THE LONGEST MINUTE

This billiards rematch, more than six decades in the making, was well worth the wait.

Having recently decided to “mostly” retire, I found out very quickly that filling the void of unwanted idle time was going to become my new occupation. I was determined not to let my mind and body atrophy, as happens with all too many older people after retiring. So, finding enjoyable activities that provided a challenge and chance to interact with people was going to become my mantra.

There was a seniors’ building in the city that I had been avoiding for some time, simply because it was referred to as a “seniors’’ centre. It was now finally time to come to grips with my labelling this place as being for “older” people. My attitude no longer mattered, it was for older people, and I realized I now fit very nicely into that category.

So, with my newfound attitude I thought what the hell, let’s check it out. Sheepishly walking through the front door, I was welcomed by a portly lady, probably somewhere in her mid-forties.

“Well hello there, I’m Barbara, how may I help you?”

The greeting had way too much enthusiasm. I mention this only to point out how the reception I had just received is telling of how some people pigeonhole seniors. She had what some would classify as a baby talk lilt to her voice. I fought off my desire to say anything inappropriate, simply sighed and said I’d like to speak with someone about the type of programs that were offered. Barbara immediately handed me a stack of pamphlets that were at the ready and was starting in on a way-too-lengthy outline of each of them when I raised my finger, stopping her mid-sentence.

“You have billiards,” I said, a statement more so than a question. It said so on page one of the paperwork Barbara had just handed me.

“Why yes,” she replied, assuming I was asking. “Two big kinds of tables and two smaller ones, they all have that green material on them though, don’t know why they can’t make them more attractive.”

Holding my finger up again, “Please stop,” I said, “you’re killing me here.”

I asked for an application, quickly paid the stated annual dues, and left Barbara to do whatever it is Barbara does.

FRENEMIES

Following the signs, I eventually located the poolroom, and I couldn’t have asked for anything more. It was as described, sort of, two full-size snooker tables and two Boston tables, green felt and all. The front snooker

table was occupied with four guys playing partners, and on the other one there was a lone shooter getting some practice in. I recognized two of the guys at the front table, and was exchanging some pleasantries, when we were interrupted by the guy practicing on the rear table.

“Well, well, will ya look at what the cat dragged in.”

Took me a minute, but I finally put a name to that face. My God, could it possibly be Marty Bourne, my old childhood nemesis? Last time I saw that ugly puss I was walking away from him while he was making fun of me. Over the next 30 minutes or so we lied to each other about our life successes, and I’d have to say he had what sounded like a pretty rough time of it. Apparently, he left town shortly after our last encounter and spent his life mostly in Western Canada and the Northern States jumping from job to job and hustling pool.

Niceties over, he slapped me on the back with a “Come on, four-eyes, get a stick, I’m going to kick your butt again.”

After all these years he still remembered I hated being called that, and really it was more the kind of thing a teenager would say, not a senior citizen. I went to the rack, picked out a house cue and shot back a little lie, “I’ve been practicing a little, Marty, you won’t beat me this time.”

He smiled and broke, the cue ball coming to rest tight to the brown. Damn it I thought, he hooked me off the break, I hoped that wasn’t an omen. Taking a deep breath, I chalked up and took my shot. Moving through the game was excruciatingly slow with me playing safe on almost every shot, waiting for him to gamble and miss.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune, I had, for the second time in my life, taken Marty Bourne to the black ball in a game of snooker. He had just made the pink, and needed the black for the game but had thankfully played poor shape. To win he had to make a bank off the side rail into the corner pocket, for him a moderately difficult shot, at least it used to be. The snooker gods must be on my side, I thought, as the ball wobbled off the horn and stayed out, the cue ball coming to rest mid table.

“There you go four-eyes,” he said smiling, waving his hand as though to offer me the game.

“Yeah thanks,” I said as I chalked my cue and walked toward the table, my palms sweating a little I must admit.

“Tough shot, should have gone in,” I said with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek.

Now I don’t want to make too much of this, it’s just a pool game for God’ sake. But I’ve been wanting to beat this jerk for over half a century. Marty still shot a good game, and back in the day when I was 15 and he was three or four years older, he was one of the best snooker players around. I know that won’t mean a hell of a lot to those of you who don’t know or care what snooker is. But for the rest of us, he was the gentry of the green, a jerk as I’ve now mentioned a few times—but talented.

