For as long as I can remember a pool hall was somewhere nearby. Or at least a table. Whether in our home, our garage, one of the sheds at the Sunol Ranch, my Dad’s “secret” office at work, or even my Uncle’s private gambling palace in south San Jose, the cracking sound of billiards wasn’t far away.
In the late 40’s my father opened a sandwich shop in Manteca. According to my Mom, it didn’t take long for a pool table to show up and for my grandfather to start hustling people. Dad sold sandwiches and sodas, Grandpa played pool. Nobody got rich, but everybody made a living.
From what I hear, Grandpa was very very good. My Dad was pretty good too, even as Parkinson’s attacked his nerves. He’d find a way to concentrate, stop the shaking, and make the shot.
Sadly, I’m not very good at the game. Just didn’t have the patience, or the light touch. I have played enough to be competitive. But somebody who has played as much as I have should be a lot better.
The only thing worse than a wasting your youth at a pool hall? Wasting it and not getting any better.
Dad got into snooker when I was a teenager. It’s a much more difficult game because the balls and pockets are smaller. Dad said it would make me a better player on a “regular” table, but it didn’t seem to help. As Mark Twain purportedly said, the game could destroy my naturally sweet disposition.
We still have one of Dad’s old tables. It’s old, beat up, and should probably be redone. But I keep thinking that Dad touched the felt, the cushions, and the well worn scoring dial. I won’t repair it. I like the authenticity.
So a toast of Montana whiskey and nickel cigars to my Dad and to Grandpa. May you be selling sandwiches and hustling unsuspecting new arrivals in heaven when I arrive.
A sketch of my Grandpa from the 50’s.