Lord Chumly's Exhibition - David E. Malone - Nov 21, 2007
In this life, there are billiard players and there are billiard player pretenders. Simon Montvale was an accomplished billiard player... and acknowledged as such by his peers in the English Billiards association. Tall and rangy, with a keen eyesight and an analytical mind, he was quite possibly the best of breed when it came to the royal sport of carom billiards. And, indeed, as a five time Merrivale Sporting Club champion he thought of himself as such with some justification.
So his interest was piqued when he ran into Stanley Attenborough at the club. Stanley was a foppish and elegant creature who affected a kind of upper-class dilettante persona but yet possessed a sly wit and a shrewd mind that belied his manner. Clapping one manicured hand upon Simon's shoulder, he took him aside before he entered the billiard room with the news of a sensational new game in town. The game was apparently called Boston Billiards and the object of the game was not carom but directing the balls into leather drop pockets at the sides and corners of a ten foot table.
"Pockets?" said, Simon blankly.
"Pockets..." said Stanley firmly.
"It sounds like one of those colonial abominations..." said Simon doubtfully. "Those American chappies are always trying to make a perversion of the game to make it easier to play."
"Why don't you attend the exhibition this afternoon." said Stanley smiling slightly. "It may or may not be an American abomination - I believe it may have been invented on the Continent in fact - but regardless, the gentleman giving the demonstration is none other than Lord Chumley, your uncle..."
"Uncle Algernon?" exclaimed Simon. "I don't believe it... he, of all people, would not let the noble game of billiards be taken over by a mere fad of fancy."
"Nevertheless..." said Stanley, and pointed him toward a small poster on the column in front of the lobby.
"Boston Billiards Exhibition." it read, "by Lord Algernon Chumley. The time: Three of the Clock Post Meridian. The venue: The Billiard Room."
After a light lunch of kippers and scones, Simon allowed himself to be led into the exhibition room which had been converted into an arena of sorts by the placement of a number of chairs beside the main table. Stanley was awfully keen and had saved him a ring-side seat by placing his jacket on it. There was some grumbling amongst those at the back who had arrived earlier when he took his seat, but as soon as they recognized him it was short-lived and good natured.
At the prescribed time, a relaxed and cheerful Lord Chumley made his appearance. Physically he resembled Simon not at all, being short and plump with a greying moustache and a receding hairline. He carried with him a bag with many colored ivory balls, a long leather case, and a large wooden triangle which further increased the sense of anticipation in the audience.
"Are you going to play that triangle..?" cried a wag in the second row.
"I am not..." said, Lord Chumley firmly. "In fact, I am going to play a volunteer from the audience."
He cast a theatrical eye around the room and feigned astonishment as his gaze lit upon Simon trying his best to remain anonymous in the first row.
"What have we here...?" he said. "I think I see the perfect opponent. None other than our distinguished club champion, Simon Montvale..."
"Perhaps another time, Uncle." said Simon, laughing.
"Nonsense, my boy. You are the perfect foil for this demonstration..." he said, and allowing for no refusal, pulled Simon out of his seat to a great round of applause and some friendly ribaldry from the assembled members.
"You'll pay for this, Stanley, you miserable worm... " said Simon wagging a mock stern finger at him and reluctantly allowed himself be led to the table.
He'd been set up and he knew it... but accepted this forced circumstance with his usual easy grace.
Once uncovered, the table turned out to be a new one - beautifully decorated with marquetry, and the half-dozen unconventional leather pockets shone with polish. But the surface of green baize was at least familiar as were the cushions which bordered the edges.
"There are fifteen balls in play," started Lord Chumley. "You will notice that almost half of them, seven to be exact, are yellow and another seven are red plus there is one solitary black ball. I will commence by racking all fifteen of them in a triangle on the foot spot with the black ball in the center. This is the foot spot..." He pointed. "And the white ball, which is called the queue ball I shall place in the kitchen..."
The laughter which greeted this temporarily interrupted his discourse, but eventually the audience settled down and he continued.
"By that I do not mean the domain of our esteemed chef, Monsieur Pelham but this area here on the table..." he said, and indicated an expanse that encompassed the end of the table opposite the foot spot and stretching from the rail to the first diamond on the short rail.
"Can I get an order of sheppard's pie and a draught cider just the same?" queried the same wag who had earlier questioned Lord Chumley's musical intentions with the triangle. This further sally drew a few titters but order was quickly restored and the member directly behind the comedian knocked his hat off and ruffled his hair for good measure.
Casting a reproving glance at the now disheveled miscreant, Lord Chumley produced two matched and exquisite maces from a leather case under the table. They looked like a traditional mace with a bevelled butt end except that the small end of each appeared to have a rounded leather tip, perhaps to cushion the effect of striking the balls.
"These are called queues." he continued. "I obtained them from a fellow in France by the name of Francois Mingaud who is the master of every aspect of this new game. He is a common rascal and, I understand, spent many of the last twenty years in the custody of the French constabulary, but no-one who has seen him play billiards can question his genius with this particular instrument.
Under his tutelage, I myself mastered sufficient of the arts to dazzle and defeat the average journeyman, such as my nephew, Simon here."
"Oh, I say, Uncle. That's a bit rich." protested Simon. "I'm not exactly a beginner, you know..."
"In this game, you are." said Lord Chumly with a smile, stepping up to the table. "Play always begins with a break-out of the balls..."
He stepped up to the table and with explosive power drove the cue-ball hard into the triangle of colored balls. This had the effect of spreading them out all over the table and one of them dropped randomly into a pocket.
