8 Ball is stripes and solids. We get that. Basic. Elegant. Walk before we can run. Within 8-Ball resides the building blocks of the great pocket-billiard games; position play,shot-making, strategy and the killer safety. We slam in a bank and stop the rock for a straight in 8 ball. Until the next rack is broken, we soar. An initiation into the rite. A gateway drug.

9-Ball is lost in a fog of instant gratification, mindless rule changes, silly vests and ESPN. This still bad-ass game, like life, is structurally unfair. It strains the heart, taxes the mind and is over before we know it. 9-Ball demands that we unpack our stroke, play shape all over the table and fire the balls in. Hang the 9—we lose. A dark Art. The sleep of reason begets monsters.

Straight Pool is the highest examination of the cue Arts. It is Paris, New York, Florence and Constantinople. It is a lamp in the darkness and a stem for the onrushing tide. Straight pool harkens to the immutable laws of physics. It quells the mind and exalts the spirit. It is the order chaos fears. In an eternal present we run balls like mad men and never allow our opponent a shot. It is our stage, our aria, unbound we…. aw, f**k it. Check it out. It’s a blast.

One Pocket is too slow, too subtle. It can never be shown on ESPN. One-pocket has long been called the “chess” of pool. That is insulting— it is much harder than chess. In chess, once the master divines the killer closing move, all he has to do is lift his hand and place a piece on a board. In one-pocket, the difficulty of the divining is the same but we must finish with a virtuoso physical performance. The brain trust of pool lives in one-pocket. It is all experience, imagination and creativity on the fly. A game for old men with fire in their hearts and cash in their pockets. A true hustler’s game. The best game.

• The House Man
• I Didn’t Put Myself Through College Shooting Pool

The House Man

Kesner’s Billiards was downtown in my hometown of Pomona, California—a basement room across from the Southern Pacific depot just off of the town’s esteemed outdoor mall. In the time of my apprenticeship it had already become something of a relic. Progressive members of the City Council called it “an eye sore.” Women shoppers hustled quickly past on the way to their cars. As a teenage boy, it was a siren singing in clicks and cusswords. From Kesner’s I would learn all the applied laws of the known universe. I would learn courage and humility, anger and addiction; knightly virtues and worldly vices.

There was one problem. Mr. Kesner had a no-one-under-eighteen policy. That first evening I hung around outside the entrance by the fountain in the green neon glow for two hours building up the courage to bluff my way into the temple. Freight trains with hoppers filled with coal or sugar beets rattled by. Pool players came and went. No one acknowledged me though all who passed knew well the pent up fervor of a recent convert awaiting a sign. Each swing of the door hinted a mystery play was evolving. Muffled voices. Cursing. Woofing. A click and a scatter. A scrap of a dispute. The soundtrack that would accompany my life. Surely there was room for another actor. Too briskly I bounded down the stairs. Too casually I opened the door, frowning like someone old. Everything swirled. I saw and heard nothing. I fiddled with the cue sticks, rolled a few across the table to check if they were warped—something I once saw a guy do when I peeked inside the Rocket Room—selected one, went to the counter and asked for a “good” table. Mr. Kesner asked how old I was.

That was that.

There my bravado ended. The jig was up. A plan poorly conceived; I had no fall back position. “Fourteen” I said. He thanked me for being honest, said he admired my spunk and with a kind smile kicked me out. Eleven times. Over the next few months eleven times after school I would ride my bike to Kesner’s, risk alienating forever the goodwill of the proprietor and plead my case. One day the house man Ricky took my side. That day I learned the value of a great house man. Every decent room has one.

A great house man maintains the equipment, advises on rules of etiquette, settles disputes and facilitates the action. He re-tips the cue sticks, keeps the tables brushed and adjusts the lighting. At his own game’s expense he will interrupt his practice or hold up the ring game to help a customer. A house man takes care of his regulars. For them he saves the best balls—the Brunswick Centennials. He knows who prefers the blue dot or the red dot cue ball—the red dot is lighter, easier to draw—and twice a year recovers the tables. He is always there. He works the day shift and plays at night. He is never the best player. He is always one of the best gamblers. To get on his good side is paramount though he is no one’s friend.

