THE POOL GOD
                                by Dave Laird
                     Copyright 1992--Clayton, Washington

Pool, particularly eight ball, was a hallmark of growing up in a  small
mountain town in Colorado. Pool was as much a part of the social fabric of
smokey little nineteenth century gold mining towns replete with two churches
and four saloons as the copious quantities of Coors Beer we often drank to
insensibility. During the long winter nights, when the snow outside often
covered entire houses, whipped by winds of hurricane force, we gathered
together and shot pool to while the hours away.

Although one presupposes that a sizable amount of money changed  hands at
the green felt tables over the years, the real commodity at hand was always
the egos of anyone who had the nerve to stroll up to the felt and put up a
quarter to challenge the winner. The social register of the town often
revolved around one's current standings in the winter tournament league of
the time.

Whenever men and women of my generation turned to the Mecca of  the
eight-ball game, their hearts and minds eventually sought out the wisdom and
reassurance of that great deity of the game known only as the "Pool God."

Residing among the cigar smoke, beer spills and flyspecked old  ceiling
rafters, the Pool God protected a whole generation of pool and snooker
players, steering them clear of rocky waters-- scratch shots, bad position,
bad breaks--for nothing was beyond his reach.

For nearly twenty years, the Pool God was my constant friend,  giving
unceasingly of his time and beneficence. Along the way, I won two Colorado
State Championships and a Wyoming State Tournament. In 1990 and 1991 I was
the first white man ever to play on an otherwise all-Indian pool team that
won two regional championships, beautiful gold loving cups, for the Pow Wow
Tavern in Springdale. In the last game of the series, after we had tied a
vastly superior team, I prayed silently to the Pool God and went down in the
history books as the only team player in that year to make the eight ball on
the break, winning the game and the tournament.

My eight ball career was seemingly eliminated in 1992 when I  found I needed
extensive eye surgery to continue even the most rudimentary of existence. In
the summer of 1992, I resigned myself to leaving the felt tables behind
forever, when the surgery, two lens replacements and a corneal transplant,
was complete, leaving me with a permanent astigmatism which is still only
partially corrected with contact lenses.

Last night, after several of my former team mates tracked me down  in my new
digs, I was coerced into playing "just a few games" for old times sake.
Frantically, I dug through the closet, finally finding my custom inlaid cue
stick, forgotten and forlorn, beneath a double layer of moldy, used tennis
shoes.

The first game confirmed my worst fears. I could not see well  enough to
make simple shots that even a neophyte would make with impunity. Instead of
seeing the green felt table in front of me, I saw two of everything. I
scratched incessantly, plopping the cue ball into the pockets with a happy
chortle of finality that seemed to say, "What the hell. Why bother?"

I was beaten, whipped by my own perception of my infirmity, and  ready to
leave the table at the first available exit. But as my eyes began
frantically seeking an acceptably rapid means of leaving the table, I saw
the Pool God, reclining in an easy chair, up there against the fly-specked
ceiling. He was old-- older than I ever recall him, with vast wrinkles
lining his wise old eyes, his hair now almost entirely white.

With the fear hard on me, my heart pounding in submission, I  turned my eyes
downward and sought the only avenue left to me, and I prayed the prayer
known to eight ball players since time began.

"Please don't let me screw up this time." 

I cannot say that it was the same as years gone by, for even the  Pool God
has certain limitations. The old skills were there, however, and when I
could no longer see to make my next shot, I left my opponent with positions
that make old men quaver and young men cry. I shot with a vengeance, I
ripped off bank shots that defied the laws of geometry and when the end
came, I plopped the eight ball into the corner pocket with as much aplomb as
any sweet-smelling pool hustler in a smoky pool hall ever could do.

Yes, mother. I regret to inform you there is a Pool God. I last  saw him
laughing his ass off, sitting up on the ceiling in a leather recliner,
holding his stomach for dear life.

Yeah, though I walk through the valley of many shots too hard to  make, I
will fear no shot, for the Pool God still thinks I am funny.