Grandpa led us down a stairway to a room on the lower level. There, under low hanging lights was a mammoth oak pool table. It must have weighed a ton. It wasn’t going anywhere.
The 6 pockets were made out of worn, criss-crossed leather pieces and stationed at the 4 corners of the table and half way on each side of it’s length. The green felt top was soft and, although it showed signs it was well used, looked magnificent. The 15 striped and solid balls were cradled in a triangular wooden rack at one end of the table. Had we known at the time that these balls were made of ivory (a practice that fortunately stopped in the early 1900s) we wouldn’t have wanted to play. Then again, we were in elementary school.
He removed the rack with a deft precision leaving the balls clustered like a herd of sheep waiting for the shepherd to guide them on their way. It seemed as if they were shaking, huddled together knowing what was soon to come.
The pool cues stood upright in a wooden wall rack. They were smooth and tapered like an enormous candle, the larger end wrapped in well-worn leather. How many hands held these mighty sticks over the years as the men talked about life in a small town while playing 8-ball?
Grandpa removed one of the cues and seemed to admire it’s feel in his hands. This is the one, he seemed to say to himself. The white cue ball was placed at the opposite end of the table, just a shade to the right. He then moved it again, just slightly. We watched intently at his precision.
Picking up a small square of soft, blue chalk that had been resting on the side of the table he carefully placed it over the tip of the pool cue, turning it in a familiar circular motion until it was perfect. The chalk was placed back on the side of the table.
He held the large end of the cue in his right hand and placed the small end between his forefinger and thumb, resting it on the middle finger. The tip of the cue slowly moved back and forth as he aimed at the cue ball. Without warning he struck it sharply. We jumped, not ready for the sound and ensuing chaos as the cue ball slammed into the waiting stripes and solids causing them to zig zag about the table at great speed. It was marvelous. When all the balls ceased moving, Grandpa asked us to look into each of the pockets. In all the madness of that first shot, we had missed seeing 3 balls end up in different pockets around the table - a red 3 ball, an orange and white striped 13 ball and a burgundy 7 ball. (Honestly I couldn't tell you how many or which balls were sunk. It was a very long time ago - so just go with me on this.) The remaining balls lay strewn about the green table - 4 solids (including the ominous black 8 ball), 5 stripes and the white cue ball. Game on. We were hooked.
From then on, it was always one of the places we visited when seeing our grandparents. To this day, whenever I think of our many trips to this special place, I think of Meredith Willson's lyrics from The Music Man's, "Ya Got Trouble" -
Ya got one, two, three, four, five, six pockets in a table.
Pockets that mark the diff'rence
Between a gentlemen and a bum,
With a capital "B,"
And that rhymes with "P" and that stands for pool!
We were very lucky boys knowing the Grand Exalted and Lofty Poobah (Grandpa) that had keys to this magical world where he not only introduced us to the wonderful game of billiards, but also taught us how to be gentleman. Thanks Grandpa.
