The Shortstop

The Shortstop - David E. Malone - November 16, 2007

One fine fall evening Smitty and me were doing the rounds of all of the local pool halls looking for some cash action.

I probably should mention that I make my living playing for money, so you could say I'm a professional although I don't play much in tournaments and I like to keep my head down. Fame or even notoriety is bad for business in this business. Smitty's a real good player too - specializes in one-pocket. There are so many players out there that think they know how to play one pocket, it's not even funny. And, fortunately for Smitty, most of them don't. My personal speciality is nine-ball... and my second speciality is matching up with pool-player wannabees and taking all their hard-earned money. So we get around quite a bit looking for pool players with inflated egos and wallets.

You could look at it as a kinda community service. Robin Hood used to take from the rich and give to the poor - we take from the rich... and it keeps us from being poor.

Things were quiet that night and no potential pigeons were apparent until we ran into young Charlie Mason at 'Le Spot'. Le Spot is a public pool hall that used to get a bit rowdy on a Saturday night and, as a result, has been turned into a private club. That just meant that they have given themselves the authority to throw out any troublemakers or, indeed, anybody else they considered a pain in the ass. We both knew Amos the bartender and he'd always let us in if he saw us buzzing the door. Nice place... up a long flight of stairs, with a well stocked bar, reasonably decent Asian and truck-stop diner type nosh, and some nice 9 foot Gold Crowns as well as the obligatory CPA league bar tables. There was even a snooker table at the back for what Smitty always referred to as the pin-prickers... a snide reference to their needle thin cue tips.

Le Spot was usually a last resort for us because we knew everybody there - and everybody there knew us, which means they all knew enough not to play either of us for money.

"Hi, Charlie..." I said, "Anyone new in town?"

He knew exactly what I meant and pulled us to one side. He pointed.

"See that fat guy with the beard and the leather jacket on table fourteen..." He said. "He's never been here before but I know him. He's flush and plays quite a bit for money..."

"What speed is he...?" said Smitty.

"He's a shortstop." said Charlie flatly.

In pool terminology, a shortstop is a player who may be the best local player around but isn't quite in that top one percent that includes the pros and the road agents like fer instance Smitty and me. In other words, Charlie was saying he could be taken for a few bucks but it would be relatively hard work.

"D'ya think if I gave him the eight and out, he'd go fifty smackers a game or is that a bit rich?", I said.

"I don't know him all that well, but I do know he thinks he's pretty good. Maybe he'd go for that if you... um... needled him into it..." said Charlie.

I moseyed on over while Smitty made himself scarce - didn't want the pigeon to think he was being ganged up on. Since the guy was alone just banging balls around, I stopped for a while and watched him play. He wasn't bad, but got careless and missed from time to time. He was practicing long cut shots along the rail and drilling them over and over again. Nice easy stroke with a long follow-through and decent speed control - a fair to middling shortstop just like Charlie had suggested. Nice playing cue... a Titlist conversion if I guessed correctly... and an old two-piece Dufferin banger for a breaker. Soon he became aware he was being watched and after another few minutes, without even raising his head, he said nonchalantly,

"Anybody 'round here looking for a game?"

"Yup...", I said.

"How much?"

"I don't want to waste anybody's time", I said. "We could piss around talking about it or we could go twenty a game, even up, for a few racks and see how we match up. After that, if you're still interested, we could talk about it some more..."

He nodded and started racking the balls.

Seems his name was Norman something or other. I nicknamed him Stormin' Norman after the General. We played a half dozen racks and I didn't try to hide my speed - ran out a couple as I got loosened up. He ran one as well and looked quite sharp doing it, but his break wasn't on and he gave me the table back a few times when he shouldn't have missed. I came out $40 bucks ahead and I bought us both a beer with his money. The rehearsals were over, it was time for the opera...

While I was sipping my beer, he wondered over to Charlie and they had an earnest little heart to heart conversation. I pretended not to notice. When he came back he told me, as if I didn't already know, that he'd been talking to Charlie and that Charlie had told him how good I was.

"Not that I hadn't noticed..." he said, with a grin. "I'll play you some more, but you have to give me some serious weight."

"Well, shit..." I said. "You play pretty sporty yourself. It was a toss-up who won those games - how about I give you a ball and we up the ante to a hundred a game? You get the eight and out..."

