Dave's Good Stuff

I’ve made some updates to the score sheets.

I’ve uploaded all of them now to GoogleDocs for one. That’s the big change.

Other small changes, currently exclusive to the GoogleDocs versions, are minor formatting changes, formulaic changes to rid the sheets of #DIV/0 errors, and the removal of some extraneous columns to help with formula drag filling.

Furthermore, I’ve shared all the GoogleDocs versions so they’re public for the finding, though I’ve retained exclusive editing rights.

As always, suggestions and tweaks, especially those that stem from trial-by-fire experience, are always welcome.

Straight Pool & Equal Offense Scores and Stats Sheets

That’s what I want. That’s what I plan to have.

The basement of the house we’re negotiating on is unfinished. It’s already framed in (a very nice professional job, too), and awaits only drywall and finishing. However, I want to get the pool table installed now, and finish the room around it later. That means floor first, rather than the typical last.

Our plan for the moment is to install tile directly under the pool table and carpet tiles around that. The tile under the table will help support the table, won’t settle the way carpet does, and will provide a beautiful accent. The carpet tiles will grant the luxury of being able to take tiles up, put tiles down and cut tiles to size as I’m finishing up the walls. Then if someone… when someone spills their drink on the carpet we can just take the tile up, hose it down, let it dry, and drop it back into place. They make carpet tiles with a thick enough nap that the seams are invisible, so it’ll look just like a normal carpet floor.

Here’s the rough plan starting just as soon as possible after we take possession and move in:

1. Pull down the ceiling tile framework the previous owner installed. Don’t need it. Don’t want it.
2. Spray the ceiling black, or another dark color (the wife suggested a dark grey similar to the tiles we looked at) which will give the illusion of a more open space, and actually provide more space. I have a piston sprayer I used on my current ceiling. That’ll do.
3. Install the tiles on the 45, with a border around those on the 90, with the whole area being just large enough to fit under the table. I have a professional tiler friend who has offered to help with this in exchange for beer.
4. Make an appointment to have the table delivered and installed. This is key. It will become my deadline for everything above this line. It’s good to have deadlines. They keep us on our toes and getting things done.
5. Install the carpet tiles around the newly installed table.
6. Finish the basement as time and money allow, and play lots of pool in the meantime!

I’m a little worried about the weight of the table on those tiles, and potential breakage. Will an underlayment like ditera help, hurt or be indifferent?

For the rest of the room, I’m thinking of an old English pub feel, with nice dark wainscoting and other woods and stained stucco. :)

We have no reason to believe our plans to buy this particular house will fall through, but if they do, my rough plan outlined here remains, no matter what house we end up in.

I… uh… huh.

I played pool at lunch today with a co-worker we’ll call Dave (because that’s his name). Given recent events, I figured I’d be pretty hard pressed to make a decent bridge and a single ball, much less string a rack together.

Turns out I was wrong. I played rather well for someone who plays once a week on a good week. I didn’t run any racks, but I came damn close a few times. I chalk (see what I did there?) it up to having to be special careful placing my hand on the table every time, and being sure I knew where I wanted to go. The finger I cut up is the primary load bearing finger, and I didn’t want to have to repeat myself. There’s just something about ripping pain that makes you want to minimize the movement.

The same thing happened last year when I hit my left index finger with a hammer while beating landscaping stones into the sand around the patio. I hyper extended that little digit, causing some fairly dramatic discomfort. Given that it’s the primary guide for the cue stick, I had to be very careful then, also. I slowed down to account for the injury, and played lights out all night.

I think there’s a lesson here. Hit yourself with a hammer, or cut yourself bone-deep with a utility knife to slow you down and make you a better player.

So I’ve done my index finger, and my middle finger… any ideas on what I should do to my ring finger? I have your basic standard tools around, plus a miter saw, electric sharpening stones, an electric knife, a 3.5″ Shun pairing knife, assorted chisels, a washing machine, a fire pit, lots of windows, two cars, two bikes, a cat, and lots of imagination.