SO CLOSE

As I stood there at the rail continuing to chalk my cue, I couldn’t help but reflect on a moment some 60 years earlier, a little déjà vu if you will. If you knew downtown Brantford back then, it was alive, Colborne Street in particular between Market and Queen, that’s where the action was. On any given day, but particularly on a Saturday afternoon, you could hardly walk on the sidewalks for people. Fred Acker’s Mens Wear, London Silk and Woollens, Steadman’s Bookstore, every type of retail you can think of, why there was even a Biltmore Hats shop that only sold fedoras. Imagine—only fedoras. I’d wager the average teenager today wouldn’t know what a fedora is. Anyhow, right smack in the centre of what was Brantford’s commercial core was The Grand, the crown jewel of pool halls. I can still hear the room cracking with the CLACK of the balls, and even smell the stale cigarette and cigar smoke. God, I loved that place. But I digress. This flashback was specific to a Saturday afternoon in 1958 or 1959. I was sitting against the radiator drinking a coke, watching some of the best shooters in the city play five and nine for a dollar a pay ball, which

was way past my comfort zone against these guys.

“Hey four-eyes do ya want a game?” It was Marty Bourne, and to be sure he was looking directly at me.

I bristled at the four eyes comment, but thought against making an issue of it, “Sure do, Marty,” I said, “I’m gonna hand you your ass today.”

Well, it turns out there was an ass handed out that day and it wasn’t his. We played a couple of games which he won handily and he asked if I had time for one more. The large clock which was hanging just off the end of the table showed I had less than 90 minutes to make my curfew, the details of which I’d be happy to share at another time. So, cue in hand, I thought about it for a microsecond and decided what the hell, if I’m late I’m late.

“Rack ‘em up,” I said. Regretting that decision would come later. Right now I had another chance to beat him.

I had the best game of my life that afternoon. With a run of 55 points, I was sure I had him. At that moment, I’d have bet my soul there was no way he could win. The game crept along after my run, some points for Marty, a few for me, back and forth until all that was left were the coloured balls. Twenty-seven points on the table, and I was up 26. I missed my shot on the yellow ball, and it was his turn. After what was an impossible shot on the yellow, he had perfect shape on the green, and then quickly sank it, with the brown, blue and pink balls following in rapid succession. But I was still in the game. He had left himself a difficult bank shot on the black ball to win. After a long look, he took his shot—the ball tracking toward the hole hit the horn and stayed out. I couldn’t believe he missed; I was elated. To my chagrin however, the cue ball had travelled to the far end and was tight to the rail. When I went to line up what should be my winning shot, I couldn’t believe that it was dead in. No angle at all, and no way of putting “English” on the cue ball to stop it. I stared down that shot for what seemed like an eternity. It looked like the table was about 20 feet long at that point. If this was against anyone else, I’d just take the shot, no problem, easy-peasy I thought. But it was not against anyone else, it was Marty Bourne, and I really wanted this win. I remember thinking, Okay, you got this finally in your grasp, after all the ball was hanging right over the pocket how the hell could you miss? With my cue freshly chalked, I bent over the table, lined up the shot and stroked my way to victory, only to be horrified when the cue ball followed the black into the hole to give him seven points and the win. As I was leaving the pool hall, now by the way, unable to meet my curfew deadline, which I can tell you was a lot more serious than losing the game, I could hear Marty laughing above the din.

REDEMPTION

Here I was again, all those years later, same scenario, the big difference being I had no curfew. Sixty years is a long time to wait, but the next minute could really define me. Okay, so that might be a little over the top for this situation, after all, as I mentioned before it was just a pool game. As I previously stated the cue ball was in the middle of the table. Surely I couldn’t miss this time. I leaned forward and stroked it toward the black, and I can tell you I felt a great deal of satisfaction as it fell into the pocket. Turning towards Marty, I was about to take whatever level of revenge I could without being too childish about it. He was gone, walked out the door while I was shooting—the bugger.

Smiling, I hung my cue back in the rack. “Once a jerk, always a jerk,” I said to no one but myself. ■