lfigueroa
Verified Member
- Joined
- Jul 17, 2004
- Messages
- 2,525
I walk into the TAR pit, still a bit dazed and trying to get a grip on my surroundings. The television lights are sort of blinding and people are trickling into the stands and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself, when Justin walks over to me with a big shee-at eating grin on his face and I quietly say to him, “Someone, with a very perverse sense of humor, is responsible for this and you are my prime suspect.” Justin neither confirms nor denies my suspicions, but at one point in our brief conversation he turns semi-serious, looks me in the eye and says, ”You know what? All those guys on the internet? The ones who just talk about pool? You’re *here* -- you’re living the dream.”
Perhaps... even if the dream is being directed by Tim Burton.
Steve Booth and Louis Ulrich are in the commentary booth. Chris and I shoot our lag, which I win, Chris not even coming close. It is the last thing I am destined to win this tournament.
I break the balls reasonably well, but Chris effortlessly returns a safety. I even draw first blood with a bank which leads to two additional balls and then I jack myself up over the stack and foul to give one back. Eventually a two-railer I attempt comes short and leaves Chris an opening. He runs four and misses an easy 13 ball and it is my shot.
The three ball.
It is sitting there, wide open, mid-table, juicy in all its promise with the cue ball only a couple of diamonds away with a moderate angle. It is not a hard shot. It is a shot I have made countless times. It is a shot you have made countless times. It is a shot Dan McGoorty’s drunken Girl Scout could make if you held her up to the table long enough. It even has automatic position built in for at least three other balls and even a potential out. And I get up, lean into shooting position, and over cut the ball into the front point. I don’t blush easily but in this instance I could feel the blood run to my face.
The game progresses and Chris goes for nothing, repeatedly leaving the cue ball in the middle of the end rail, at distance from the rest of the balls. I do make one nice twist-in long bank but eventually I lose the game 8-3.
Right off I’m noticing something: The TAR arena is big this year. I mean, not only is there plenty of room all around the table from the fan seating and cameras, but the player’s chairs are a fair distance from the table. And it’s not just that they’re far from the table, they are at the head end of the table away from where most of the action takes place at the foot of the table around the rack area. So you take your shot, shlep back to your seat, and then almost immediately have to shlep back to the far end of the table. Repeating this, often when you’re playing quick, obvious safeties back and forth, starts to feel like you’re making the trek from your hotel room down to the tournament room at the DCC. It’s not as long as it really is, but it sure feels like it’s a long, long way.
The second game I let the cue ball leak out from behind the rack and Chris gets a quick four with a matching set of another four balls shortly there after. 0-2.
The last game, early on, I freeze Chris to the stack and he totally goofs on the speed of a safety and leaves me a straight in four ball behind the rack area, with the balls open enough for me to potentially get at least four more. But now, as I look over the shot, I am thinking about that over cut three ball the first game. I am thinking about how fast the table is. I am thinking about how new the balls are. I am thinking about the TAR cameras streaming this match. I am thinking about my new PSR. I am thinking that this run -- which I would shoot off in a moment without hesitation on my home track is, given the particular circumstances and conditions of the moment -- maybe not so easy.
I shoot the four in and draw back one rail to a narrow window for either an eight ball or one ball and over draw the ball. Now, I can barely still see the eight. I have to stretch out and back cut the eight and attempt to pop the six out of the stack towards my hole, or perhaps the five, one rail over to my side. Blessedly, the six is obedient and rolls right in front of my hole. I shoot the six in and thread the cue ball back one rail between two balls to the middle of the table. I make a straight in on the one; cut the 13 down the rail and spin back two rails for the nine; I draw back one rail for the three, and then misjudge a force follow to the five. I must play safe with the score 7-0.
Chris makes a cross table bank and hangs one I must give him. He banks in a cross over bank, and hangs another bank I have to give him. I miss a two-railer and later a jacked up table length back cut for the game. I goof up on a two ball take out and he gets three. I back kick a ball away from his hole and the ball travels up table into the far corner pocket and I spot it up. Of course now the cue ball has crawled past the spot and he’s pretty much straight in. I’m shell shocked at this point and honestly don’t remember the last ball, but I know it didn’t go into my pocket. Lou loses 7-8 and is out of the 2012 U.S. One Pocket Open.
I remind myself that I am: "living the dream."