David,

I don’t think you deserve an explanation for how I’ve treated you. I don’t think I owe you anything. But I think we have a chance, you and I, of getting back what we once had, so I’m going to give you one.

I don’t always go where you want me to go, and often I go exactly where you don’t want me to go. What do you expect? You haven’t been visiting me that much. I’m hurt, and am feeling neglected by the lack of attention lately. So, yeah, maybe I am being a little passive aggressive. Instead of talking to you directly, I behave badly, and hope you’ll work it out yourself. I’m talking to you directly now, though. So anything that happens after this is on you.

If you’d just spend more time with me, I wouldn’t have to hide myself behind the pretty blue 2 ball. With more attention, I may have slowed to a stop a few inches back that way, and let you see your 11 ball. Look at it, all pretty and stripey. Oh wait. You can’t see it. The 2 is in the way. My bad. *shrug*

Also, about that thing you call a stroke. I bet you can’t even remember what it’s called, can you? Can you? Chicken wing! That’s what it’s called. But what’s it all about? Where’d that come from? You used to hit me true and on the straight and narrow. I used to know right where to expect you. Now, you’re all over the place. What am I supposed to do with that? I try to go where you want me to go, but what you apparently want, and what you’re telling me are two completely different things.

You did this to yourself. It’s not my fault you decided you had more important things to do. Now you want to come back and pick up where things left off. Well, let me tell you, it’s not that simple. It’s not going to happen that way. I lost faith in you. I lost trust in you. You’re going to have to earn it back. That means time. That means attention, and if you want me back, you’re going to have to give me that time and attention. If I don’t get it, I’m going to keep dumping you for the other person to see how they do.

I’m being straight with you here, which is more than I can say for how you’ve been treating me, Mr. Chicken Wing.

Now, I’m not saying I’ll leave you forever. I think we have a chance. We used to have something real good going on. It was solid. We liked each other. We joked around. We played, we laughed. we had a great time! I’m telling you, we can have all that again. But it’s conditional… we can have all that again on the condition that you treat me right, and with the respect you used to show me; the respect I deserve. We have a chance, you and I, but remember what I said: time and attention. There are no freebies here. You can’t just expect me to do what you want. You have to earn it.

I’m around… you just have to find me again.
Yours,
Cue Ball

I really didn’t plan on it, but I’ve found myself on a third pool team. I’m now not only playing at Shooters on Monday nights, and Sharks on Wednesday nights, but at The Clarette Club on Thursday nights. This is in addition to the semi-regular tournament play on Saturday and Sunday nights. Throw in some afternoon tournaments on Sunday followed by a few hours of free pool before the Sunday night tournament, and you may start to wonder how I have time for anything other than smacking balls around with sticks! You wouldn’t be the only one.

The competition is very tough, and is guaranteed, if I pay even a smidgen of attention, to improve my game. I’ve been trying for a couple years now to get in on the Thursday league, and when I was asked to join up while on the way out Shark’s door Wednesday night, I just couldn’t pass it up, even with the already hefty time commitment. I’m “just” an alternate, which means I won’t play every week, but I’m treating that as a foot in the door, and who knows, maybe I’ll play more regularly than I imagine.

Between fighting for every point Monday night at Shooters and then Thursday night at Clarette, I should gain at least one or two balls on my average by the end of Spring!

I hope so, b/c lately, it’s been really tough to take the game seriously. It’s clear to me that I’ve lost some of that “student of the game” attitude I used to take so much pride in a few years ago. In fact, looking back, I don’t really think I’ve had that hunger for pool knowledge and expertise since I moved out here to KC from Lawrence. One of the guys on the Clarette team may be able to inspire that in me again… none of us had a good night last night, but the sideline conversation about the ins and outs of the game, both the physics and the mentality, was fantastic.

