verbosity

screwball, corner pocket

What better way to start a web log than with an award? Not for this journal, of course. Read on.

While grabbing some dinner and a few beers at my regular downtown hideout, Old Chicago, one of the managers approached me and asked if I'd like to participate in their 9-ball tournament.

"What'll it cost me?" I asked.
"Ten bucks, payable to me," Manager Ron responded.

The manner in which he delivered that line gave me pause, so I cocked my head and shot him an inquiring look. He took my response as a call of his bluff, grinned, and said "cash, of course." Damn am I glad he's an honest guy; he could have had 10 dollars cash from my gullible arse.

After finding out that it was a friendly tournament with a few token prizes, I decided to participate. I'm a decent pool player, and with an entry fee of approximately zilch, what was there to lose besides my dignity? I wear special pants to protect that, in any case.

A few rounds of pool, and about the same number of beers later, I found myself in the final round. I'd only shot so-so up to this point, but had some lucky late-game setups that I capitalized on to win each preceding round. Lady luck was in my corner that night, and she decided to hand me the final opportunity that I needed. A ball-in-hand with two left on the table, I carefully set up my angle on the eight ball to leave myself a reasonable shot on the nine. Dropped the eight, but the cue ball came back slightly too far and left me a rough final shot. The nine was snug on the rail, and for some reason I'm never able to nudge a ball in that position correctly to have it hug the rail all the way to the pocket. Not an easy shot, but a shot that a player in the 9-ball finals is expected to make.

"I never make these shots," I announce to my competitor and the spectators, hoping they won't embarass me too much after I screw it up.

The meek shall inherit the earth, and evidently the first-place Budweiser beer stein as well. I sank the nine, shook a few hands, and scuttled back to the bar for another drink. "Might as well celebrate," I thought to myself. "Not like you'll ever win another pool tourney, small or large." So I ordered myself a beer. I triend to convince Manager Ron to give it to me free in my new stein, but he wasn't buying, figuratively and literally.

Oh well. Here's some horses and a lighthouse in relief: