Current mood:	aggravated
Current music:	Santana - Black Magic Woman

Friendly Tips
I was butchered by a guy in a blue leisure suit in my pool match last week. Complete with comb-over, brown stripped shirt, tie, and cufflinks; his menacing, yellow grin thwarted my every effort to stay civil and lose gracefully.

He taunted me with benign gestures, coaching tips, and reassurance; hammering home his belief that he was a superior class of player?sending me into a rage that can only be described as uncanny.


After two consecutive losing weeks, Wednesday, I returned to Super Bowl Pub with fear and determination riding shotgun. Fear of another loss, determined to not play casualty to fear, and things began very optimistically. Beat a couple tough competitors in exhibition games, made amazing shots that I practiced all week, and went on a six ball run to beat my team captain! With my nerves calmed, fear squelched, and confidence riding high, I was ready to face Mickey Blue Pants in a first-to-two bout.

Winning the coin flip I was first to break. And after pocketing five balls, virtually soaring to an opening game victory, I scratched on an easy 14-ball shot. Mickey BP simply grinned going on his own seven ball assault, eventually pocketing the 8 along with my new found confidence.

In game Two, he started to goad me, "friendly tips" to help me "play better" he called them. "Your legs are too far apart!" "Look it in!" "Watch out for the scratch!" he instructed. I ignored him for the most part, although visions of his cackling yellow grin was beginning to inhibit my concentration. It wasn't a humanitarian cause he was after, but simply to have me question myself, and I fell for it like a Hatfield for Cousin Abby Mae.



I squeaked out a win in game Two by causing him to miss with a well-placed "gorilla" sneeze. And, in game Three, sportsmanship ran thin. I kindly requested he "shut his fucking mouth" while I was shooting. And all congenial report was abolished; battle lay ahead.

The final game was like Chess, we strategically went back 'n forth. No love lost, and certainly little to be gained, a stick poke to his solar plexes put his team in an uproar. "That's dirty!" they argued. "He was tailgating!" my -mates defended. While trying to regain his wind, he played a defensive shot on the 6 leaving me with no view on my 8 shot. I was forced to try an amazing shot. But with the hours of practice, confident I could pull it off.

With tension running as thick as corporate bullshit, I gazed over to Mickey BP (still trying to refill his lungs), threw a wink his direction, and let fly what promised to be the game winning shot. With bated breath, we watched the cue ball ricochet from one rail to another setting its sights on the 8. Its approach seemed perfect, and elation washed my -mates faces as the cue's connection with the 8 sent it unwillingly soaring to the corner pocket.

Seconds seeming like days, and victory eminently in my grasp, I gasped a breath and began to raise my arms for a triumphant chant of I'm better than you are!!! When I see the cue ball moving back into the picture. 'What the fuck is that ball doing!!' I think. On a collision course with disaster, the cue intercepted the 8 mere inches from the pocket. Knocking the 8 to the rail, the cue ended its ruinous ramp by descending into the corner pocket; losing the game for me.

For the third week I walk to my car winless, but this defeat stung. A polyester-clad, 62 year-old derelict with the dental ethic of a Scotsman put the screws to me. If this is my superior, what am I?