old story, time to revive it I guess
If you don't like stories, jump this post. There is a message in the last few paragraphs for those that like to get to the point in a hurry.
Slow players are an irritation but the irritation is our own fault. In a tournament I agree to a shot clock because of the need to keep order, when gambling, a slow player shouldn't bother anyone. Playing a slooooow player a race to ten for five bucks might make you crazy but if you feel you have an advantage wouldn't you love to play him a race to ten for five thousand? Insist on the bet being worth your time or don't play.
When I was young and dumb and full of . . . . freeholy beans, I was shown the most awful place in the world to play pool. An old building out in the piney woods. There was a bar that only sold beer, none too cold, and a single big table in an old tin roofed wooden floored building with living quarters in the back. With no ceiling it was easy to see all the holes in the old tin and sweeping the floor sideways let all of the dirt and cigarette butts fall through the cracks between the boards. No sign on the building, not sure the place even had a name. I don't know if women were allowed, never saw one in the years I frequented the place. Even a man tended the bar.
The table was nasty! Leveled by the traditional pasteboard beer coasters under the legs and the cloth was the classic late forties stuff that came with the table. Ripped, torn, and with no resemblance to cloth anymore. Years of sweat, beer, bug guts, and best forgotten things coated the cloth. With no air conditioning the bugs from the open door or huge wall fan without screen covered the table. Smaller bugs were ignored but june bugs or larger required a shot fired with speed or taking time to move the bug before shooting. An unnoticed june bug ruined many a shot but I can't remember anyone complaining.
Naturally there had to be some appeal to the place and there was. When most people worked for fifty a week minimum wage or less, there were always people in there playing for three bucks a game 24/7. Three dollars was the bet, I can't remember anyone ever playing higher or lower. When I was broke from too much partying or just wanted to leave home on twenty bucks and see what happened I could always pump up here. Always a grind because I couldn't stay on the table but a few games at a time but always available. Well away from my usual haunts being east of me, this was my place of last resort when I was broke or action hard to find.
There were few real players in the place, mostly cowboys that wanted a fair game for their money, a dirt tracking country boy that could play pool that first showed me the place, and Old Joe.
Old Joe was king of the place, might have quietly owned it, I don't know. Joe had class, he wore an old sport coat long past voting age itself. A miracle of a coat, it contained an endless supply of half pint Jim Beam or Old Crow bottles. Apparently a branch distillery, I have seen him play for days and never run out of whiskey!
Gentleman Joe as I prefer to think of him these days was a slow player. In his seventies or eighties, he moved so slowly I could drink a beer while he walked around the table. I can't remember him ever firing a shot hard enough the object ball lost contact with the bevel falling into the pocket either. Joe could run an open table of eight or nine ball most of the time and it was fifteen minutes or more of pure torture watching him work!
I easily beat the other players in the place even on the stall, Joe had my number. I would be on the edge of my seat waiting for him to miss, bit in my teeth ready to bolt! Pumped full of adrenalin when he finally missed I would jump up and fire. Usually too durned fast, either missing when I shouldn't or blowing shape which was pretty easy to get on that slower than slow table. I would give the table back to Joe and the torture began again!
Looking back, I'm pretty sure Joe got a call when I showed up, he was never too far behind if he wasn't already there. Over six months time he probably won well over a hundred from me at that slow painful three dollar a game pace even though I only came to this place a few times a month. Other places I crushed much better players but Joe had my number!
I realized that the problem was mine, not anybody else's. I was a dirt tracker myself in those days and my solution came from there. When I was sitting in the chair I became just a mildly interested spectator myself, only paying enough attention to Joe to notice when it was my shot. I leaned the splintery old house cue on the wall, leaned back and propped my feet up, genuinely relaxed.
That was it, Joe never beat me again. Maybe a deliberately dropped game when I was up a few but never was he ahead in the cash. Joe was no dummy and had nothing to prove. If he was on the table when I showed after that he would play one game, maybe two at the most. He kept the hundred or so he took from me, I kept the knowledge of how to deal with slow players.
In the coming years I made thousands from knowing how to deal with slow players. Some were just slow, some I knew were trying to shark since they weren't playing their normal game. Didn't matter, kick back, prop my boots on a stool or chair, yawn now and then real or faked. When it was time for me to get up I took another swallow of beer, got my pool cue, and ambled over to the table. Chalked the cue and glanced over the balls to see if a run was to be had or where I was playing to a safety, usually "accidentally" in those days. Most places obvious safeties were frowned on. Reason to suspect someone's manhood at the least and maybe cause for a fight or rap upside the head with a pool cue.
A final note, when somebody that isn't naturally a slow player tries to play slow to take the other player out of their game it almost always harms their own game. Realizing the sharker is probably shooting themselves in the foot makes it easier to take too.
hu
If you don't like stories, jump this post. There is a message in the last few paragraphs for those that like to get to the point in a hurry.
