Hustling With Minnesota
Part of my High School haunt was an aged but by no means
decrepit, pool hall. I never considered myself proficient enough to pursue a
career in that sport, I just enjoyed people I met there. You’d think “Archies” was a far
out-of-the-way place, as it barely exists on any map of regular size. It was the home town of Harold McGown (my
father’s namesake, a relative) who invented the world’s first snowmobile; and
also the ultimate place to meet many people from four corners of earth, as it
appeared to be the center of the universe – certainly, it was ours.
I was a poor athlete as a youth. Maybe I was built too bulky for sports. Once I hit a ball out of a ballpark. I ran the bases. People cheered. The umpire sent me back to second base. We lost the ball game to everybody’s chagrin
-- the only ball game I ever played in my entire lifetime. Today, I could barely throw a ball across the
street; so I’m guessing consistency.
The way I remember, there had to be about eight heavy, well-maintained,
perfectly balanced pool tables, older than anyone who played on those tables,
even the ninety year old owner. And
behind those tables, a three-lane bowling alley occupied others who came to
relax or stack pins for a penny a pin – not my idea of fun, as sometimes balls
tended to be hurled by harried troglodytes, and head injuries were at a
premium. You just learned to stay out of
some areas.
I enjoyed playing pool with “English”, a technique we began
to master at Catechism practices, at a table in the Jesuit church basement, as
the pastor enjoyed placing bets on similar activities, smoked cigars and
encouraged a healthy lifestyle--but the pool hall was very professional. Where I could easily command a table in one
arena, it was a struggle to maintain my own turf in the other; but, my friend
Bob, clothed himself through school, playing pool after classes, or on
weekends, at tournaments. He was a
hustler. I could hold my own. Together we cleaned house among regulars, and
Bob often won, as he dressed fairly well and drove a new car.
The owner was a once professional player who conveniently
owned his primary occupation, the pool hall.
For him it was a winning decision, as he literally won many games, just
enough to make a cut above, maybe a few more logs for the fireplace as the
woodcutter debited up. His real
advantage was his actual skill, something people are born with or lack thereof
and he attracted the likes of world-renowned gangsters (Baby-face Nelson and a
few others); also, great pool players.
One day, a guy walked through the door while I was dorking
somewhere else. It was the only day in
my life when I chose to watch the Saturday afternoon bowling tournament. All three lanes were busy times two. It was exciting to watch three guys stumbling
over each other over balls and pins that kept smacking them repeatedly, and
coincidently the guys, none of which I liked, could it be Socratic Irony? While I was getting my laughs on the
shoulders and to the chagrin of tortured bullies, wondering if I should sign up
for a round, all I could hear in the background was a crisp,
smack-smack-smack-smack-Smack. You’d
think the Q ball would
crack in half, such was that sound that brought the rest of that hall to a
standstill; and I was too naïve to understand the significance except the table
was surrounded by fans so tight that it was impossible to get through to that
table if you ever wanted to. And the
room was silently still while some guy with fat fingers ran entire rounds
consecutively, again and again without fail, never missing while a few lucky
folk looked on, excluding me. It was
Minnesota Fats.
Pool halls lured me during adolescent and single years for a
number of reasons. If you are a product
of the country, disinterested in ordinary sports, preferring the likes of
country brook and lake fishing, you might develop a city interest in pool halls
and bowling – that is a valid theory.
Anyway, I accidently bumped unknowingly into Eddy Fields, the world
renown psychic, in Chicago -- coincidently on a couple occasions; and it was
frighteningly scary just to look at this genius who could not seem to tie his
own shoes from time to time or maybe match his sox; and he told me the same thing
twice, within a year, never knowing my name or history. We played pool together, while people were
paying him one-hundred dollar bills, just to grace his presence. I never knew who he was. That’s the problem. You meet these people and they turn into
ordinary personalities except for their quirks, as in everybody.
In retrospect, Eddy probably acted more as a big brother
when I saw him and he asked me to share his game. He was a terrible player in my estimation,
and it made me feel as comfortable because we never knew who the winner would
be. Nobody would be running the slate
with everything in galactic order and never missing a beat. It was more like a sophisticated version of
the celibate, Cheech and Chong, if any such thing should exist, or ever did, as
two people quietly struggled with this tortured event that seemed to be almost
redundant after a fashion, flailing sticks and missing balls around the table,
we each wished somebody would offer to beat us.
Last time I saw Eddy, he was working as a psychic. Before that, he was just a strange person I
bumped into at the pool hall. I had no
idea what he did or who he was. He was just
Eddy, the guy I bumped into. We each
went our separate ways, non-the-wiser. My
Q stick got hung up on the rack.
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