lfigueroa
Verified Member
- Joined
- Jul 17, 2004
- Messages
- 2,543
I don't know about you, but for me, landing in Las Vegas is always a little surreal. Your plane taxis up and you can see, very, very near, all the casinos with their fantasy architecture: a glossy black pyramid, a white castle, the Eiffel Tower, the NYC skyline, and of course all the glittering hotels right off the end of the runway. You can practically walk to them.
I have been to Vegas many, many times. There was even a time in my life when the USAF would send me to Vegas (with two of my best friends ?!) to teach a course to the Thunderbirds, the service's aerial demonstration team, several times a year. Nowadays I go with a bit of amazement that even though the economy is in the tank there are still tens of thousands of tourists that come to the city. So, just for old time’s sake I get in my rental car and decide to take the long way and drive all the way down the strip to the Riviera and the 12th US Open 1Pocket Tournament.
I have organized a dinner at the hotel steak house for the members of OnePocket.org who are attending the event and in the bar we gather up: Fast Lenny; Roy “The Norwegian Locksmith” Steffensen; Bernie Pettipiece and his friend Ramses; Steve Booth, OnePocket.org founder; John Brumback, banking savant and sponsored OnePocket.org player; the amazing John Henderson; the legendary San Jose Dick Moran; and moi. While in the bar we are joined by CSI founder Mark Griffin and later Earl Strickland, who regales us with a couple of stories. I offer to buy Earl a drink and even consider inviting him to the meal, but he declines and scoots off.
After the players meeting all the “big boys” jump on the eight tournament tables, but I find the practice room with two tables across the hallway and have one of the tables to myself for three hours and get a chance to practice up on the Diamond Pros with the TV colored balls and measles cue ball. If you’re not familiar with these tables I must inform you that they are some kind of tough sumbeeches -- small pockets and very touchy rails. The fact that the balls seem like they are fresh from the factory, highly polished, and roll forever is an added attraction.
It was just past midnight when I figured it was time to get some sleep for the long tournament slog ahead. The draw had been done in advance and I knew I was scheduled to play Richard Harris of Blue Grass Cues fame at 4pm on table eight, but still I was drawn to the tournament chart. Big mistake. Steve Booth is there by the chart and he excitedly tells me, “Did you see?! I tried texting you -- your match tomorrow is on the TV table.” Now, of all the things someone could have told me right before I was about to go off and try and get a good nights sleep this would have to rank near the bottom of my personal list.
The TV table. How on God’s good green Simonis covered earth did *that* happen?
I will fully confess something right now: I type a much better game than I actually play. I am an amateur player who plays OK, but who is subject to go off the air at any moment, not so much because of any particular external pressure -- but because the game requires so much precision that I have found over the years that any small variation in my PSR can be disastrous. And now I am confronted with the reality of three TV cameras, bright lights, professional commentary, and my game being put on nekked display to the universe. Not surprisingly, I do not sleep well.
The next day I head over to The Cue Club and managed a few hours of practice on a tight GC and, at the point at which I feel I have things as ship shape as they’re going to get, I head to the tournament venue. It is just past 3:30 in the afternoon when I walk in and take a seat in the stands far away from the TV arena on the other side of the tournament room.
My opponent is at the TV table warming up. Richard Harris looks solid and capable and is rocketing in balls from everywhere. On his web site he says that he lived off his pool game for eight years and it shows. I am despondent, but then again, it is the US Open and everyone can play, or in my case, is supposed to be able to play. Eventually Richard tires of making everything he shoots at and leaves the room. So I decide that it is as good a time as ever and I wander into the TV arena and try and warm up. My plan is to start off by checking the angles on the table. Using just the cue ball I shoot a couple of three-railers, then a couple of two-railers; some one-railers and then decide I can’t put it off any longer and throw some object balls onto the table and shoot some baby shots that I feel confident enough to pocket. These are shots that a drunk Girl Scout can make.
Mr. Harris returns and 4pm approaches. I see Watchez going into the commentary booth and I walk over to shake his hand and he deadpans, “Yeah, I’m here so that if you play bad I can tell everyone, “I’m from St. Louis too and Lou just dogs it again.” My heart rises on this assurance that I have an ally in the booth. I return to my chair. It is then that I see Jeremy Jones put on the second set of head phones.
The legendary Double J is going to commentate my match. The chair I am sitting in might as well have been “Old Sparky” at a federal penal institution because I feel this roiling charge move up from my stomach, up my shoulders, down my arms, and out my wrists. I am in a place I don’t really want to be, but there is no way out -- I have done this to myself -- I willingly sent in my entry fee, flew to this God forsaken city, and have now been thrown in the pit where untold legions will watch and judge my performance. Sitting there, bad thoughts start penetrating my brain. I can’t stop them. “Suppose you play *really* bad?” I ask myself. “Will they just stop the match and say, ‘Oh, so sorry. We can’t stream this. You suck way too bad.’” What is Jeremy going to think of my amateur-level play? How deep will Watchez stick and twist the local angle knife? I think of everyone I’ve ever had a fight with on the internet and -- whether they’re watching the PPV stream or not -- I know deep in my heart that to a man they are all fervently hoping for my demise by public disemboweling at the hands of Mr. Harris and how they will cackle if my game goes totally go off the air. I am a man in despair. But I step up and lag for the break. There is no exit door in the TAR arena.