I stop and chat with various folks on my way out of the arena, but, by-and large, people are avoiding eye contact with me. Sort of like they do when they’ve heard one of your parents has just died.
Later that night I keep my promise to Justin and commentate the Shane vs Jeremy Jones match. Jay Helfert is my companion in the booth and he is a pleasure to work with -- insightful, with just the right bit of wry humor. Once the match starts it only takes us a brief amount of time to get used to each other’s banter and it flows pretty well between us. Out on the table, Jeremy gets virtually no opportunity to score, Shane is like a machine and wins going away 4-1. (I must confess to experiencing a bit of schadenfreude when, early in the match, Double J misses a shot almost identical to the three I over cut in my first game with Gentile.)
After the match is over, Justin starts looping the matches of the day for the PPV streaming audience and I suddenly see myself pop up on the screen playing Chris Gentile. There’s no sound in the booth, and I’m not sure I can stand to watch it, but I do. The whole thing.
And you know what? I don’t look so bad. Yes, I am clearly out classed by my opponent. But I am, after all, an amateur, not a pro and... it’s like I said, I don’t look so bad. I guess it’s sort of like giving a speech and you know you’re nervous and feel like you’ve goofed up several times and not done your best, but then you see or hear a recording and no one can tell. So, at the end of the day, I’m actually not feeling so bad in spite of the massive public beating I’ve just absorbed.
Saturday I decide to check out Best Billiards and I must tell you that if you are in Vegas and looking to play pool *this is the room to do it at.* Five Diamond 9 footers; two Diamond bar boxes; four heated Italian Hermelin billiard tables; and electronic score counters at each table in the place. It’s early in the morning so I’m the only customer. The place is spotless, there is nice low volume pop music on the sound system and, spying the espresso machine, I order a cappuccino and it is shortly brought to me table-side in a proper cappuccino cup, with a proper little espresso spoon, and a biscotti on the side! The coffee is absolutely delicious, probably made from true Italian beans, and I am in pig heaven.
I continue my experimentation with my new PSR and I can see there is promise in it, but that it will require more practice and work. I return to the tournament and walk about and examine all the vendor booths. I have volunteered to commentate a 1pm match between Scott Frost and Chip Compton. Steve Booth, my cohort in the booth, is knowledgeable and straightforward in his presentation but we barely have time to get used to each other’s patter because Scott and Chip have decided to engage in an all out fire-fight on the TAR table. If someone were to wave a white flag, there’s no doubt either one of these guys would empty out. They play five games in about 40 minutes, Chip winning 3-2.
After the match I wander over to the two 14.1 Challenge tables. The cloths look like they've been heavily used, with numerous nine ball break tracks from the kitchen to the spots. They are also pretty dirty, but not as dirty as the balls. The balls are caked with crap. I donate $20 anyway and post up a 40 something. Later Bob Jewett opens up his fabled brief case and brings out cloth and ball polish and gives one set a decent cleaning and has a nice run. That evening Bob, Ghosst and I head up to Roy’s for steak and seafood. The conversation is pleasant and entertaining. But there is no bread brought to the table. I ask our waiter for some and he says, “There’s no bread at Roy’s. We serve edamame.” (When did edamame replace bread?) Ghosst is from Canada and Bob and I fire all the usual Canadian jibes at him but he handles them all with aplomb (what’s the difference between a Canadian and a canoe? A canoe tips
We swing by Best Billiards and Scott, Billy, and Chris are engaged in a three-handed game of one pocket. San Jose Dick and Alf Taylor make an appearance. We drink beer and kibitz and and eventually we all ride back to the tournament venue. Alf asks me to swing by his booth and when I do he gives me an copy of his “Eddie Taylor and the Legends of Pool” DVD and a copy of his second edition of his great, must read book, “The Other Side of the Road” taking time to inscribe it with a personal note and autograph. I am touched.
I wander around talking to more folks, some who take the time to stop to say hello; comment on a match; to say they saw me in the TAR booth; or to just say how much they’ve enjoyed reading my stories on the internet pool forums over the years. One gentleman from Dayton, Ohio who remembers me from my match against Richard Harris on the TAR table last year stops me and we talk about Airway Billiards, George Rood, Steve Cook, and I ask him to say hi to Todd for me. I buy a couple of event shirts for gifts and head back to my room and fly out Sunday.
