this post is PG-26

 

what to do with a second chance
do what you can

This past Sunday was the day of our biggest local tournament. As is my habit, I woke up early, hopped in my grand carriage (the bus), and began the epic trek towards glory. The first bus, the 720, came right on schedule. I settled into my usual seat, which is one of the sideways-facing seats, and prepared to zone out.

At one point, the bus driver walked towards the back of the bus. I snapped out of my zoned-out state to see what was going on. My first thought was that the bus had broken down. As I listened to what the bus driver was saying, I realized the bus hadn’t broken down — one of the passengers had tried to get on without paying the fare. The non-paying passenger followed the driver to the front of the bus. As the passenger stumbled by my seat, I saw that he was dressed rather nicely for someone riding the bus — he had a clean, bright white shirt, suit pants with matching vest, a silk tie, and he was carrying his suit jacket. What was strange, though, was the way in which he carried his suit jacket. He didn’t have it slung over his shoulder or folded over his arm. He carried it in front of him as though he wanted to wear it backwards and he seemed to have great difficulty finding an efficient way to carry it. As the driver grumbled about people trying to bum free rides, I had the strangest sense I had seen this all before.

As you may realize by now, I have the blessing and curse of two things: keen observation and a fairly good memory for detail.

I watched the passenger lurch towards the fare box and I instantly remembered where I had seen this scene before — I had seen this same passenger several months ago on another bus. This was the man who tried to jack off on the bus while sitting next to girls. In the previous incident, he had been dressed in athletic clothes and he had carried a big duffel bag and he had also tried to get on without paying the fare.

The passenger (we’ll name him DBG as that was his name from the previous post) paid the fare and lurched towards the back of the bus. I watched him closely. I was almost completely sure this was the same guy. Sexual harrassment is a very serious matter and I didn’t want to accuse the wrong person. DBG sat down next to a little girl and her mother who had boarded the bus the same time I did. DBG sat back and put his suit jacket over himself like a blanket, as if he was going to sleep. He shifted around a lot and the jacket kept moving.

I watched him fidget for several minutes and then — bingo! I saw his hand dart out from under his jacket towards the little girl! The little girl saw this, too, and yelped. She and her mother changed seats immediately. That was when I got my camera out to get a photograph of this pervert before he could get away.

Here is the best picture I have of him and a close-up of his face. I have no qualms about posting his picture on the internet and you’ll see why if you keep reading.

DBG got off at the next stop, which was Wilshire & Western.

I went over to the girl and her mother and asked them if DBG had tried to touch her. The mother said her daughter felt uncomfortable near DBG and after his hand came out, she wanted to move. I told them I had seen him do this on another bus line and I was going to report him to the authorities and hope that he would be caught. The mother said it was awkward because she didn’t know what to do. She said she wanted to tell the bus driver, but was afraid of making a scene because the guy hadn’t actually managed to touch either one of them, so, technically, nothing had happened. She also mentioned that two other ladies on the bus had told her they had seen DBG do this before — that he had tried to sit next to them and when they changed seats, he would follow them. She didn’t want to stop the whole bus due to an allegation that something could have happened, but didn’t. I told her I understood and she gave me her contact information.

My stop came up soon and I asked the bus driver for the number for the transit authority. I told him what had happened with DBG and the driver said he had had a strange feeling about DBG and now he would keep an eye out for him. I got off at my stop and while walking to the train station, I called the transit authority.

The number first took me to customer service and when I explained the nature of my call, they transferred me to another department. A lady answered and I told her I wanted to report an incident that happened on the bus. I told her I just saw a guy who must be some sort of serial molester. Immediately, she grew defensive and asked how I knew he was a serial molester. I anticipated her defensive reaction because I know you can’t believe everything you hear. I described the incident that had just happened, and then told her that I had run into the same guy on a different bus line earlier in the year, and he had had a different method (using the duffel bag instead of a suit jacket), but behaved the exact same way — all the way down to not paying the fare when he initially boarded the bus. In addition, I told her I had the contact information of the girl and her mother, and they were willing to describe the incident.

The lady on the phone then seemed annoyed with me and asked me why didn’t I or anyone else call the police. I patiently told her that we all felt awkward about calling the police because the incident had happened on the bus. If it had happened on the street, we would have called the police right away. However, the transit system has its own police department so I thought it best to contact the transit authorities. I reminded the lady on the phone that the bus had been equipped with many cameras and I had the bus number, the line number, the time — in short, everything needed to get a good visual photograph of the man. In addition, I told her I also had a good photograph of him I took with my own camera.

