Rack 'Em

Chapter 3

3

Without the nightmares a week goes by fast. Saturday I hop out of bed, pull on my favorite dress pants and a new Chicago Bulls sweatshirt. The one with the 9-ball on it hangs in the closet, too small. My good shoes are polished and shiny. Combing my hair takes a long time. I can't get it right! It's short and straight, and darker than it was a year ago. Mom and Floyd for sure won't like it, but I'm going to let it grow long. In the kitchen, I'm pouring milk over my second bowl of Grape-Nuts when Dad finally comes in to make coffee.

"You're all dressed up," he says. "Goin' to church?"

"Da-ad, it's Saturday."

"Oh, yeah. The pool lesson." He points at my sweat. "Didn't know you like basketball."

"I don't."

"Then why you wearing' it?"

"Mom got it for me. Dad, what's the lesson going to be like?"

He pours a cup of coffee and takes a few sips. "You got a good teacher in Vee. She's strict and very disciplined. Just pay attention, do what she says. Pool's like math, Jimmy, certain things only work certain ways." He takes another sip of coffee, sets the cup down and shakes his head. "Your mom still don't approve of your pool playin'?" I sit there quiet like and don't answer. "Come on," he says. "Time to go. Vee'll teach you what's important, what's not."

Dad drops me at the Palace and leaves. Vee and I are the only ones there. She takes me to table seventeen and scatters the first nine of the fifteen numbered balls across it.

"Shoot 'em up, Doll, in rotation," she says. "Ball-in-hand."

That's pool talk for when someone fouls or scratches, giving the other player a chance to place the cueball anywhere on the table. I set it near the one and get ready to shoot. Vee stops me.

"Chalk up before every shot. Chalk's cheap. You can't use too much of it."

I chalk the cue tip and begin shooting with Vee standing beside me. It makes me nervous, she's so close. I sink the one-ball, two, three, then miss the four. An easy shot!

"Shouldn't have missed that," I say.

"You're doing fine, Doll."

The four and five go in, I miss banking the 6-ball into the side pocket, then make three more in a row. Again I miss! It's the last ball, too, the 9-ball, the winning ball. Don't like missing it . . . and I shoot it hard into the corner pocket. Vee racks and steps back.

"Let's see your break."

My break isn't good. I keep going, concentrating more with each shot. Before long all I think about is sinking balls and being with Vee. Nothing could be better. It makes me happy.

"That's enough, Doll. Not bad. You have a very sharp eye. Your stroke is a little choppy, though. Especially on the break. What do you think about changing your grip?"

"How do you mean?"

"I'll show you." Vee comes up close, real close, takes my right hand and slides it forward along the butt of the cue stick about two inches. It's hard to pay attention, she's so close. About all I can do is hold onto the cue stick, smelling her perfume.

"How's that feel?" she asks.

I take a few strokes. "It's okay, I guess."

"Try it awhile. I think you'll like it. Your arms are too stretched out the other way. Like this you'll be more flexible and have better control. That's it. Keep your right arm hanging straight down from the elbow nice and loose, so it swings like a pendulum. Wait a second, Doll. Let's get your feet square underneath you for balance." She shifts one of my legs over a bit, the other back. "There you go. Now you look like a shooter. Watch other players and you'll see what I mean. The best ones approach the game with exactly the right combination of attitude and skills. I can help you with your skills, but the rest is up to you. Okay? Now for the hand bridges. No matter what kind of shot you have, you want to be able to keep the cue stick steady, so your strokes come off nice and smooth." Vee takes my left hand in both of hers and places it on the edge of the rail. "Relax your hand." She arranges each finger around the cue stick near the tip, forming a bridge, and tells me, "This is for shooting off the rail." Then she puts my hand flat on the table and rearranges my fingers. "And like this when you're shooting for draw . . . and like this for follow."

Some of the things she says don't make much sense, others I don't even hear. By the time the lesson ends, I'm dizzy from smelling perfume, but I'm a pool player again. The person in that nightmare wants me to "Play pool!" and I will. Starting with these lessons, I will train to become a professional. Then I will be ready to meet whoever that is hiding under the hood, and win.