Watching the Hustler. A classic Black and White with Paul Newman. Never seen it before. Don’t really know what to expect. Always liked pool. This supposedly the classic pool movie. One of the top 100’s AFI I think. A time in my life this all I wanted to do. Shoot pool. Travel around and hustle games. Was never good like that, but I could shoot some. Not the Efron Reyes, Duchess of Doom type. But good enough to shot in a league. Wasn’t outstandingly great, but wasn’t terrible. I had game. Beat most of my friends and anyone I would play.
I would get in a rhythm. Something about the focus. Where to place the ball after the strike. The command of one’s personal stress level. Striking, the place where you are in control and you letting go at the same time. The mental focus. The feel of the felt of the table. Powder in your hand. Chalking the tip. Rounding the edges. Feeling for imperfections in the pockets and rails. Hearing the music play in the background. The servers strolling around. Having people watch you and not caring. Going to that special table reserved for the regulars, the hard cores. The ones with no life. I was one of these. Knowing you are watched. People sizing you and you not caring. It is the place where no one is around, just you and the table. Where one masters not only the tables on the ball, but the personal demons. The brightly lit table. The people bringing their cue. Black leather cases. Some wannabes carrying their Budweiser cue they picked up at Wal-Mart or Big 5.
My cue, her name was Nikita. She was a gift from Charles. He was a movie buff. Nikita was electric blue. Nice one, too. It wasn’t a Balabushka, but it was one that you see priced at pool halls for 700 or 800 bucks. Nikita was named after the movie and tv show. Just the idea of switching into game mode when the time came. Money on the table and taking what is yours. Shooting the cycle. Orange crush. 9 ball. Straight pool. Table runs. Sharking.
My pool stick was lost when my Acura was stolen. Always thought I would get her back. Never did. Let that go. Let pool go to. It was too addicting. Could spend hours just shooting—And I did. Mastering this skills meant mastering my mind. Practice banks. Straight. Draws. Follow through. Something about shooting pool just seem to fit for me. Got a sense of pride. Cultural pride at that. Watching the legends like Efron Reyes, “Maestro”. It my duty for me to be good at this because they were good at it. Don’t know what this affinity I had came from. Just liked winning. Sure against the other players, but it just mastering my own stress levels. Mastering my mind and myself. It was mental chess. Calculating the odds. Playing it safe. Knowing areas where I felt comfortable. Placing my opponents in areas he hated. Pulling out shots that most would not even consider. Watching a person body language as defeat would wash over them. Some were quick shooters. Others were measured. Others just had no technique. No clue. It was sizing one up in moments and just knowing that it was your to lose. Nothing the other person would do would not affect me.
Played left handed so as to build the others confidence. My aim would be unsteady, my shooting arm would be flapping like a hummingbird. Like when shooting basketball with my off hand before a pick up game started. Then switching when the time called. Strong side was my right, until it became second nature shooting left.
Late night, pitcher of beer. Hanging with buddies at Sharkys and the place I no longer remember. Remember driving to Pasadena to shoot at the bar with red felt tables. Shooting pool with Syed, Little Brother for Sig Ep. Then to Santa Monica Beach where dancing happened upstairs. Going to Hollywood Billiards watching the Shaq and Kobe comeback. Going to College Billiards in Garden Grove after a closeout. Playing at Yankee Doodles and the Hilton with coworkers and trainees. Something about pool that brought great times and even better memories.
No longer shoot anymore. Don’t even want to pick up a stick. Somehow picking it up would tarnish the wonderful memories I would have being a striker. In another life maybe, I will shoot again. Now, I am okay living with the many wonderful memories.Like watching an old black and white, that one visits once in awhile.
Guess, the reason people like to talk about the good all times is because they are the hero in their own mental movie. Suffering than success. A Hero's Journey for your own mental movie.
I'm sure we all have wonderful places where we all like to visit. Thing is. . .you can't stay here too long. You will miss out the up and coming and bigger and better movie of your life. It is the ride that never ends. Round and round she goes, players change and stay the same. Circling round and round in an endless loop. Things is to keep your eyes and ears open with your heart to new and better experience.