(continued because this site has a limit of 10000 words per post, damnit.)
Lou Figueroa
I have been to Vegas many, many times. There was even a time in my life when the USAF would send me to Vegas (with two of my best friends ?!) to teach a course to the Thunderbirds, the service's aerial demonstration team, several times a year. Nowadays I go with a bit of amazement that even though the economy is in the tank there are still tens of thousands of tourists that come to the city. So, just for old time’s sake I get in my rental car and decide to take the long way and drive all the way down the strip to the Riviera and the 12th US Open 1Pocket Tournament.
I have organized a dinner at the hotel steak house for the members of OnePocket.org who are attending the event and in the bar we gather up: Fast Lenny; Roy “The Norwegian Locksmith” Steffensen; Bernie Pettipiece and his friend Ramses; Steve Booth, OnePocket.org founder; John Brumback, banking savant and sponsored OnePocket.org player; the amazing John Henderson; the legendary San Jose Dick Moran; and moi. While in the bar we are joined by CSI founder Mark Griffin and later Earl Strickland, who regales us with a couple of stories. I offer to buy Earl a drink and even consider inviting him to the meal, but he declines and scoots off.
After the players meeting all the “big boys” jump on the eight tournament tables, but I find the practice room with two tables across the hallway and have one of the tables to myself for three hours and get a chance to practice up on the Diamond Pros with the TV colored balls and measles cue ball. If you’re not familiar with these tables I must inform you that they are some kind of tough sumbeeches -- small pockets and very touchy rails. The fact that the balls seem like they are fresh from the factory, highly polished, and roll forever is an added attraction.
It was just past midnight when I figured it was time to get some sleep for the long tournament slog ahead. The draw had been done in advance and I knew I was scheduled to play Richard Harris of Blue Grass Cues fame at 4pm on table eight, but still I was drawn to the tournament chart. Big mistake. Steve Booth is there by the chart and he excitedly tells me, “Did you see?! I tried texting you -- your match tomorrow is on the TV table.” Now, of all the things someone could have told me right before I was about to go off and try and get a good nights sleep this would have to rank near the bottom of my personal list.
The TV table. How on God’s good green Simonis covered earth did *that* happen?
I will fully confess something right now: I type a much better game than I actually play. I am an amateur player who plays OK, but who is subject to go off the air at any moment, not so much because of any particular external pressure -- but because the game requires so much precision that I have found over the years that any small variation in my PSR can be disastrous. And now I am confronted with the reality of three TV cameras, bright lights, professional commentary, and my game being put on nekked display to the universe. Not surprisingly, I do not sleep well.
The next day I head over to The Cue Club and managed a few hours of practice on a tight GC and, at the point at which I feel I have things as ship shape as they’re going to get, I head to the tournament venue. It is just past 3:30 in the afternoon when I walk in and take a seat in the stands far away from the TV arena on the other side of the tournament room.
My opponent is at the TV table warming up. Richard Harris looks solid and capable and is rocketing in balls from everywhere. On his web site he says that he lived off his pool game for eight years and it shows. I am despondent, but then again, it is the US Open and everyone can play, or in my case, is supposed to be able to play. Eventually Richard tires of making everything he shoots at and leaves the room. So I decide that it is as good a time as ever and I wander into the TV arena and try and warm up. My plan is to start off by checking the angles on the table. Using just the cue ball I shoot a couple of three-railers, then a couple of two-railers; some one-railers and then decide I can’t put it off any longer and throw some object balls onto the table and shoot some baby shots that I feel confident enough to pocket. These are shots that a drunk Girl Scout can make.
Mr. Harris returns and 4pm approaches. I see Watchez going into the commentary booth and I walk over to shake his hand and he deadpans, “Yeah, I’m here so that if you play bad I can tell everyone, “I’m from St. Louis too and Lou just dogs it again.” My heart rises on this assurance that I have an ally in the booth. I return to my chair. It is then that I see Jeremy Jones put on the second set of head phones.
The legendary Double J is going to commentate my match. The chair I am sitting in might as well have been “Old Sparky” at a federal penal institution because I feel this roiling charge move up from my stomach, up my shoulders, down my arms, and out my wrists. I am in a place I don’t really want to be, but there is no way out -- I have done this to myself -- I willingly sent in my entry fee, flew to this God forsaken city, and have now been thrown in the pit where untold legions will watch and judge my performance. Sitting there, bad thoughts start penetrating my brain. I can’t stop them. “Suppose you play *really* bad?” I ask myself. “Will they just stop the match and say, ‘Oh, so sorry. We can’t stream this. You suck way too bad.’” What is Jeremy going to think of my amateur-level play? How deep will Watchez stick and twist the local angle knife? I think of everyone I’ve ever had a fight with on the internet and -- whether they’re watching the PPV stream or not -- I know deep in my heart that to a man they are all fervently hoping for my demise by public disemboweling at the hands of Mr. Harris and how they will cackle if my game goes totally go off the air. I am a man in despair. But I step up and lag for the break. There is no exit door in the TAR arena.
(continued because this site has a limit of 10000 words per post, damnit.)
Lou Figueroa
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