Me, a Stick, and Balls

As a young teen, freshly graduated from high school, my mother worked as a bartender in our sleepy little town’s only bar. It was most decidedly not a nightclub, nor anything upscale. I’m pretty sure if it were in a big city, it would be classified as a “dive bar.” The windows were darkened and dusty on the outside, the siding dingy and in need of some repair. The patch of ground in front of the doors was considered the parking lot - with the exception to the spot next to the stairs going up to the apartment above the bar - that was reserved for the tenant that lived upstairs. There wasn’t much grass, no outside seating area that I could see (or remember) - nothing like what we have now because of the “no smoking” laws - and the interior was not a whole lot better. Oh, the bathrooms were clean and the jukebox was in pristine condition (that was the only way bars had music for those of you who have never heard of a jukebox), but the tables and chairs were not the best. I don’t think a regular bar stool is supposed to double as a rocking chair, but at least the pool table felt was well taken care of. The interior windows had the neon lights flashing the different beers that were served, the bar had nicks and chips missing from the surface - presumably because of a bar fight - and the mirror behind the bar had a huge crack that couldn’t make up its mind on where it wanted to go. Definitely not a place for kids to hang out in.

Guess where I hung out at during the summer after I graduated high school?

My mom was the bartender and tenant that lived upstairs, so when I stayed the night at her house over the weekend, she would let me hang out with her at work for a bit before people came in. I was given carte blanche to do whatever I wanted to do when there weren’t any customers. I discovered I enjoy playing pool. I sucked at it, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. I didn’t know how to actually play the game, though. I just knew to hit the white ball into a ball with colors and make them fall into one of the various holes on the side of the table using a stick taller than I was (I was 5’2.5” back then) - Mom didn’t explain much more than that.

I got really good at sinking that white ball within the early hours of the bar opening. I had finally sunk ONE ball - the 8-ball - along with the white ball when a customer had come in. It was the store owner from across the street and he saw I was struggling and gave me some tips - like, not holding the stick like a baseball bat.

Well, excuse me! I happen to like baseball and am pretty good at it, thank you very much. Pool shouldn’t be much more different - its hitting balls with a stick, same as baseball. While the older man enjoyed my indignation, he explained the distinction between games that have you hitting balls with sticks; such as golf, baseball, cricket, pool and beating a man. I added that last part when he was done explaining, much to my mother’s embarrassment (she was the one that said I could keep playing with him in the bar and I was her most embarrassing child, so not my fault) and his entertainment - he knew I understood what he was saying. He continued to give me more pointers and thus started my love of the sport.

As time went on like summers usually do, my small circle of friends and I would go to the bar early to play pool, and even though I scratched more than not, I was getting better at playing. Then the bikers showed up. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. I was raised to never judge a person by their appearance, only by their actions, and those bikers (who were Friday night regulars according to my mom) were probably the most awesome people I had met. Big men with tattoos all over their arms, decked out in leather vests, bandanas and riding boots; women in low cut tee shirts, windblown hair, and attitude to spare. Loud, boisterous, fun-loving. And kind. The women gave tips on which of my features I should draw attention to because, to quote one, “You got the goods, girl. Show that shit off!” and the men gave tips on how to improve my pool game.

They were also my babysitters when the bar got busy and crowded. I used to say I was the only girl left at the bar when closing time came to prove that I was not considered a pretty girl by any stretch of the imagination (a throwback to the song “Don’t the Girls All Get Prettier at Closing Time”), but I truly think it was because the bikers were cock-blocking me. If I was at the bar waiting for the pool table to open up, a big burly biker would sit next to me and chat with me about school and life plans. Now, this guy was about twice my age (at 18, I would have said he was 60, but he was probably more 45-ish), with a weathered, tanned face and a beard/mustache combo that would put ZZ Top to shame. He always wore a tee shirt with the sleeves cut off with his leather vest and the tattoos on his arm…why is it ALWAYS a naked woman? Any of the twenty-somethings that would approach while I was talking to my mom would get a look from him and would scurry away. When I was playing pool with my friends, ANY of the young bucks that would try to flirt with me would be met with one of the other bikers running interference while one of the women would show me a better way to do something in the game. I had grumbled about it to one of the women and she said, “Darlin’ that boy was interested in one thing and it wasn’t pool.” Easy for her to say as my friends were having a grand time with his friends - my friends always left before closing time and they were never alone…