In talking with him I realized that I’ve been too complacent in what I know, and actually (horror of horrors) resistant to new ideas, methods, and knowledge. I’ve just not cared to learn anything new, or perfect/correct what I already know. That. Has. To. Change.

And there’s nothing like being on a team of better players, playing against some of the best in town, to force me out of a rut and make that change.

Overheard two nights ago at Shooters in Olathe: “McDonald’s fries give Burger King fries the 6.“

Last night I was playing solo on a 9-foot table at the local pool hall. A couple guys come up and want to gamble. $1 a rack. Seriously? $1.00 a rack? Red flag #1. $1.00 is petty change, but I don’t gamble. It’s a principle thing. I have, on occasion, but very rarely, and only with people I know and trust to not break my jaw.

One of the guys, perhaps in his late 40′s or early 50′s and seemingly “in charge”, goes on about the 1, 5 and 9 being money balls… trying to talk the talk, throwing lingo around like it’s rice at a wedding. Red flag #2. I have a tough time convincing him that I don’t gamble, but am certainly willing to share the table for a while. “What’s the 9 mean, then?” he asks. “It means you win?” I respond. “Uh… you get to break the next rack…” Red flag #3. I’m really starting to wonder at this point about the fellow as this line of conversation goes on for about a minute. Finally, we agree to just play. He racks.

In a manner of speaking.

It’s loose. He can’t control the rack and bumps the balls all over when he tries to lift it. Never mind that the head ball is 3 inches from the spot. I gently allow as to how it should be straight, tight, and on the spot. It takes him (seriously) about a minute to finally get the rack reasonably tight, and figure out how to rack. I’m caught between tapping my toes in frustration and laughing out loud at his clumsy ineptitude. And this guy wanted to gamble?

I give some thought to the idea that maybe he’s playing with me. Maybe he’s coming across as a bumbling idiot in the hopes of luring me into some money games, at which time he’ll wipe the floor with me. I don’t spend much time on that line of thinking.

I cleaned the table with him. Over and over again. He never lets on that he actually knows what he’s doing. He’s a loud talker who puts more energy into making fun of those shots I missed than congratulating me on those I make. I’m not easily sharked by such things, and since I neither know the guy, nor want to, it’s of no consequence to me. He tires of racking (but not before I’ve tired of watching his tragic attempts) and wanders aimlessly off to hit on some underage girls. Pure class, that one. I proceed to clean the table with his mumbling friend who, all sweat and B.O. and clearly unaware of personal space and boundaries, was also entirely too “familiar.” It was a little creepy.

Pet Peeve: People who stand next to the table while I’m shooting. Find a seat, slick. Sit down, get out of the way, and let me shoot.

As it started taking them longer and longer to rack the balls after I beat the crap out of them, I started racking them myself and just shooting it out like they weren’t there. Eventually they quietly left. Well, sweaty guy did whine a little bit, but I responded with an unsympathetic “This table costs money and you guys were wasting mine.” Mr. Class was nowhere to be seen, so I allowed myself to simply be grateful for his absence. My increasing misery at their presence was obvious enough that the waitress commented on it after they left.

That painful chapter of my life over, I got in a small “Rack Attack” demo competition with some other guys. I ended up with a less-than-stellar 39 out of 50, but there was a moment. During my second rack I was on shot 9 with 2 balls left and I have a choice. I can make one ball and I get 9 points. Or I can make both balls in one shot and not only get 10 points, but also crazy pool cred and the shouts and worship of all those around watching.

Care to guess which shot I attempted? I won’t make you. I had the shape and saw the pattern, so I rocketed the first ball into a corner pocket, sending the cue ball screaming around the table three rails and perfectly into the second ball, sending it, in turn flying into the same corner pocket. Oh yes. There was shouting. There was praise. There were high-fives and looks of wonder and envy. It was glorious.

I’m not a fan of the name of the game… it seems a little melodramatic to me, but I do like how it lends itself to (designed for?) stats keeping and finding a true average that can’t honestly be determined against opponents of various skill levels.

