Henry considered his disability as he tried to engage I’s
interest in playing a little baseball. Wearing a glove on his left
hand wasn’t a problem, but throwing with his right was nearly
impossible. And while Henry had developed ambidextrous abilities,
switching the two fared no better. Henry considered revisiting his
mechanical hand invention, which had been neglected since he first
demonstrated it to Sam, but he realized that technology still
hadn’t advanced to meet his vision. It simply wasn’t
practical.
Football and basketball weren’t any better choices. But what Henry
recalled from his time spent in the Stomping Grounds was that he
could play pool. Holding the cue was still a bit tricky, but
balanced with his other hand, he was able to master it. He had
spent many an evening playing for quarters, and he took home his
share of pocketfuls of them.
I, at twelve, had not been able to play the game, banned by age
from the Stomping Grounds, but Henry thought he might find an
interest in it. He bought a table to place in the spare bedroom of
their house, and began to show I how the game was played. I took to
it as naturally as his father.
Before long, I had mastered the game. The mathematics and physics
of the game were well within his understanding, and the precise
action necessary to line up and sink several balls simultaneously
was an accomplishment of his that had previously been limited to
the professional players. Before long, I exceeded Henry’s ability,
and was beginning to find the lack of challenge to be an
issue.
Henry mentioned I’s ability to Buddy. Buddy felt that pool could
possibly be an outlet for Adrian’s (he still couldn’t come to call
him “Spike”) anger issues that had surfaced in the past year.
Adrian had spent more time in the principal’s office than in the
classroom, always picking fights on some of the younger kids in the
school.
One afternoon, Buddy brought Adrian over to the Mall home and young
Angela was in tow. Buddy had suggested trying to mend fences with
I, their falling out three years earlier had been a source of
embarrassment to the two fathers.
“Adrian, I has a new pool table,” Buddy told him, revealing his
master plan. “He’s supposed to be pretty good. Why don’t you ask
him for some pointers?”
Adrian grimaced at his father calling him “Adrian” and complained,
“Dad, it’s ‘Spike.’ I don’t go by Adrian anymore. Nobody calls me
that except you and mom.”
“OK, ‘Spike’”, he emphasized the importance of the name. “Just give
pool a try, and see what you can learn. You might have some fun at
the same time.”
I actually welcomed Spike to the poolroom. As far as he felt,
Spike’s absence was self-imposed. He had no problem with Spike or
any of his “former” friends. They just didn’t want to spend any
time with him. Teaching Spike to play pool could give their prior
friendship a boot.
The years had softened Spike as well, and he seemed receptive to
trying this out. I showed him how to rack the balls, explained the
placement in a specific order, and demonstrated proper cue handling
and preparation.
Spike finally had had enough of the lecture, “Let’s get on with it
and play!”
I took the cue ball, placed it on the table a squared up his shot.
A clean break, and two balls were knocked in the pocket. He moved
the scoring beads indicating the points he had just won, but rather
than continue, turned to cue over to Spike.
“Give it a try,” he said. “Try to knock that seven ball into the
corner pocket.”
Spike had watched I line up the initial shot and tried to follow
his technique. Balancing the cue between the fingers on his left
hand, he aimed for the white cue ball. With the thrust, he struck
the ball off center and it careened to the right, missing its
target altogether.
“Shit!” he cried.
“I’ll give you another try,” I said and relocated the cue ball to
the original position.
Spike’s attempt this time was a little better, but sent the cue
ball sailing into the pocket.
“Goddammit!” he cried. I was a bit surprised. He did not hear that
kind of language around his parents.
Taking the cue, I said. “Watch what I do.” He carefully lined up
the shot, slowly moving the cue back and forth to ensure he would
strike the ball at its precise center. The seven ball slid into the
pocket.
“See? Easy as pie. Go for the thirteen,” indicating with the cue
its position. “You should be able to send that right into the side
pocket.”
Spike took his time, lining up the shot as he’d seen I do. He
checked the angle several times. He stood up and reviewed the whole
table, just to see if there were any other shots that would
actually be easier. None could compare to the straightforward
method required to sink it.
He bent over, handling the cue expertly; it slid naturally through
his fingers. He backed it up to send the ball forward and struck it
just below center and with such force that the ball became
airborne, striking the window and shattering the glass.
“Oh, Ffff,” but suppressed it before the evil word got passed his
lips. Henry and Buddy rushed in when they heard the glass breaking,
spied the guilty Spike and couldn’t help but laugh when they saw
the predicament the boys had gotten into.
“Maybe pool isn’t your game after all,” advised Buddy.
Spike laid down the cue, shaking his head in disbelief at the mess
he’d made. But for a brief instant, his father’s calm reaction and
levity of the scenario were enough to suppress any anger he might
have felt.