I write in my book EMOTIONS: Not your Mama’s ABC’s! about some of the crazy things I did while in the five years I spent in the glimmering city.
One such chapter involved learning how to shoot nine-ball. I already knew how to shoot 8-ball and had arisen to the point of mediocrity that I was OK with. I mean, I would win more games than I lost, but, for some reason, I won money doing it.
I think I won for the same reason that I was very successful throwing dice: I had absolutely NO RESPECT for money. I could give a shit about regular games, but as soon as there was money placed on the table’s edge, I was focused.
Not because I loved to win; just the opposite.
I hate to lose.
Always have.
Like any other skill that you learn, I had to pay my dues and suffered growing pains. Like going to Friendly Fergie’s Saloon off of Sahara Avenue. Fergie’s was THE place for pool players to ply their trade. Hustlers and wannabes (I was in the latter group) used to put their quarter up on one of the eight tables and the dans macabre was on.
I learned to be a badass shooter by employing the exact same strategy I used to learn how to shoot craps.
By losing money.
I lost to some real shooters; there were big-time players that were way out of my league, but I learned more by losing to these hotshots until soon, I wasn’t losing money. In just about every other bar except Fergie’s, I was the one the other players were shooting to beat.
After six months of playing better players than myself, and after losing game after game, and the money that was bet, something awesome happened.
I got good.
How good?
Between winning at the craps tables and the hundred-dollar games at Fergie’s, I was able to take a hiatus from punching a time clock.
For a year.
Busch beer sponsored a nine-ball league where the bars in Vegas would pit their five-man teams against the other bars.
Our little bar in North Las Vegas would go on to place second in the highly-competitive league.
I wound up Top Individual Shooter over the course of the season and was invited to a championship match with the top shooter from the other division.
Now, I have lost five phones, my car keys, my wallet, my glasses, and numerous other things, but I still remember every single shot of the championship match.
We played nine racks and we were neck and neck until the final game, the championship game decider.
Long story short, I lost on the very last shot when I went for a tough double-bank shot and left the nine sitting right in front of the corner pocket. Every fiber in my being told me to play a safety and force my opponent to fight his way out of a tough leave.
But no.
I got a C-note and a case of Busch beer for second place.
Hated it.
Stay well.
