live my life in growing orbits,
which move out over the things of this world.
Perhaps I never can achieve the last,
but that will be my attempt
I am circling around God,
around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years.
And I still do not know,
if I am a Falcon,
or a storm,
or a great song.
When you have done that, on your dying bed, if you can smile and nod quietly to yourself, you will have succeeded, and romance
will ride your shoulder as you turn for home.
Go well. Remember the flowers. Remember the wind. Thank you.
A Rite of Passage
in Three Cushions
______________________________________
I ’ve always liked personal-sized heroes. In the early 1950s, when other boys were fawning over Duke Snider or Rocky Marciano,
I was deifying Sammy Patterson in an unpretentious room on the main street of Rockford, Iowa,
I can still see him. Baggy shirt and pants. Flask protruding from his right hip pocket. He walked slowly and spoke quietly.
But when he bent over the billiard table, his cue moved with the silent accuracy of an archer’s arrow. His stroke was smooth
and sure, and the result was never harsh, just the soft click of ivory against ivory, as the balls moved in complex patterns
over the green cloth. He must have been about sixty then.
This was no fancy parlor where Sammy practiced his trade. No tuxedos, no leanings toward precious respectability with big
prize money and women in evening gowns. Here, in Gerald Braga’s “The Sportsman,” pool was pool and billiards was billiards.
In case you have led a life more sheltered than I care to imagine, pool tables have pockets, billiard tables do not. At least
this was true in the world in which I grew up. Billiards is played with three balls. Two white, one red. One of the white
balls has a small spot on it to differentiate it from the other. One player shoots the “clear” and the other commands the
“spot.” The object is to make your cue ball hit each of the other two balls in one shot. A carom, in other words. Sound easy?
It is not. Billiards is a game of physics, geometry, composition, skill, and treachery.
And Sammy was good, very good, at it. He covered three angles on each shot. Make the carom. Set yourself up for the next shot.
Leave nothing for your opponent in case you miss. He taught me just about everything he knew, including how to hold ordinary
pool players in infinite disdain, as I followed him around the table, night after night, dragging a cue as tall as I was.
I entered Sammy’s world through a rite of passage. All cultures have these, and mine was no different. One Sunday morning
my parents and I drove over from Rockford to have dinner with my grandparents in Charles City. After we arrived and my mother
had hurried off to the kitchen, my dad looked at me with a glint of wickedness in his eyes and said, “Let’s go up to the Elks
Club”
For an eleven-year-old boy, this was tantamount to being invited into manhood. It was the big leagues. Locked doors, a bar,
silence on a Sunday morning, rumors of slot machines in the basement, and the smell of booze, smoke, and modest indiscretion
left over from the previous night’s party. It was a man’s world. Women were invited for the parties sometimes; children were
invited never, except for the annual Christmas bash, when the place, the language, and the behavior were sanitized.
My dad walked past the bar, flipped on the light over a pool table without breaking stride, and stood before the long racks
of cues. Like a scholar gently perusing books in a sacred library, he ran his fingers lightly over the cues, pausing now and
then to turn one and look at the number engraved on it indicating its weight.
He selected two, rolled them on the table to make sure they were straight, and casually slipped a few balls, including the
cue ball, from the leather pockets. The training began. “Never, ever, shoot hard, except in special
which move out over the things of this world.
Perhaps I never can achieve the last,
but that will be my attempt
I am circling around God,
around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years.
And I still do not know,
if I am a Falcon,
or a storm,
or a great song.
When you have done that, on your dying bed, if you can smile and nod quietly to yourself, you will have succeeded, and romance
will ride your shoulder as you turn for home.
Go well. Remember the flowers. Remember the wind. Thank you.
A Rite of Passage
in Three Cushions
______________________________________
I ’ve always liked personal-sized heroes. In the early 1950s, when other boys were fawning over Duke Snider or Rocky Marciano,
I was deifying Sammy Patterson in an unpretentious room on the main street of Rockford, Iowa,
I can still see him. Baggy shirt and pants. Flask protruding from his right hip pocket. He walked slowly and spoke quietly.
But when he bent over the billiard table, his cue moved with the silent accuracy of an archer’s arrow. His stroke was smooth
and sure, and the result was never harsh, just the soft click of ivory against ivory, as the balls moved in complex patterns
over the green cloth. He must have been about sixty then.
This was no fancy parlor where Sammy practiced his trade. No tuxedos, no leanings toward precious respectability with big
prize money and women in evening gowns. Here, in Gerald Braga’s “The Sportsman,” pool was pool and billiards was billiards.
In case you have led a life more sheltered than I care to imagine, pool tables have pockets, billiard tables do not. At least
this was true in the world in which I grew up. Billiards is played with three balls. Two white, one red. One of the white
balls has a small spot on it to differentiate it from the other. One player shoots the “clear” and the other commands the
“spot.” The object is to make your cue ball hit each of the other two balls in one shot. A carom, in other words. Sound easy?
It is not. Billiards is a game of physics, geometry, composition, skill, and treachery.
And Sammy was good, very good, at it. He covered three angles on each shot. Make the carom. Set yourself up for the next shot.
Leave nothing for your opponent in case you miss. He taught me just about everything he knew, including how to hold ordinary
pool players in infinite disdain, as I followed him around the table, night after night, dragging a cue as tall as I was.
I entered Sammy’s world through a rite of passage. All cultures have these, and mine was no different. One Sunday morning
my parents and I drove over from Rockford to have dinner with my grandparents in Charles City. After we arrived and my mother
had hurried off to the kitchen, my dad looked at me with a glint of wickedness in his eyes and said, “Let’s go up to the Elks
Club”
For an eleven-year-old boy, this was tantamount to being invited into manhood. It was the big leagues. Locked doors, a bar,
silence on a Sunday morning, rumors of slot machines in the basement, and the smell of booze, smoke, and modest indiscretion
left over from the previous night’s party. It was a man’s world. Women were invited for the parties sometimes; children were
invited never, except for the annual Christmas bash, when the place, the language, and the behavior were sanitized.
My dad walked past the bar, flipped on the light over a pool table without breaking stride, and stood before the long racks
of cues. Like a scholar gently perusing books in a sacred library, he ran his fingers lightly over the cues, pausing now and
then to turn one and look at the number engraved on it indicating its weight.
He selected two, rolled them on the table to make sure they were straight, and casually slipped a few balls, including the
cue ball, from the leather pockets. The training began. “Never, ever, shoot hard, except in special
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