Ricky was the perfect house man, amoral, neutral as a Swiss, for a toke he’d steer you into a good game, never queer anyone’s action, never give up information to road players and for big money matches, for a percentage from both sides, would keep the room open after hours.

I don’t know why he took pity on me but he became my intercessor and gained me conditional entry. He got me a coke, laid down the rules and took me to the cue racks. Ricky explained what to look for in a cue, that only an amateur rolls cues all over the table checking the warp and that all that really mattered was the tip. A cue could be heavy or light, crooked or straight, thick shafted or thin. None of that mattered much so long as the profile of the tip was the roundness of a nickel. Ricky taught me the correct way to chalk, to keep the tip scuffed so that it will grab Whitey, how to stand and how to stroke. Ricky showed me that no shot is straight forward; that even the simplest of shots merits respect. He told me of spin and speed; immutable laws of physics. He explained deflection. How, when english is applied, even a little off center, the path of the cue ball alters its course; how that must be compensated for or the result will be disaster. He gave me a table in the back. Earnestly, fully aware of my journey’s length, I hit my first ball. It slammed into the pocket. It was heroin.

I Didn’t Put Myself Through College Shooting Pool

A few summers ago, a friend and I took a lazy four-day float on the Upper San Juan River in the Four Corners Region of Southeastern Utah. Our guide was “Zeke” (later he confided it was a “stage name”). He was in his early sixties. He had a full beard and wore colorful, long-sleeve shirts his wife made for him to fight off the sun. Zeke knew all the flora and fauna of the region. He called to birds and they called back. He took us to remote canyons and quietly, never lecturing, told us about the beautiful native art that decorated the walls. When pressed, he modestly recalled for us epic adventures of a lifetime on rivers. He spoke of the Salmon in Idaho and the Rogue in Oregon; of guiding in Alaska, Chile and the Ural Mountains. He told us how he “reads” a rapid and that all river guides take great pride in their baking skills. He reassured a couple of city-slickers about quicksand, scorpions, Gila Monsters and everything else that lurked and, just after sunset, before turning in, read us cowboy poetry.

In camp the first night over a delicious peach cobbler Zeke asked what I did. I told him “I play pool.” Zeke transformed. Instantly. His spine stiffened and he took on the look of a bad actor. He said he wished there was a pool table around. Being thrilled I was miles away from one I asked him why. I knew where the conversation was headed but I couldn’t help it. He said what I was hoping not to hear. The phrase, the sad lie, the silly cliché that I and every other pool player has had to endure all our lives. He said “I put myself through college shooting pool.” Zeke, our guide and protector, our story teller and river God filled up and burst apart like a water balloon.

Pool and life have an uneasy relationship. The only certainty they both hold is that no one ever put himself through college shooting pool. This pervasive fantasy speaks to many things. The obvious I refuse to look closely at. I mean, if Zeke has to concoct an alternate personal mythology, if his life is unfulfilled, then we’re all screwed. Another take is that Zeke’s fib projects a wishful incarnation of the complete person; on the one hand educated, a success, “don’t worry honey I can hold down a job,” and on the other the romantic, the hustler, traveling in hostile territory, living by pluck, the dark wanderer that no one can truly know. The pool hustler was to 20th century American lore what the gun slinger was to the 19th. He’s good. He lays down his con. He looks like Paul Newman.

Pool has wormed its way into the American psyche. It’s a sublime addiction. It is high philosophy and low behavior. I started playing when I was thirteen. It was cool. It still is.

Thorsten (“Thostie”) Hohmann’s Great Run Against Carpet Jimmy in the New Jersey State Championship