Originally Posted by fred bentivegna
George Walker was a southern boy, and owner of the big-time action bar, The Stardust Lounge on North Ave. in Chicago in the 60s. Winning in George's bar was no mean feat. George would do anything he could to beat you when you played in his bar. He would shark you, doctor up the chalk ( soak the chalk in chemicals and then bake it in an oven), put pins under the cloth by the pocket to divert a softly hit ball, tush-hog you, and if you drank anything, "Jar" you. Move the table if you went to the bathroom, but my favorite involved his wife Chris. George, had a country-girl wife. Her name was Chris, and she was one of the sexiest creatures alive. She wore mini-skirts when there was no such thing. She would be sitting in a chair, watching the game in her mini, sans panties. If you had a tough shot, and were facing her, at the moment you were delivering the stroke, her legs would open and she would flash you. It may have bothered some players, but I would actually play position to get hit with the flash.
There was a top player from Flint, MI named Harry "Poochie" Sexton. He had a pock-marked face, and was no raving beauty. He was credited with having an oversized love member, and he lived with George for awhile. It was rumored that he had gotten lucky with Chris. I was never more jealous of anybody in my whole life. Tragically, Chris was later murdered by George's lunatic brother, Lonnie.
Beard
Now, before some old-timer emerges from the grave to dispute one of my pool "beats," I had better first make a confession. I have Harry "Poochie" Sexton on my "beat list," but he is the only guy that should have an asterisk in front of his name. I didn't actually come out ahead at the end of the session. I actually went broke -- but there were extenuating circumstances. Poochie and I were playing banks at the open-all-night, Star Bowl in Hammond IN. The infamous George Walker was staking Poochie. I was pounding on the Pooch man pretty good when the devious Walker sent out for coffee. He innocently asked me if I would like one. I had been up all night and I was dying for coffee but I of course refused, with a thank you, no.
I knew all too well, George's reputation for "Jarring" players, but I had a strategic plan. When the coffee arrrived I would beg for some of his. George however, was a much better stategist than I, because he apparently had forseen my objection, and had anticipated a request from me when the batch arrived. He took a sip of his large coffee -- or so I thought -- and then he innocently asked me, "Ah caint drink this 'hole thing, Freedy. Ya wont half?" I smuggly agreed. He poured half of his coffee for me in a glass I had procured. I downed it all with gusto. But sure enough, he had doctored his own cup with scopopolomine (Jar) knowing I would weaken and take some of it.
The outcome? Predictable. The object balls became moving targets. I was seeing double and triple. I couldnt make a ball in the ocean. I lost back all that I was ahead and went bust. The worst thing about the Jar is that no matter how bad you're playing, you still feel good and cant quit as long as you have money to play.
So, to my way of thinking, since I was comfortably ahead before the Jar, I count it as a "win," and added Poochie into the "beat" list. With an asterisk now, of course.
Beard