lll
Verified Member
this is a story Tin Man at azb wrote about a player named MO...
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Mo was in an out of state regional event and found himself eliminated. Discouraged he looked around for a money game, and was delighted when an older gentleman offered to play him so one pocket for $50 per rack. Mo played jam up one pocket and they quickly got down to business. Being as they didn't know each other they agreed to put up the cash and pay after every game.
Mo shot with confidence and aggression. His opponent seemed uncomfortable and made some costly turnovers, and before long Mo was up 4 games. At this point the old man asked to play for $100 per rack. Mo was happy to oblige.
He wasn't being hustled, but doubling the bet definitely brought out the old man's best game. The unforced errors were fewer and far between, and the man did start showing he knew a thing or two about the moving game. The games were taking longer now, and every few racks the gentleman would wrestle one back.
Still, overall it was clear that Mo had the upper hand. More often than not he'd be the winner. The old man didn't like losing, but he was a good sport, and each rack that he lost he'd come over and hand Mo a $100 bill to square up and post for the next rack.
But the man had no quit. And so it went, nip and tuck, all through the afternoon, and now coming into the evening. At this point Mo was up around $700 and was starting to wonder when the guy was going to throw in the towel! After all, they'd played a good 6-7 hours, it was clear Mo was the better player, and he was stuck pretty deep. Mo wasn't worn out, but let's face it, one pocket takes a lot of focus, and he was picturing himself enjoying a relaxing evening with his winnings. Yet every rack the old man would post another hundred without hesitation.
Mo got the next rack, and then a funny thing happened. When the gentleman went to post for the next game he didn't put up a hundred; he was digging through his wallet, and put up five twenties. Mo bore down and took that game as well. Finally the gentleman told Mo to hold on. He pulled out three twenties, three tens, a five, and then finally counted out five ones to make up the hundred he needed for the post.
Relief coursed through Mo as he realized the gentleman was on his last bullet. If he won this one he'd be up almost $1,000, a very respectable score, and he could call it a night and buy a round for his friends. The only thing was the old man had a determined look on his face, and Mo knew he wasn't going down without a fight. Mo made up his mind then and there that he was going to do whatever it took to win this rack.
From the opening break it could've been a high light reel. Both players refused to give up a shot, or even to leave their opponent any descent options. Every time the cue ball came to rest it was either frozen to a rail or wedged up in the stack. They would battle back and forth for a single ball, then it would be spotted an inning or two later as that player took a foul to avoid losing their position. Eventually the remaining balls drifted up table to set the stage for what would be their greatest end game confrontation.
Time and again one of them would put themselves into a winning position, but both players refused to concede, coming with spectacular banks and hair raising take outs. But Mo refused to be defeated. He kept repeating to himself, "I am going to win this rack no matter what!"
Finally Mo had his opportunity. The old man sold out a cross corner bank for the case ball. He was a long ways away, and the bank had to be hit thinly with some spin, never an easy shot. But this was the moment he'd been waiting for. This was for game, set, and match. He was going to make absolutely sure he put this ball down!
He wiped his cue, chalked twice for good measure, caaaaaaaaarefully lined up the bank, got down, stroked once, twice, three times...then with a pure follow through he smoothed the cue ball down the table and watched as it connected, the object ball seeming to magnetically pull towards the opposite corner and dive into his pocket.
Mo was exuberant! He stood up and could almost hear the cheering of the imaginary crowds for coming with that shot in the clutch. He walked back to his chair on air, patting himself on the back for a superbly played session from beginning to end.
He looked over at the old man and prepared to shake his hand. But the man didn't shake Mo's hand. Instead he slowly, oh so slowly, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out another roll of hundred dollar bills!!! Calmly he paid Mo for the last game and went to rack up another.
Mo was stunned! He had been so sure that was the man's last bullet. He just didn't know what to think anymore. He couldn't quit, but he really didn't want to keep on playing. He just spent all his mental energy on the last rack, and now he was in a stupor, trying to make sense out of this. Meanwhile the next game had started, and the old man looked hungrier than ever.
In his confusion Mo found himself getting outplayed, and then he lost a couple of racks. Before he knew it he was only up 5 racks. He was tired and frustrated. He started getting mad at himself, horrified that his locked up score was slipping away.
It was like a blur, and when he came to the old man had just gotten even and broke down his cue. He thanked Mo for the action and, just like that, disappeared out of the poolhall. Mo was back to being stuck for the trip and looking at a large table time bill and a long ride home.
Yes, it was a hard night for him. But he had to admire the old man's heart, his game...and most of all, the unforgettable "last barrel" shark that had turned it around...
