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THE game of billiards is not my cup of tea. Although I am no slouch when it comes to shooting pool, I am at best an average player.
The problem with the game is that it eats into my drinking time. The other issue that cramps my style is the layout of the places that I frequent: the table would be perched in an inconvenient spot where passers-by would bump your cue with their big bums and interrupt your shot. At other times, the snooker aficionados would insist on playing while some of us want to watch a PSL game on the big screen.
One hot Saturday afternoon after attending a funeral, the Straight & Two Beers crew went searching for a drinking hole in Viljoenskroon.
The Free State town made the headlines a few years ago when it emerged as a hellhole where the municipality built cabriolet toilets similar to those in Makhaza, Khayelitsha, in Cape Town. Having located a tavern, we managed to secure a table and filled it up.
A member of my crew lined up several R2 coins to challenge for a game of billiards. There seemed to be one chap dominating the table but I was not paying much attention.
After he had dispensed of my team, it was my turn to play. I hadn t played in months, was rusty and typically flunked my first few shots.
The chap meant business and sunk a ball with every shot.
Realising I was in more danger than Bafana in the Afcon qualifiers, I decided to adopt a defensive posture, what they call parking a bus in football parlance. Instead of sinking my balls, I eased them near the pockets, limiting the other player s options. I saw his brow knitting in frustration.
That s when I drove the knife in. Before he realised what was happening, I had sunk all my seven balls and rounded up the black one and finished the game. I heard a round of applause from those who had been watching the game.
I approached my crew and offered them the cue to play the next game as I had more serious business of drinking to deal with.
A tap on my shoulder. It was the chap I d just humiliated. He wanted a rematch. I later learnt from other patrons that this chap was a jailbirdturned-snooker champion and hadn t lost a game in months.
At his insistence, we went for another game and, again, I whipped his ass. Later he came over to the table and wanted me to tell him my secret. He confided in me that snooker was the only thing he had mastered in life and that kept him out of trouble. His words rang a bell. He was as entitled to the billiard table as former SABC chief operatings officer, Hlaudi Motsoeneng was entitled to a job at the public broadcaster.
The drama won t end well.