up yet because I know the heat's on him now. When he gets over to the table I can see his bridge hand shaking a little bit.

 

[1pRoscoe]

and then................

 

[JG-in-KY]

Part 6

Woody makes a couple of shots and then gets way out of line. He's got to cut the 13 in the corner and draw the rock to avoid scratching in the opposite corner. I'm thinking about how tight these pockets are, and when you use reverse draw they get even tighter. Sure enough, he fires and the 13 jaws in the pocket and hops back on the table.

Now, I've got two balls and the eight ball left. I look them over carefully and then take a couple of deep breaths to get my nerves settled, because in a spot like this you have about a thousand things running through your mind. The first shot isn't really hard, but it's at a funny angle and I've got to run the cue ball three rails to get on the last ball. I stroke twice and let 'er fly and the cue ball acts like its on a string. It hits three rails and settles down exactly where I wanted it. I stroke twice more and drill my last ball into the corner and draw the rock. I hit it so solidly I pull the rock a little too far and just barely miss scratching in the side, but now I'm straight in on the eight. My heart is a freight train but I get over the shot before I have time to get the jitters. I stroke three times and drill the eight in the corner and The Kid lets out a little whoop and Boca Bobby breaks into a grin and now it's all over. We got the money on the very last game.

Now Woody has his cue in his case and he's ready to go. I stick my hand out and he shakes it. ''Tough session,'' I say. His lips are tight and he looks like he's gonna cry or something. He just nods and puts his head down and bolts out the door. He'll probably be dreaming about that 13 ball he missed for a few days. I know. I've dreamed about them myself.

Boca's shoving through traffic of regular people on their way to regular work; the morning rush. I am thinking about those people, as the Kid is divvying the money. Boca jams his in his jeans like a pile of garbage. "Listen," he says. "I got a plan. I know an after-hours spot in Boca Raton that'll be goin' good right now. Let's go up there...if we hit it right we can make another couple hundred..."

These regular people, I am thinking, are heading to regular eight-hour days with coffee breaks and insurance plans and pensions, and I haven't eaten in 24 hours. I haven't slept in 36 hours. And now this cold-blooded steer guy wants to throw me back in action again.

And I think: I just worked my own eight-hour day. And I think how I really didn't win money. I just won more ammunition to bet with.

I think about when I had a real home and a mortgage and a paper paycheck and didn't live in my van...and didn't make my living surviving on my guts and skill, doing the one thing in the world that I do so well I am proud of it.
And I think: that's good enough.
"OK," I say to Boca. "First can we get something to eat?"
"We'll stop at McDonald's," he mutters. "You can eat while I'm drivin'."

 

[swrooster]

He didn't want you gettin soft, Grrrreeeeaaaaatt

 

[JG-in-KY]

I always enjoyed Mike's colorful articles in The National Billiard News, etc. Would like to see him write some more pool stories.

 

[JG-in-KY]

Let's try this again.

 

[getsome01]

where?

where do i get the book? very good read so far.

 

[whitewolf]

where do i get the book? very good read so far.

First of all, thanks JG.

I have one of Mike Ive's books - I think it is called "My Way". A great book. If I can find some time I will post some of his stories.

Mike is so good a writer he should write a pool fiction novel and/or a movie.

 

[JG-in-KY]

About this time frame(1985) I heard Mike was writing a pool book. I never heard what happened with the book. He was also rumored to be writing Grady Mathew's autobiography but we know Grady eventually wrote his own.

 

[whitewolf]

About this time frame(1985) I heard Mike was writing a pool book. I never heard what happened with the book. He was also rumored to be writing Grady Mathew's autobiography but we know Grady eventually wrote his own.

Mike lived in Roanoke Va. when he completed his book and I bought a copy at the Sportsman poolhall in downtown Roanoke. The book was merely a republishing of his articles written for the Roanoke Times. Most of the articles were not about pool but they were so funny I couldn't put down the book once I opened it up.

 

[whitewolf]

http://www.theroanoker.com/favoritearticles/wherearetheynow.cfm

Mike Ives
At Sea

He was fired from his position as a columnist with The Roanoke Times in 1979. Since then Mike Ives has written for papers in Arizona, been a roaming pool shark, started writing a couple of as yet unfinished books and moved to Florida – where he discovered sailboats. “Sailing is what I was meant to do,” says Ives. “It only took me 50 years to figure that out.” Ives still lives in Bradenton, Fla.