Finally, with a huff of exasperation, the lady on the phone took down the information about the bus, the girl and her mother, and the details about DBG. She seemed greatly annoyed that I and the mother and daughter hadn’t done more. She also seemed annoyed that I hadn’t called the actual police — I very much got the “this isn’t our job” vibe from her. This irritated me but I didn’t say anything. I repeated that I had a good color photograph of DBG and I could email it or send it or whatever, but the lady wasn’t interested. It seemed she wanted to get off the phone. When I hung up, I couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing would be done.

This feeling of futility stayed with me as I rode the train and then transferred to the last bus to the pool room. When I got to the pool room, I immediately found a quiet spot and decided I would report this incident to the police as well. Since this wasn’t a “life threatening” situation, I called their general information line. After a couple of transfers to different departments, I found the right one. I described the incident and added that DBG had done the exact same thing before in a different city on a different bus line. I emphasized that he must do this on a regular basis. I was also sure to mention that I had a photograph of the man and contact information for a witness. I must give the lady credit because she waited patiently until my explanation was done before saying, “That’s not our department. Let me give you the number to the MTA dispatch.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

The number the lady gave me was the number I had dialed previously. I told her this. I said, I already called those people and they told me to call you. She answered, well, then they’re wrong. They have their own sheriffs and they’re supposed to handle things like this.

I said, “Okay, so let me get this right. Even when they tell me to call you [the LAPD], I’m not supposed to call you, I’m supposed to call them.”

“Yes.”

I F—ING hate bureaucracy.

I knew now that the chances of anything being done to catch this perverted f—er were close to zero. Neither the transit authority nor the police department were interested in pursuing this matter any further. All my efforts hit a dead end. And, in a way, I could see their reasons for shunning the responsibility. In the grand scheme of things, this pervert is small beans. He’s not doing anything “life threatening” and until he does, he’s nothing more than a drain on their resources. Of course, that means by the time both departments give a s— someone could be dead or a child could be traumatized for life.

So, there is only one more route to go.

I have posted this f—er’s photograph here in the miniscule chance that some random person browsing the internet will land on this page and maybe know who this asshole is. And even if no one ever sees him on the internet, I know what has to be done. Since neither the transit authority nor the police department want to take responsibility for punishing this piece of s—, I’ll do it myself. The next time he sits next to me on a bus, I won’t move. I’ll wait until he lays a finger on me (that would be assault), and then I will break that finger and the man associated with that finger.

In self-defense, of course.

 

 

the magnificent seven
a small measure of redemption for a crappy day

Needless to say, my interaction with the authorities left me less than inspired. I didn’t concentrate very well during the tournament and lost my first match 5-2 faster than it takes to bake a pizza.

My match on the loser’s side was only to four and although I made some nice shots, I botched just as many and I was down 3-1 faster than it takes to microwave a burrito. I had the right ideas for shots and runouts, but I definitely didn’t have the execution. In the hill game, my opponent got weird on the seven-ball and played safe. This was the shot I was left with:

Whilst I contemplate this layout for a second, let’s revisit the past.

…insert sparkly chimes noise here…

 

Talent.

Talent is a magical word that, when applied, seems to ensure that you never have to work hard for anything. If you’ve got talent, then, by the laws of the universe, you are “a natural”.

We hear about talent and naturals all the time in billiards.

There are stories about people who pick up a cue for the first time in their lives and after maybe just a few moments of awkwardness, they start pocketing balls. In a week, they’ve mastered the basic shots. A few months and they’re perfecting position play, safeties, and sidespin. They start winning tournaments after a year. After two years, they’re moving towards being the top in the nation. A couple more years and they’re playing on the world stage.

Yes, those people.

Those people are the ones we say are born to play the game. People whose genetics blessed them with razor-sharp vision, fluidity of motion, and a mind for all the angles, moves, and mysteries. Those are people who constantly improve. Those are people who consistently play at a high level. Those are people who never hit the dreaded “plateau”.

There is a certain glamour associated with talent the same way being born beautiful is glamorous. It’s the feeling that you were not only destined for greatness, but that the Universe demanded you be great. All the elements of fate and nature came together and laid a golden path before you, shoved you into a pearl-white Bentley, and then drove you down that road.

 

This is why many people have an obsession with how much time they spend on this game.

I cannot begin to tell you how many people have pointed out to me that they’ve only played such-and-such number of months or years, and look! See how good they are already! Even more people have told me they don’t practice and yet they still seem to play at such a high level with the same sort of blase attitude a D-list celebrity might have when talking about how terrible it is the paparazzi won’t leave them alone.

Yes, those people.

You know those people.

I know those people.

 

Most of all, I know I am NOT one of those people.

 

I have no talent for this game.

When I picked up a cue for the first time, I would have looked far more graceful falling down a hundred flights of M.C. Escher stairs than when I tried to hit the cue ball without accidentally knocking out somebody’s teeth. I jabbed at the cue ball the way a kid pokes a frog with a stick. The object balls seemed disgusted with my ungainly efforts and thereby refused to pocket themselves. After a week, I was still stabbing at the cue ball. It was the same after a month. And after a year. Even after two years.