Slow players are an irritation but the irritation is our own fault. In a tournament I agree to a shot clock because of the need to keep order, when gambling, a slow player shouldn't bother anyone. Playing a slooooow player a race to ten for five bucks might make you crazy but if you feel you have an advantage wouldn't you love to play him a race to ten for five thousand? Insist on the bet being worth your time or don't play.
When I was young and dumb and full of . . . . freeholy beans, I was shown the most awful place in the world to play pool. An old building out in the piney woods. There was a bar that only sold beer, none too cold, and a single big table in an old tin roofed wooden floored building with living quarters in the back. With no ceiling it was easy to see all the holes in the old tin and sweeping the floor sideways let all of the dirt and cigarette butts fall through the cracks between the boards. No sign on the building, not sure the place even had a name. I don't know if women were allowed, never saw one in the years I frequented the place. Even a man tended the bar.
The table was nasty! Leveled by the traditional pasteboard beer coasters under the legs and the cloth was the classic late forties stuff that came with the table. Ripped, torn, and with no resemblance to cloth anymore. Years of sweat, beer, bug guts, and best forgotten things coated the cloth. With no air conditioning the bugs from the open door or huge wall fan without screen covered the table. Smaller bugs were ignored but june bugs or larger required a shot fired with speed or taking time to move the bug before shooting. An unnoticed june bug ruined many a shot but I can't remember anyone complaining.
Naturally there had to be some appeal to the place and there was. When most people worked for fifty a week minimum wage or less, there were always people in there playing for three bucks a game 24/7. Three dollars was the bet, I can't remember anyone ever playing higher or lower. When I was broke from too much partying or just wanted to leave home on twenty bucks and see what happened I could always pump up here. Always a grind because I couldn't stay on the table but a few games at a time but always available. Well away from my usual haunts being east of me, this was my place of last resort when I was broke or action hard to find.
There were few real players in the place, mostly cowboys that wanted a fair game for their money, a dirt tracking country boy that could play pool that first showed me the place, and Old Joe.
Old Joe was king of the place, might have quietly owned it, I don't know. Joe had class, he wore an old sport coat long past voting age itself. A miracle of a coat, it contained an endless supply of half pint Jim Beam or Old Crow bottles. Apparently a branch distillery, I have seen him play for days and never run out of whiskey!
Gentleman Joe as I prefer to think of him these days was a slow player. In his seventies or eighties, he moved so slowly I could drink a beer while he walked around the table. I can't remember him ever firing a shot hard enough the object ball lost contact with the bevel falling into the pocket either. Joe could run an open table of eight or nine ball most of the time and it was fifteen minutes or more of pure torture watching him work!
I easily beat the other players in the place even on the stall, Joe had my number. I would be on the edge of my seat waiting for him to miss, bit in my teeth ready to bolt! Pumped full of adrenalin when he finally missed I would jump up and fire. Usually too durned fast, either missing when I shouldn't or blowing shape which was pretty easy to get on that slower than slow table. I would give the table back to Joe and the torture began again!
Looking back, I'm pretty sure Joe got a call when I showed up, he was never too far behind if he wasn't already there. Over six months time he probably won well over a hundred from me at that slow painful three dollar a game pace even though I only came to this place a few times a month. Other places I crushed much better players but Joe had my number!
I realized that the problem was mine, not anybody else's. I was a dirt tracker myself in those days and my solution came from there. When I was sitting in the chair I became just a mildly interested spectator myself, only paying enough attention to Joe to notice when it was my shot. I leaned the splintery old house cue on the wall, leaned back and propped my feet up, genuinely relaxed.
That was it, Joe never beat me again. Maybe a deliberately dropped game when I was up a few but never was he ahead in the cash. Joe was no dummy and had nothing to prove. If he was on the table when I showed after that he would play one game, maybe two at the most. He kept the hundred or so he took from me, I kept the knowledge of how to deal with slow players.
In the coming years I made thousands from knowing how to deal with slow players. Some were just slow, some I knew were trying to shark since they weren't playing their normal game. Didn't matter, kick back, prop my boots on a stool or chair, yawn now and then real or faked. When it was time for me to get up I took another swallow of beer, got my pool cue, and ambled over to the table. Chalked the cue and glanced over the balls to see if a run was to be had or where I was playing to a safety, usually "accidentally" in those days. Most places obvious safeties were frowned on. Reason to suspect someone's manhood at the least and maybe cause for a fight or rap upside the head with a pool cue.
A final note, when somebody that isn't naturally a slow player tries to play slow to take the other player out of their game it almost always harms their own game. Realizing the sharker is probably shooting themselves in the foot makes it easier to take too.
hu