"Since I was able to pocket a ball on the break-out, " he continued, "I have the honor of staying at the table for the first inning. And because the ball that dropped was yellow, I must continue to direct my attentions towards yellow balls only. Each shot I make must contact a yellow ball or it is considered a foul shot.
If I fail to pocket a yellow ball, my distinguished opponent will take my place at the table and must shoot only red balls. Once all of the red or yellow balls are down, whoever is at the table at that juncture may direct his attentions to the black ball. And whoever pockets that ball is the winner of the game. Simple, is it not?"
"I'm not sure I quite follow," said Simon, a frown creasing his brow. "What if I am in such a position that I cannot contact a red ball and either miss entirely or perhaps contact a yellow ball by mistake?"
"You have, by lucky accident or superior intelligence, seized upon the key to the game," exclaimed Lord Chumly delightedly. "We must be related in some fashion."
He waited for the laughter to abate and then continued.
"In that case, it is considered a foul and the queue ball is turned over to your opponent as a penalty. He has the opportunity to place it anywhere behind the balk line in the kitchen and fire at one of his particular suite of balls instead..."
He leaned over the table, his chin almost resting on the queue, and smartly pocketed a yellow ball that hung over a pocket.
"See how very simple it is...?" he said, winking at Simon.
"Perhaps not as simple as it looks, Uncle, said Simon. "But in this instance I rather think you've stymied yourself. Once you pocket the next ball, you will have no position to continue because the angle is absolutely straight in and you have no possibility of caroming off a rail with side..."
"Another cogent observation. I am more convinced than ever that we spring from the same genes..." said Lord Chumly. "However you are backing a lame horse in this instance... watch and learn, my dear boy."
He struck the cue ball firmly and pocketed the yellow... but then something extraordinary happened. The cue ball which was momentarily spinning in place suddenly obtained traction and rolled backwards, away from the point of contact, and indeed half the way down the table.
"Good lord..." said, Simon. "How is that even possible? Surely there is some mechanical motor or magnetic source inside that particular ball?"
"Not at all..." laughed his uncle. "It is called backspin or draw, and I will show you how it can be accomplished after the exhibition is over."
Now that the cue ball had travelled so far in reverse, he was presented with several options for additional shots. But, as he explained later, he wanted to use the situation for a further demonstration and carefully played the cue ball off one of the yellow balls and sidled it up tightly to another yellow - a veritable snooker.
"Good grief.." said Simon, heatedly, "How devilishly unsporting a shot is that...?"
"My dear young nephew... there is more to the strategy of this game than merely sinking balls. " said Lord Chumley calmly. " A player of your advanced facility and dexterity should have very little trouble making contact with a red object ball in any case."
And so it proved. Although Simon advanced the clock a good seven minutes calculating angles and the like before sending the cue ball three rails to make the required contact - his English Carom Billiards experience standing him in good stead. This feat earned him a warm round of applause, however the complexity of the shot made it patently impossible to pocket the red ball and he was forced to relinquish the table.
This abortive attempt left Lord Chumley in good position with his unique leather tip to complete the potting of the rest of the yellows at leisure and this he did in stellar fashion completing each pot with remarkable precision and some aplomb. On each occasion he managed to position the queue ball in such a manner as to make it ridiculously easy to pot the next ball.
Eventually and inevitably, he was left with just the black ball to pocket but sadly his last shot had created an untenable situation for him. The cue ball lay on a rail with a red in between the cue ball and the winning black ball which was also on the same rail.
"I rather fear you've put yourself in a position wherein your mastery of backspin cannot help you this time." Simon observed.
"I still have some tricks up my sleeve..." said, Lord Chumly with a twinkle.
The room hushed in anticipation as he addressed the ball - the queue held almost vertically over it. Then he struck it suddenly with a firm downwards motion as if to drive it into the cloth. To everyone's astonishment, the cue ball squirted out in an arc around the blocking red ball and then spun back, contacting the black ball... and tapping it gently into the top pocket.
A spontaneous burst of applause arose from the audience.
"What wizardry is this," said Simon, bemused. "I saw it, but I don't still believe what just happened. You are indeed the master of this new game."
"Thank-you, Simon, my boy... the French call it a masse and as to my mastery of it, everything is relative..." said Lord Chumly. "I can assure you that Monsieur Mingaud could perform that shot and others like it with some ease."
After the exhibition was completed, Simon sat down with his uncle and the traitorous Stanley to discuss what had occurred. Many of the tricks they had seen would certainly be useful to expand the limited vocabulary of available shots in English Billiards as well as the new Boston Pool and Simon was eager to learn them.
"All in good time..." said Lord Chumly. "All in good time. Now tell me... what is your opinion of this new game?"
"I think it an amusing pastime..." said Simon, "But I very much doubt it will catch on with the purists. After all carom billiards is an established sport and has been played here for decades."
Lord Chumley nodded sagely.
"On the contrary, I think it's entirely possible that Boston Pool will one day outshine even English Billiards and Snooker as the billiard game with the most currency worldwide..."
Simon laughed heartily.
"Forgive me, Uncle," he said, clapping a patronizing hand on his relative's shoulder. "But that is exactly what they are saying about this upstart Association football they are playing these days at Eton. Can you imagine it one day superceding our beloved Rugby Union football? I warrant it will never happen."
Lord Chumly settled himself a little deeper in his chair and allowed himself a wry smile.
"Simon, my dear boy," he said. "You are probably right."