Bike today? Magic 8-ball says: Maybe.

Saturday night I went to Sharks, a local pool hall, with the intent of entering a 9-ball tournament. I did exactly that. And for it being my first tournament in years, I didn’t do too bad. I pulled 6th place out of 30 entrants. I completely choked on my last match, but it was very late, and I’m just not used to marathon playing like that. I’m giving it time. It’ll all come back. Last weekend was just the start.

However, that’s really not the point. The point is…

I’m sitting there watching a match between two of the best players in the tournament. Why wouldn’t I? Free lessons, after all. A guy is sitting next to me. Older, I’m thinking maybe 50 or so, he looks really familiar, but I can’t place him, and being more interested in the match being played out in front of me, I let it go. We start talking, and introduce ourselves. His name is Paul. We’re critiquing the match, sharing stories, just generally chatting. He tells about how he’s been playing the game for 55 years (turns out he’s 60), and is so grateful to the game for carrying him around the world multiple times, giving him the opportunity to learn 5 different languages and meet literally thousands upon thousands of fantastic people.

I’m listening, but what he’s saying isn’t really sinking in. Around the world? Many languages? Thousands upon thousands of people? How many pool players credit all that to the game? I’m going to lay my money on a pretty slim minority.

It still doesn’t sink in that this fellow is probably a pretty remarkable player. He has a very humble demeanor, though he’s obviously very confident in what he says. A stranger in the pool hall, he immediately zeroed in on the best players in the house which speaks to his skill in knowing what to look for.

My name is called, and I settle into my last match… the one, as I said, that I choked on. It was with a friend of mine I’ve known for about a decade now, and he’s been in my head for a while. I really wanted to beat him, but I couldn’t let go of the idea that he was going to beat me. We’re chatting between shots, and he asks if I knew Paul Gerni was there. All of a sudden it clicks. THAT’S where I recognize him from! ESPN! Paul… Paul Gerni… is an internationally renown trick shot artist with more than a few titles under his belt!

Unbelievable! I was just chatting with a guy that knows as much about pool as damn near anyone, and doing so like I had a clue what I was talking about!

After my match, I go over and watch him give a little impromptu exhibition. If nothing else, I should have continued talking with him b/c his assistant was just crazy cute…

Last night was the last night for our Wednesday night pool league. Tuesday night was the last for the Tuesday night league. I still love the game, and am 100% certain I’ll get back into it, but it was taking too much time, and there are so many other things I want/need to take care of. It’ll be nice to have free nights for a few months to get caught up.

We’d only been playing the Tuesday night league for a single session, but already made our mark pretty well. The wait staff, as well as others working there made it a point to tell us, in no uncertain terms, that we would be back, so just accept it and move on. It was very nice, and made us feel very good. The whole night was fantastic. The four of us had a blast, and made sure that the last night would be one to remember.

We’d been playing the Wednesday night league for some time, and felt it was just time to let it go. Last night was, also, a lot of fun. I’ve enjoyed playing there for the last few years, but I’m thinking it’s time to expand my horizons a bit and move on.

I’m really not sure what’s in store for me and pool when I return in a few months. My game feels pretty good right now, like I’m nearly back to where I was 5 or 6 years ago. I’ll keep playing on my own, over lunch, on the weekends, and the like, but not in league. I may try out some tournaments here and there, just to see what’s up. Who knows? Right now, I’m just looking forward to a little bit of a break.

This morning, Mother Nature seemed to mourn the close of a chapter with clouds, misting and a little light rain. It was pretty chilly for a while too, until I warmed up into the ride.

There weren’t any mini-vans blasting gangsta rap this morning, or groups of suburbanites flashing gang signs. There weren’t any small children playing with their dogs. There weren’t even any other cyclists/bikers/bicyclists out.

Just me.

In the mist.

Slowly making my way into work.