While I trudged through the motions of trying to be some sort of pool player, I kept hearing those stories about how so-and-so player picked up a cue and four years later was #1 in America. The storytellers would say, “See? That’s talent. That’s how they get so far in such a short time.” I set a deadline for myself — in four years, I should be playing on the professional tour. Four years came and went and I was still a D-level player. This was very frustrating, because I was still hearing the stories about talented pool prodigies.

I then realized the awful truth: I had no talent.

I also realized that “talent” was as much a reason for success for some as it was an excuse for failure for others. A lot of people would say they just weren’t talented enough to ever play at a high level, and that was why they stayed where they were and found no reason to go further. It was a convenient, all-encompassing excuse that was pretty much airtight. You never got to the next level? No worries, you need talent to get there — and since the Universe didn’t give you any, it’s completely okay to give up and just be average. It’s not your fault you didn’t achieve more.

I found lack of talent to be a lame excuse for mediocrity.

While other girls were told they had talent and being on the tour was just a matter of time, I was told I didn’t have the temperament or mechanics for this game. I decided I’d try an experiment: I’d try to see if hard work could make up for lack of talent. I gave up on the glamorous equivalent of “get-rich-quick” in billiards and buckled down to do the dirty work of practice and repetition.

I put in the hours and when I say I put in the hours, I mean every minute of every hour, and every second of every minute. I got a membership at a pool hall during my collegiate summers and I easily spent eight to ten hours a day on drills. Sometimes, I spent that long on practicing one shot. I spent weeks shooting the cue ball from the foot spot up to the center diamond on the top rail to see how straight my stroke was. If it was straight, the cue ball would come back down over the foot spot, hit the bottom rail, and go back up over the foot spot. At one point, I did this exercise six hours a day, six days a week. That’s hitting just a cue ball up and down a table for 36 hours a week.

I heard people say, not without a note of pity, that I was “dedicated”, if untalented. That is like when you’re asked if someone is attractive and you don’t want to say they are not — so you say he or she is “really nice“. My game was really “nice” but it sure wasn’t pretty.

I would say for a solid decade (whew, that kind of tells you how old I am — yikes!), my game hovered around the same level. It was unremarkable, predictable, aggressive, and incapable of winning anything. This was not surprising as, in addition to the fact that I was untalented, I also had the peculiar habit of not taking lessons from anyone. I persisted on the path I chose and I did drills as often as I could, watched videos of better players, and entered in tournaments. With every day that went by I got better by miniscule increments. Finally, there was a day — I can’t pinpoint which — when the mechanics I refined in practice and the experience I gained from time came together and my game made a massive jump. I soon had several instances of my favorite conversation that went along the lines of:

“I didn’t know you could play pool.”

“What? I’ve played pool for years.”

“Well, you know, I didn’t know you could play play pool.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean. What is ‘play play pool’?”

“Oh… uh… never… mind.”

Of course, I knew what they meant. They meant that they never thought I’d improve past a certain point. The positive reinforcement of improvement spurred me on to increase my practice regimen. I always, always attributed my improvement to the God-awful, unmystical, boring-ass routine of practice. Practice. It’s not fun or pretty, it’s just what has to be done.

 

Let’s zoooooom back to the present.

 

I have this f—ed up shot…

…and my opponent is on the hill.

It’s been a s—ty day all around and now, I have this shot. Everything’s been going wrong all day — until now. I know exactly what I’m going to do with that seven-ball.

I cut it into the right upper corner pocket.

It’s a spectacular shot, but, unfortunately, the only ball that matters is the nine-ball. The cue ball, of course, settles into the one place where I can’t cut the nine into the side and trying to cut it into the corner risks a scratch. I try to cut it in the corner and scratch. Game over.

 

Later on, a spectator tells me the seven-ball I made was amazing. “It’s the young eyes you have, you can see shots like that. And you have a really straight stroke. You go straight through the ball.“

“Hmm. Yes. Thanks.”

“See, if I was talented like you, then I might be able to do something in the game.”

“What? No.”

“No?”

“I don’t have talent for the game.”

“I’ve seen you shoot shots like that seven-ball before. You gotta have some talent for the game to make — or even try — shots like that.”

What this guy didn’t know was that I shot that seven-ball because I’d already shot it before in drills during practice. I’d shot it thousands of times over the course of countless hours. It wasn’t guesswork. I fully expected to make the ball. I was amused that now, after all these years of being a talentless, awkward hack, someone thought I had a gift for the game and attributed the successful execution of a difficult shot to Providence rather than practice.

“The only talent I have is never being bored of practice.”