Learning Life’s Lessons Playing Pool

W.C. wouldn’t have said that if he’d been with me and my friend, Bob, in the sleepy 1960s towns around Livermore, California. “Wasting” our youth haunting area pool halls, Bob and I learned a lot about pool, and about life. My job was a supporting cast member, while Bob become a master of the pool cue, and a master of psychology as well. He was in a league by himself when he wanted to be, and I still smile when I think of the maestro at work.

The Pastime Pool hall in Pleasanton was one of our favorite hangouts. Rounding up enough cash for a betting stake and some gas for Bob’s 1954 Corvette or my ’52 Ford Victoria, we’d head out for P-town!

Pleasanton was then an agricultural town with a decided Spanish flavor, and the Pastime was on the old main street across from the tracks. The windows were filthy from years of smoke and neglect, and some had plywood as replacements for broken panes. Stepping inside, you could see the original stamped tin metal ceiling had once housed gas lights. They had been replaced by electric wires suspending a single bulb with a green metal shade over each pool table. The only other light was a bare bulb hanging over the cash register.

A long bar with a back mirror ran down one wall, and a smattering of beer signs reminded us we were too young to drink.  From a card room in back came the pungent odor of cigars, with an occasional “eau de toilette de overflow” to complete the ambiance. The place was usually quiet except for the earnest click of pool balls and the occasional expletive signaling a missed shot.

Bob and I would usually start off by playing some 8-ball against each other (8-ball is considered a kid’s game, and not suitable for would-be hustlers).  

After a few games a voice would inevitably come out of the murk, “You guys wanna play some doubles?” There was always a local guy who thought he was pretty good, and a buddy who had come along for moral support. After a few games of 8-ball, it was usually suggested that Bob–who was obviously a much better player than me–and the wanna-be hustler have a friendly game of 9-ball. 

Now here was where one of LIFE’S LESSONS could be learned, if you were so inclined and if you were paying attention. “Know your opponent and know what’s at stake.” If you don’t know either of those, you are just meat on the table.

9-ball is played with just 9 balls, obviously, and the goal is to put balls 1 thru 9 in the pockets in numerical order. Whoever puts the 5 in gets paid, and whoever puts the 9 in gets paid. Typically it was $5 on the 5 ball and $10 on the 9.  Big money in them days of 30 cent gasoline. Money in our 16-year-old hands was a shiny new key that would unlock many rooms with many lessons to teach us.

After losing a few games, Bob would ask for a chance to make up his losses by playing for all he owed. “Double or nuthin’.” Since the big winner had nothing to lose and twice as much to gain, how could he refuse? With high drama, Bob would just barely manage to win.

About this time, I would protest to Bob that we should leave now “While we are even.” Seeing his big purse refunded, and worse, his big “fish” about to walk out the door, the hot shot would usually offer to sweeten the pot. A crowd of loungers had by now gathered to watch the local hottie and help him be brave and not back down. LESSON: “Don’t let your friends make decisions for you.”

After suitabley close games and increasing bets, it was time to set the hook.  For one last game, Bob would ask if he could get his other cue from the car. Retrieving a tooled leather case, he would lay it carefully on the green felt table. Inside was a “take down” cue made of beautiful inlaid rose wood in

two parts, with a brass thread to screw it together, and real ivory between the joints. After seeing that stick, the hunter now realized he was actually the hunted, and just what a fix he was in. Watching his expression turn from arrogance … to doubt … to fear was more entertaining than any movie, and more instructive than any MBA class. His opening stroke was usually shaky, off the mark, and the money was quickly in our hands.  LESSON: “Self -doubt will defeat you more surely than anything your opponent can do to you.”

Once in awhile, as we were walking out with a wad of cash, our defeated quarry would ask for some of it back, “Just to buy some gas to get me home.” Here is where a quote from our mentor and hero W.C. Fields would come into play, “Never give a sucker an even break.”  Thanks W.C.!

What did we learn from those forays into our own and our opponent’s psyches, “wasting” our precious youth in those smoke-filled dens of iniquity?  Hard to say. We’d probably have to go back to those sun-filled days, and compare what we know now to what we knew then. 

If you can arrange that trip, Bob my old friend, I’m packed and ready to go.

Thanks for listening.

Duane

This story first appeared in the April 20, 2001 edition of the Pleasanton Weekly.