Now, several days removed, the wounds are starting to heal up -- they were painful in the extreme but not mortal. And hey: I got to play a couple of champions; commentate two TAR matches; watch top flight pool up close; hob nob with the best; see friends from around the world; make new ones; and perhaps learned something that will help out my game and make me a better player for the future. I think Justin was right.
Living the dream, baby. Livin’ the dream
Lou Figueroa
Perhaps... even if the dream is being directed by Tim Burton.
Steve Booth and Louis Ulrich are in the commentary booth. Chris and I shoot our lag, which I win, Chris not even coming close. It is the last thing I am destined to win this tournament.
I break the balls reasonably well, but Chris effortlessly returns a safety. I even draw first blood with a bank which leads to two additional balls and then I jack myself up over the stack and foul to give one back. Eventually a two-railer I attempt comes short and leaves Chris an opening. He runs four and misses an easy 13 ball and it is my shot.
The three ball.
It is sitting there, wide open, mid-table, juicy in all its promise with the cue ball only a couple of diamonds away with a moderate angle. It is not a hard shot. It is a shot I have made countless times. It is a shot you have made countless times. It is a shot Dan McGoorty’s drunken Girl Scout could make if you held her up to the table long enough. It even has automatic position built in for at least three other balls and even a potential out. And I get up, lean into shooting position, and over cut the ball into the front point. I don’t blush easily but in this instance I could feel the blood run to my face.
The game progresses and Chris goes for nothing, repeatedly leaving the cue ball in the middle of the end rail, at distance from the rest of the balls. I do make one nice twist-in long bank but eventually I lose the game 8-3.
Right off I’m noticing something: The TAR arena is big this year. I mean, not only is there plenty of room all around the table from the fan seating and cameras, but the player’s chairs are a fair distance from the table. And it’s not just that they’re far from the table, they are at the head end of the table away from where most of the action takes place at the foot of the table around the rack area. So you take your shot, shlep back to your seat, and then almost immediately have to shlep back to the far end of the table. Repeating this, often when you’re playing quick, obvious safeties back and forth, starts to feel like you’re making the trek from your hotel room down to the tournament room at the DCC. It’s not as long as it really is, but it sure feels like it’s a long, long way.
The second game I let the cue ball leak out from behind the rack and Chris gets a quick four with a matching set of another four balls shortly there after. 0-2.
The last game, early on, I freeze Chris to the stack and he totally goofs on the speed of a safety and leaves me a straight in four ball behind the rack area, with the balls open enough for me to potentially get at least four more. But now, as I look over the shot, I am thinking about that over cut three ball the first game. I am thinking about how fast the table is. I am thinking about how new the balls are. I am thinking about the TAR cameras streaming this match. I am thinking about my new PSR. I am thinking that this run -- which I would shoot off in a moment without hesitation on my home track is, given the particular circumstances and conditions of the moment -- maybe not so easy.
I shoot the four in and draw back one rail to a narrow window for either an eight ball or one ball and over draw the ball. Now, I can barely still see the eight. I have to stretch out and back cut the eight and attempt to pop the six out of the stack towards my hole, or perhaps the five, one rail over to my side. Blessedly, the six is obedient and rolls right in front of my hole. I shoot the six in and thread the cue ball back one rail between two balls to the middle of the table. I make a straight in on the one; cut the 13 down the rail and spin back two rails for the nine; I draw back one rail for the three, and then misjudge a force follow to the five. I must play safe with the score 7-0.
Chris makes a cross table bank and hangs one I must give him. He banks in a cross over bank, and hangs another bank I have to give him. I miss a two-railer and later a jacked up table length back cut for the game. I goof up on a two ball take out and he gets three. I back kick a ball away from his hole and the ball travels up table into the far corner pocket and I spot it up. Of course now the cue ball has crawled past the spot and he’s pretty much straight in. I’m shell shocked at this point and honestly don’t remember the last ball, but I know it didn’t go into my pocket. Lou loses 7-8 and is out of the 2012 U.S. One Pocket Open.
I remind myself that I am: "living the dream."
I stop and chat with various folks on my way out of the arena, but, by-and large, people are avoiding eye contact with me. Sort of like they do when they’ve heard one of your parents has just died.
