cases.” “Here, spread
the last three fingers of your left hand on the table, crook your first finger over to meet your thumb, and control the cue
by running it through the circle made by your finger and thumb. Only amateurs put all five fingers down and run the cue over
the place between the finger and the thumb.” “Here’s how English works.” “Here are some tough shots and how to handle them.”
It went on like that. For several weeks, each time we drove to Charles City on a Sunday morning, we shot pool. My dad was
a fine player. I learned from watching him. Learned the language and the moves. Learned to take it seriously.
After the training, I was turned loose at Braga’s place (we never called it “The Sportsman”). Braga and my dad were fishing
buddies, so who knows what kind of pact was forged to assure my mother that, indeed, I would be all right there behind the
steamed-over windows, lost in the thick smoke, and subject to the wild yelling and pointed oaths that came from the card room
in the back, the room that had a sign saying “No Miners” tacked to its swinging-door entrance. (I remember pondering the fact
that there was not a mine within 100 miles of Rockford.)
It was a dime a cue, loser pay, and it nearly always was crowded. My pool and fishing crony, Dennis Parker, and I headed for
there every afternoon when we escaped from school. And, of course, weekends were best. On Fridays we raced to Braga’s, put
a nickel in the pinball machine, hoisted it up on our toes when Gerald wasn’t looking, and ran up 200 free games, enough to
keep us going for hours. One of us shot pool, one played pinball, and then we traded off.
I used to sit in school and dream of the beautiful patterns the pool balls made as they rolled, contemplating strategies for
difficult shots. I kept shooting and got better. Pretty soon, I could spend all weekend in Braga’s for an outlay of maybe
forty cents, not counting the mustard-smeared hot dogs I ate from the machine that went round and round by the cash register.
Sometimes Gerald hired me to rack balls on Saturday nights. I picked up a dollar for the evening doing that and actually showed
a profit for my day,
I acquired my own cue for $5 from Kenny Govro. Kenny, it was said, had a bad heart and counted on his American Indian wife,
Snow, to support him. He claimed he was giving up pool and billiards, in a fit of anger over losing one night, and sold me
the cue.
It was a thing of beauty. Seventeen ounces of light-colored gleaming wood, cork grip, trimmed in ivory. An arrow for the wars
that consumed me. It rested quietly in a special, locked rack fastened to a wall inside the card room, until I gently removed
it each day and began to shoot pool (“miners” were allowed in the card room to get their private cues).
My mother was worried. Remember, this was only eighteen miles southeast of River City. She could spell trouble, she knew it
started with t, and she knew what that fateful letter rhymed with. But she was overmatched. I shot pool out front, my dad
was in the card room playing pinochle, and at least she knew where I was.
The only real concession she demanded, and she stood absolutely firm on this, was that I undress on the back porch and leave
my “awful, smelly clothes out there.” Those were her words. I thought I smelled just fine, anointed as I was with smoke, mustard
stains, cue chalk, and the unmistakable musk of burgeoning skill.
At some point, I don’t remember when, I was allowed to try the billiard table. This was another step in the rite of passage,
as significant as learning to play pool. The billiard table was Gerald’s glory. He kept its smooth, unmarked surface and lively
cushions covered with light canvas when it was not in use. The balls were stored safely out of reach in a box behind the front
counter. You had to have Gerald’s permission to play on the billiard table. Perhaps twenty
the last three fingers of your left hand on the table, crook your first finger over to meet your thumb, and control the cue
by running it through the circle made by your finger and thumb. Only amateurs put all five fingers down and run the cue over
the place between the finger and the thumb.” “Here’s how English works.” “Here are some tough shots and how to handle them.”
It went on like that. For several weeks, each time we drove to Charles City on a Sunday morning, we shot pool. My dad was
a fine player. I learned from watching him. Learned the language and the moves. Learned to take it seriously.
After the training, I was turned loose at Braga’s place (we never called it “The Sportsman”). Braga and my dad were fishing
buddies, so who knows what kind of pact was forged to assure my mother that, indeed, I would be all right there behind the
steamed-over windows, lost in the thick smoke, and subject to the wild yelling and pointed oaths that came from the card room
in the back, the room that had a sign saying “No Miners” tacked to its swinging-door entrance. (I remember pondering the fact
that there was not a mine within 100 miles of Rockford.)
It was a dime a cue, loser pay, and it nearly always was crowded. My pool and fishing crony, Dennis Parker, and I headed for
there every afternoon when we escaped from school. And, of course, weekends were best. On Fridays we raced to Braga’s, put
a nickel in the pinball machine, hoisted it up on our toes when Gerald wasn’t looking, and ran up 200 free games, enough to
keep us going for hours. One of us shot pool, one played pinball, and then we traded off.
I used to sit in school and dream of the beautiful patterns the pool balls made as they rolled, contemplating strategies for
difficult shots. I kept shooting and got better. Pretty soon, I could spend all weekend in Braga’s for an outlay of maybe
forty cents, not counting the mustard-smeared hot dogs I ate from the machine that went round and round by the cash register.
Sometimes Gerald hired me to rack balls on Saturday nights. I picked up a dollar for the evening doing that and actually showed
a profit for my day,
I acquired my own cue for $5 from Kenny Govro. Kenny, it was said, had a bad heart and counted on his American Indian wife,
Snow, to support him. He claimed he was giving up pool and billiards, in a fit of anger over losing one night, and sold me
the cue.
It was a thing of beauty. Seventeen ounces of light-colored gleaming wood, cork grip, trimmed in ivory. An arrow for the wars
that consumed me. It rested quietly in a special, locked rack fastened to a wall inside the card room, until I gently removed
it each day and began to shoot pool (“miners” were allowed in the card room to get their private cues).
My mother was worried. Remember, this was only eighteen miles southeast of River City. She could spell trouble, she knew it
started with t, and she knew what that fateful letter rhymed with. But she was overmatched. I shot pool out front, my dad
was in the card room playing pinochle, and at least she knew where I was.
The only real concession she demanded, and she stood absolutely firm on this, was that I undress on the back porch and leave
my “awful, smelly clothes out there.” Those were her words. I thought I smelled just fine, anointed as I was with smoke, mustard
stains, cue chalk, and the unmistakable musk of burgeoning skill.
At some point, I don’t remember when, I was allowed to try the billiard table. This was another step in the rite of passage,
as significant as learning to play pool. The billiard table was Gerald’s glory. He kept its smooth, unmarked surface and lively
cushions covered with light canvas when it was not in use. The balls were stored safely out of reach in a box behind the front
counter. You had to have Gerald’s permission to play on the billiard table. Perhaps twenty
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