"A hundred..." he said, doubtfully. "A hundred's a bit rich for my blood... even if you let me have two balls, I have a feeling I'd still be in trouble. Tell you what... give me two balls, I'll go fifty bucks... ten ahead wins..."

I laughed good naturedly.

"Norman, old son... " I said, "Charlie didn't tell me you were a nit. I guess I'll have to go look for someone who has the balls to play for money instead of pocket change..."

His face reddened slightly. I am the master physiologist if I say so myself.

"You're not that good..." he said. "I'm in... but if I lose, you have to give me a fair chance to win it back."

"No problem", I shrugged, hiding a grin.

He started off strong with a couple of run-outs but his weaknesses eventually kicked in and he gave up the table on a break. I started doing what I was good at, running tables and piling on the points. Took me a little while but eventually and inevitably I got ten ahead and he ponied up the dime from a thick billfold in his vest pocket. That gave me the opportunity to notice that there was more left in that wad than had been taken out.

Hmmn...

At this point, he looked a bit distressed, so I reminded him I'd promised him a chance to win it back. And, I thought, a chance for me to get my hands on the rest of that loot.

"Double or nothing...?" I suggested hopefully.

He wasn't that dumb, but he thought about it for a while and then said,

"Look... you play a sight better than I thought. I'll make you a sporting proposition... give me the seven and out and I'll play you a race to eleven for two dimes. Hey, you win, you get my last two thousand bucks and I go to the poor house. I win and I get my money back plus a lousy dime to pay my rent and keep my girlfriend in lace underwear..."

I pondered this for a while. And especially I pondered the part about the girlfriend in the lace underwear - it gets kinda lonely on the road. And Smitty's not exactly my type. An inadvertent mental picture of Smitty in lace underwear came into my mind and I shuddered. Concentrate for Christ's sake. This guy Norman might be a shortstop but he wasn't that bad a player either and giving him the last two balls might be a bit of a shaky deal on my part. On the other hand, I've given up bigger handicaps before and still won easily. That's the thing about matching up at my level... If I'm running racks, he isn't gonna get to the table anyway and you can't win if you're sitting down.

"You're killing me..." I said, shaking my head ruefully. "But I'll take it.

I called Charlie over to hold the stakes and then continued.

"This is it though... you don't get another chance to get even... one race to eleven and the game's over - win or lose. Okay with you?"

"Okay." he said.

We lagged for the break and I won by the merest fraction, thank God. I always like to get out ahead and I don't like sitting and waiting. I broke and got a nice spread with a clean shot on the one ball. It was an easy rack and a good start - no real problems... I came up dry on the third rack but ol' Stormin' Norman was hooked on the one and didn't have a shot. His push-out put me back at the table but with no easy shot. I was going to give it back to him but thought he might have a chance to play a decent safety and so that's what I did. Take that, sonny boy. He managed to clip the one ball and left me with an even tougher safety. We traded safety's back and forth until I finally had him by the short hairs and no reasonable shot left. The lad didn't seem to be too upset, after all it was early in the match, and he went about measuring angles and such as if he knew what he was doing. I just wished he'd get on with it and miss like he was supposed to. I get impatient with these technical types.

To my surprise, he didn't miss... three fricken rails with a precision that was hard to believe. And not only did he contact the one ball clean, he sank it and left himself in shape for the two to boot.

That seemed to give him confidence and suddenly his attitude changed. He appeared more self-assured and even slightly cocky. I didn't know what had gotten into him until he ran out that table, and the next, and the next. Could it be that he had been dogging it up 'till then...? Surely not... but...

After that it was no contest. Shortstop my ass... this kid was out of my league and most other guys I've played with. I don't think he missed a makeable ball in the whole set. The long and short of it is that he won eleven and five and stopped only to shake hands and take the cash from Charlie on his way out. I thought I saw the sonnova bitch slip a couple of bills in Charlie's front pocket but he had his back to me and I couldn't be sure.

One thing I was absolutely sure of though, was that Charlie had misrepresented the truth of the matter... he'd lied like a dog. I stormed over to him and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. I was so mad I was shaking.

"Screw you, Charlie... I said, heatedly. "I thought you told me he was a shortstop?"

He gently pried my fingers loose, looking puzzled and a wee bit hurt all at the same time.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Mully..." he said, "He really is a shortstop... I know that for a fact.

After all we're on the same baseball team."