Later that night I keep my promise to Justin and commentate the Shane vs Jeremy Jones match. Jay Helfert is my companion in the booth and he is a pleasure to work with -- insightful, with just the right bit of wry humor. Once the match starts it only takes us a brief amount of time to get used to each other’s banter and it flows pretty well between us. Out on the table, Jeremy gets virtually no opportunity to score, Shane is like a machine and wins going away 4-1. (I must confess to experiencing a bit of schadenfreude when, early in the match, Double J misses a shot almost identical to the three I over cut in my first game with Gentile.)
After the match is over, Justin starts looping the matches of the day for the PPV streaming audience and I suddenly see myself pop up on the screen playing Chris Gentile. There’s no sound in the booth, and I’m not sure I can stand to watch it, but I do. The whole thing.
And you know what? I don’t look so bad. Yes, I am clearly out classed by my opponent. But I am, after all, an amateur, not a pro and... it’s like I said, I don’t look so bad. I guess it’s sort of like giving a speech and you know you’re nervous and feel like you’ve goofed up several times and not done your best, but then you see or hear a recording and no one can tell. So, at the end of the day, I’m actually not feeling so bad in spite of the massive public beating I’ve just absorbed.
Saturday I decide to check out Best Billiards and I must tell you that if you are in Vegas and looking to play pool *this is the room to do it at.* Five Diamond 9 footers; two Diamond bar boxes; four heated Italian Hermelin billiard tables; and electronic score counters at each table in the place. It’s early in the morning so I’m the only customer. The place is spotless, there is nice low volume pop music on the sound system and, spying the espresso machine, I order a cappuccino and it is shortly brought to me table-side in a proper cappuccino cup, with a proper little espresso spoon, and a biscotti on the side! The coffee is absolutely delicious, probably made from true Italian beans, and I am in pig heaven.
I continue my experimentation with my new PSR and I can see there is promise in it, but that it will require more practice and work. I return to the tournament and walk about and examine all the vendor booths. I have volunteered to commentate a 1pm match between Scott Frost and Chip Compton. Steve Booth, my cohort in the booth, is knowledgeable and straightforward in his presentation but we barely have time to get used to each other’s patter because Scott and Chip have decided to engage in an all out fire-fight on the TAR table. If someone were to wave a white flag, there’s no doubt either one of these guys would empty out. They play five games in about 40 minutes, Chip winning 3-2.
After the match I wander over to the two 14.1 Challenge tables. The cloths look like they've been heavily used, with numerous nine ball break tracks from the kitchen to the spots. They are also pretty dirty, but not as dirty as the balls. The balls are caked with crap. I donate $20 anyway and post up a 40 something. Later Bob Jewett opens up his fabled brief case and brings out cloth and ball polish and gives one set a decent cleaning and has a nice run. That evening Bob, Ghosst and I head up to Roy’s for steak and seafood. The conversation is pleasant and entertaining. But there is no bread brought to the table. I ask our waiter for some and he says, “There’s no bread at Roy’s. We serve edamame.” (When did edamame replace bread?) Ghosst is from Canada and Bob and I fire all the usual Canadian jibes at him but he handles them all with aplomb (what’s the difference between a Canadian and a canoe? A canoe tips
We swing by Best Billiards and Scott, Billy, and Chris are engaged in a three-handed game of one pocket. San Jose Dick and Alf Taylor make an appearance. We drink beer and kibitz and and eventually we all ride back to the tournament venue. Alf asks me to swing by his booth and when I do he gives me an copy of his “Eddie Taylor and the Legends of Pool” DVD and a copy of his second edition of his great, must read book, “The Other Side of the Road” taking time to inscribe it with a personal note and autograph. I am touched.
I wander around talking to more folks, some who take the time to stop to say hello; comment on a match; to say they saw me in the TAR booth; or to just say how much they’ve enjoyed reading my stories on the internet pool forums over the years. One gentleman from Dayton, Ohio who remembers me from my match against Richard Harris on the TAR table last year stops me and we talk about Airway Billiards, George Rood, Steve Cook, and I ask him to say hi to Todd for me. I buy a couple of event shirts for gifts and head back to my room and fly out Sunday.
Now, several days removed, the wounds are starting to heal up -- they were painful in the extreme but not mortal. And hey: I got to play a couple of champions; commentate two TAR matches; watch top flight pool up close; hob nob with the best; see friends from around the world; make new ones; and perhaps learned something that will help out my game and make me a better player for the future. I think Justin was right.
Living the dream, baby. Livin’ the dream
Lou Figueroa
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