It was through the bikers and my interactions with them that led to me finding that I played pool better when music was playing. One night I was having a crappy round of pool play. I couldn’t sink anything except the cue ball - it was really pissing me off. Someone had said not to worry, my form was good. I was just having a bad night. Then one of the ladies played “Third Rock From the Sun” on the jukebox and all of a sudden, I was frigging Fast Eddie Felson! My friend, whom I was playing against, thought it was a fluke. We started another game without the song. I couldn’t hit shit. We played the song and I was a character from ‘The Hustler.’ We did it again, this time we started the game with the song playing. The results were the same - I was Minnesota Fats, but with a vagina! As soon as the song stopped, my game tanked. My friend and I did this experiment so often that night even my biker babysitters were getting pretty sick of the song and us hogging the jukebox. So my friends and I would sing the song - yeah, that didn’t last long. And the results were mixed. Me and my friends were very scientific like that.

But, as with everything in my life it seems, things I enjoy doing had to be set aside for adulthood and responsibilities. I had played pool for two years and hadn’t played since. Oh, it was something I enjoyed, but being a single, working mom didn’t afford many opportunities to play. Getting better at pool wasn’t something I gave up - it was something I set aside for more pressing things. When my I found my late husband’s pool cue in our closet, I asked him if he played. He did. I asked if he was any good at it. He said he was fairly decent. I asked…no, I begged if he would take me to play and help me get better at the game. He said he would. He died 10 years after he said he would play pool with me - never once taking me to play and never once agreeing to my suggestion of pool date nights. When I met my ex and we were in the “get to know each other” stage, I had told him that I liked to play pool. He had said he enjoyed it as well and agreed that going to the bar to play pool would be a fun date.

He never took me. Oh, we went to the bar. But he never really expressed a desire to play the game. Or he was maybe thinking I would be all “little girly girl” and grab his arm and get all giggly and excited, saying let’s play pool and because I didn’t, he thought I was blowing sunshine up his ass. I wasn’t - I don’t blow sunshine up asses - but it’s a possibility that’s what he thought because I tend to let the man take the lead when it comes to the whole date thing. I could have gone by myself, but between him, my job, my kid, my house; I just didn’t have the time. So I basically let that part of my bucket list go - getting better at a game I enjoy isn’t something I’ll be able to do.

Then my ex forced me to exit stage left. And I’ve been playing ever since. I have noticed I play better when music is in the background, so I’ve taken to listening to my Spotify music while I practice. I also noticed that goddamned stroke took some of my pool knowledge so I literally have to re-learn everything. Thankfully, my muscle memory wasn’t taken and my fingers are taking a hold of my late husband’s pool stick just like they used to. I did discover that his stick is much longer and heavier than the bar pool sticks, but I’m determined to get good at the game using my late husband’s barely used pool stick. Mainly as a “fucker, this wasn’t so hard to do with me, you prick” - as you can see, I’m still dealing with grief from his death three years later. It’s also as a reminder to myself to not count on the man I pick to partner with to keep his word. No, I don’t need a man to teach me the finer points of holding the stick, or positioning my body over the table, or showing me just how hard to hit the ball; but it makes it more fun and it brings me closer to him because he knows it’s important to me. And because it’s important to me, it’s important to him.

And finding a man that thinks like that is something I probably won’t be able to do in my lifetime. I’m wondering if I should put that on my bucket list?