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Mo was in an out of state regional event and found himself eliminated. Discouraged he looked around for a money game, and was delighted when an older gentleman offered to play him so one pocket for $50 per rack. Mo played jam up one pocket and they quickly got down to business. Being as they didn't know each other they agreed to put up the cash and pay after every game.
Mo shot with confidence and aggression. His opponent seemed uncomfortable and made some costly turnovers, and before long Mo was up 4 games. At this point the old man asked to play for $100 per rack. Mo was happy to oblige.
He wasn't being hustled, but doubling the bet definitely brought out the old man's best game. The unforced errors were fewer and far between, and the man did start showing he knew a thing or two about the moving game. The games were taking longer now, and every few racks the gentleman would wrestle one back.
Still, overall it was clear that Mo had the upper hand. More often than not he'd be the winner. The old man didn't like losing, but he was a good sport, and each rack that he lost he'd come over and hand Mo a $100 bill to square up and post for the next rack.
But the man had no quit. And so it went, nip and tuck, all through the afternoon, and now coming into the evening. At this point Mo was up around $700 and was starting to wonder when the guy was going to throw in the towel! After all, they'd played a good 6-7 hours, it was clear Mo was the better player, and he was stuck pretty deep. Mo wasn't worn out, but let's face it, one pocket takes a lot of focus, and he was picturing himself enjoying a relaxing evening with his winnings. Yet every rack the old man would post another hundred without hesitation.
Mo got the next rack, and then a funny thing happened. When the gentleman went to post for the next game he didn't put up a hundred; he was digging through his wallet, and put up five twenties. Mo bore down and took that game as well. Finally the gentleman told Mo to hold on. He pulled out three twenties, three tens, a five, and then finally counted out five ones to make up the hundred he needed for the post.
Relief coursed through Mo as he realized the gentleman was on his last bullet. If he won this one he'd be up almost $1,000, a very respectable score, and he could call it a night and buy a round for his friends. The only thing was the old man had a determined look on his face, and Mo knew he wasn't going down without a fight. Mo made up his mind then and there that he was going to do whatever it took to win this rack.
From the opening break it could've been a high light reel. Both players refused to give up a shot, or even to leave their opponent any descent options. Every time the cue ball came to rest it was either frozen to a rail or wedged up in the stack. They would battle back and forth for a single ball, then it would be spotted an inning or two later as that player took a foul to avoid losing their position. Eventually the remaining balls drifted up table to set the stage for what would be their greatest end game confrontation.
Time and again one of them would put themselves into a winning position, but both players refused to concede, coming with spectacular banks and hair raising take outs. But Mo refused to be defeated. He kept repeating to himself, "I am going to win this rack no matter what!"
Finally Mo had his opportunity. The old man sold out a cross corner bank for the case ball. He was a long ways away, and the bank had to be hit thinly with some spin, never an easy shot. But this was the moment he'd been waiting for. This was for game, set, and match. He was going to make absolutely sure he put this ball down!
He wiped his cue, chalked twice for good measure, caaaaaaaaarefully lined up the bank, got down, stroked once, twice, three times...then with a pure follow through he smoothed the cue ball down the table and watched as it connected, the object ball seeming to magnetically pull towards the opposite corner and dive into his pocket.
Mo was exuberant! He stood up and could almost hear the cheering of the imaginary crowds for coming with that shot in the clutch. He walked back to his chair on air, patting himself on the back for a superbly played session from beginning to end.
He looked over at the old man and prepared to shake his hand. But the man didn't shake Mo's hand. Instead he slowly, oh so slowly, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out another roll of hundred dollar bills!!! Calmly he paid Mo for the last game and went to rack up another.
Mo was stunned! He had been so sure that was the man's last bullet. He just didn't know what to think anymore. He couldn't quit, but he really didn't want to keep on playing. He just spent all his mental energy on the last rack, and now he was in a stupor, trying to make sense out of this. Meanwhile the next game had started, and the old man looked hungrier than ever.
In his confusion Mo found himself getting outplayed, and then he lost a couple of racks. Before he knew it he was only up 5 racks. He was tired and frustrated. He started getting mad at himself, horrified that his locked up score was slipping away.
It was like a blur, and when he came to the old man had just gotten even and broke down his cue. He thanked Mo for the action and, just like that, disappeared out of the poolhall. Mo was back to being stuck for the trip and looking at a large table time bill and a long ride home.
Yes, it was a hard night for him. But he had to admire the old man's heart, his game...and most of all, the unforgettable "last barrel" shark that had turned it around...
