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2014

Thank you EMCA!

December 2014
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• Archives

• 2014 Majors

• 2013 Majors

CSI POOL
BCAPL National 8-Ball Championships
Rio All-Suite Las Vegas Hotel and Casino
Las Vegas, NV
first time at the Rio (adios Riviera) and things get epic
 
INDEPENDENT EVENT
Hard Times 10-Ball Open
Hard Times Billiards
Bellflower, CA
just a lil pre-Vegas warm up tournament
 
INDEPENDENT EVENT
West Coast Challenge
$4,000 added One Pocket
$10,000 added 10-Ball
California Billiard Club
Mountain View, CA
last event at this location before they close (sadface)
 
INDEPENDENT EVENT
Cole Dickson Memorial 9-Ball
Family Billiards
San Francisco, CA
for legendary road player Cole Dickson
 
INDEPENDENT EVENT
Pots 'N' Pans Memorial 9-Ball
Pool Sharks
Las Vegas, NV
celebrating hustler Bernard Rogoff, better known as "Pots 'N' Pans"
 
THE ACTION REPORT
TAR35 | Dennis Orcollo vs Shane Van Boening
TAR Studio
Las Vegas, NV
second and third days
 
THE ACTION REPORT
TAR33 | Francisco Bustamante vs Alex Pagulayan
TAR Studio
Las Vegas, NV
second (1P) and part of third (10B) day
 
THE ACTION REPORT
TAR32 | Ronnie Alcano vs Jayson Shaw
TAR Studio
Las Vegas, NV
GREAT match • Andy Mercer Memorial 9-Ball Tournament coverage
 
INDEPENDENT EVENT
Chet Itow Memorial 9-Ball
California Billiards Club
Mountain View, CA
drank too much to do good coverage, but here it is, anyway
 
CSI POOL
Jay Swanson Memorial 9-Ball
Hard Times Billiards
Bellflower, CA
let Robocop show you how to run a six-pack, Citizen
 
THE ACTION REPORT
TAR31 | Mike Dechaine vs Shane Van Boening
TAR Studio
Las Vegas, NV
ALL HAIL THE HOVERCAT
 
THE ACTION REPORT
TAR30 | Darren Appleton vs Shane Van Boening
TAR Studio
Las Vegas, NV
the boys are back in town
 
 
10+1 INTERVIEWS
» Huidji See
» Donny Mills
 
 
EVERYBODY WAS KUNG-FU FIGHTING
the best kind of New Year's Sandwich
that's not okay
 
 
READER'S CHOICE
you know that I'm no good
on being a reasonable human being with realistic expectations
 
instasham series
stories from the distant and slightly-less-distant past
 
the only people for me are the mad ones
questions, tournaments, bets, running 26.2 miles

• LINKY LINKS

PARTY ANIMALS
The Action Report
purveyor of fine challenge matches between highly-skilled players of note
 
PUBLICATION
Cue Times Billiard News
Colorado's best resource for all things pool-related
 
CASE
Jack Justis Cases
the choice of champions
 
CUE
Sugartree Customs
made by Eric "Slower Than Snails" Crisp, if and when he feels like it
 
CUE
Tucker Cue Works
"If you feel the need to ask me how your cue is progressing every week then maybe there is a better choice of cuemakers out there for you."
 
MEAT
Kurzweils' Country Meats
yes, meat

no clever title

 

 

mundane moments in a mundane life
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I'll add it later
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click to listen to the podcast of this post
.
He wove through the crowd with the unselfconscious grace of the inebriated. The liquid in his half-empty glass listed marvelously at extreme angles with each movement but did not spill. I found this defiance of common sense and the laws of physics hypnotizing. I waited intently for disaster. He raised his arms in an uproarious cheer with the rest of the bar (the lime wedge teetered, but did not fall) and swooped the glass in for a swig. When he put the glass down, his eye caught mine and he gave me a quick upwards head bob—the cool and dudely way of saying hello. I returned a slow nod—the hello of those caught staring. He got a fresh drink and navigated toward where I sat.
He leaned with some relief against the dark wood. He propped a foot on the rail and took a sip. “Well, hello, young lady.”
“Hello.”
“And how you do in the tournament?”
“Won some. Lost more.”
“Did you practice?”
“I did.”
“How did you practice?”
“Drills.”
“How often?”
“Five out of seven days a week, more when I could afford it. Less when I could not.”
This was how all our conversations began. He already knew my answers. They rarely changed. He raised his glass for another sip but stopped halfway and held it there, suspended. He gazed past me at some distant point. “How long do you practice for?”
This was new. “At least an hour during the week, maybe three or four on the weekends. Why?”
The glass completed its trip and he drank with remarkable speed. He set the empty glass on the inside of the counter. Although he smiled rakishly, his eyes were serious. “One hour is enough to stay where you are. Two hours and you might improve—some.”
The bartender brought him another drink with a stale lime on a plastic spear (likely the same one from the last drink). He tipped the bartender, examined the lime, and then deftly tossed it into a trashcan under the counter at the far end of the bar.
“Three hours, four hours,” he continued, “and you’ll get better for sure.” He paused, and absently stirred the ice in the glass.
“But six to eight hours is where things—become different. You see—you really start to see how it all works. Shots. Spin. Position and—” He caught himself, then exhaled sharply, as if in defeat. “—and when you see it, you’ll want more. Ten hours. Twelve hours. And you’ll get better and better until all you want to do is play. But you know, at eight hours, it’s already a job. More than that, and it’s your life.” He downed his drink. Another appeared automatically.
When he spoke again, his voice was soft, but clear and distinct. “And even then, when it’s your life, it might not be enough to get you where you want to go, to get you everything you want.” He smoothed his shirt reflexively.
He had dressed smartly for this tournament although there had been no dress code. Just another attempt at reinvention, some had said while rolling their eyes, he’ll go back to being a thug soon enough. He ran with a tough crew who trailed trouble. They were all highly talented, and it was generally accepted in wagering society that he—as fine a player as he was, as much as he had won—was the least talented of the group. He was, however, considered to be the most intelligent, the most disciplined, the most likely to make something of himself outside of the game.
He would have preferred to be talented.
“I shouldn’t have told you that,” he said, and he was smiling again. There was a shout at the end of the bar, and the waving around of paper money. He shouted and waved in answer. He stood and stretched. “All right, young lady, they calling me to gamble. You keep practicing. But don’t do the six-to-eight, okay? It ain’t worth it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He knew I was lying.
Then he was gone, weaving through the crowd, trying not to spill his drink, just another person late for work.
.

 

I'll title this post later

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