An episode of a TV series that I enjoy had a moment where two of the principals met in a tavern; a joyous overlay of the conversation that moved the plot line was the sweet sound of billiard balls being struck. I miss that sound.
I was a pool player in a league for many years; I started in a particular league when I lived in St. Louis Missouri, and continued when I moved to Mooresville Indiana, in 2013. I drafted my membership behind me when I moved to Irvington, though I continued to participate in the Mooresville grouping, with occasional forays to Brickyard Billiards on W. Washington Street, and 10th Street Pub on E. 10th Street, and Bubbaz on E. Washington Street, for tournaments. When I found that a bar near my favorite cidery not only had pool tables, but tournaments, I felt that I had died and gone to … some happy dead person place. I do love the sound of billiard balls colliding and the sight of players bent over the felt, contending.
One of my favorite movies is The Hustler, starring Paul Newman, George C. Scott and Jackie Gleason. And Piper Laurie. For those who have not followed along, “hustlers” are pool players who make money by “hustling” other pool players into thinking that they — the aforementioned hustlers — are merely above average players, but are willing to play games for money. (Heh, heh, heh…) There is a scene in the movie, which is supposed to take place in Pittsburgh, my home town, and I used to imagine that it took place in the pool hall that I frequented in between my nights at the psych hospital and my days in art school. The pool hall was on the second floor, and when I saw Jackie Gleason (as Minnesota Fats) climbing those stairs to the pool hall, I imagined that it was me, with my Balabushka pool cue, who awaited him at the top of the stairs. (The scene was filmed in New York, though not at the pool hall partly owned by the model who used to pose for me on fashion shoots in the city.)
In July, 2019 I gave up on league play, because I was on teams that relied on me to compete on specific nights, and I was unable to commit to those nights because I was often called away to see about my brother in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania, who was ill, lived alone, and needed a caretaker. Though I cannot commit to weekly league play, I have occasionally taken my Schon cue stick to a bar, to shoot for fun. And to hear the magnificent crack of a cue ball into a rack of 15 phenolic resin billiard balls (if playing 8-ball; 9 balls if playing, well – 9 ball. And there’s 10 ball, too, but I don’t play that game.)
The Covid-19 pandemic has made it unlikely that I will be hearing much of the crack of the rack, and the click of pool balls in pool halls, nor the clunk of pocketed balls that rattle and roll to the ball returns in the bellies of Diamond tables. (And Valley tables.) If I had my own table, I could stay away forever, since most of the players I used to compete with and against were men, and we men are the least sanitary group in any gathering. My “fellow” pool players over the last 10 years would often sneer at me for carrying hand sanitizing wipes and gel.
But I miss walking into a pool room and hearing that sharp, sweet sound.
cjon3acd@att.net