By George Fels
[Reprinted from March 2000]

Just think of all the wretched things that young kids do to one another. Two approach a third; one kneels in back of him, while the other comes up in front and pushes the third over his buddy (this move has been legalized by the NBA as a “pick”). There’s the silent treatment, of course. And then there’s the atrocity called “Ditch ’im.” You remember it. Four or five cherubs are walking down the street. On a prearranged signal the three or four ditchers dash off to an agreed-upon meeting place, leaving the ditchee alone in tears and lining his shrink’s couch well into the next millennium.

What makes you think that “Ditch ’im” can’t take place in pool?

There was a nice old guy who struggled with his feeble pool game all his days. Everybody liked him; let’s call him Benjy. If a bunch of guys were leaving the poolroom for some all-night place, Benjy would call his wife first to ask if he could go too. He was just that kind of fellow.

It was rare that Benjy would bet more than $2, but he still booked a winner about every 14th Michaelmas. The pressures of pool bore down upon him even in practice, to the point where his alleged stroke was reduced to a pathetic wrist-flick.

Naturally, he sought out help. Some were sincere and pointed out correctly that Benjy’s problem was a mental disconnect between the time he aimed and his actual delivery (or twitch); as is often the case in pool, some were less kind, offering such solutions as advancing the leg on his shooting side in his stance. Benjy looked something akin to a sprinter in mid-flight; unfortunately, at 5 feet 6 inches or so, he still weighed about a deuce, and balancing all that heft on the wrong leg was a feat he could only occasionally master. Many a time Benjy would politely ask his opponent for help in regaining his feet, and after great tugs and groans, he would finally be restored for more off-balance, futile twitches at the cue ball.

Finally, all the libertine teachers threw up their treacherous hands and gave up on Benjy, playing their own version of “Ditch ’im.” No one would give him any more lessons. Desperate, Benjy sought out the only national-class player around.

“Can you help me?” Benjy pleaded.

“Sure,” said the charlatan, enjoying his new role as guru. “I’ve been watching you play for years, Benjy. I know exactly what the problem is. And I know how to fix it.”

“And?” Benjy squealed excitedly, practically overdosing on anticipation, wondering if this was like the old joke where the guy spends his last dime traveling across the world and climbing a horrific mountain in search of the secret of life, only to be told, “Wet birds fly at night.”

“Fifty hogs first,” said the player, who was himself a devout disciple of the bottom line. Benjy eagerly paid.

“Sneak up on the ball,” he was told.

“Sneak up on the ball?”

“Sneak up on the ball. You stand there dying over every shot, you’re communicating all your nervousness and lack of confidence to that cue ball. If it doesn’t know you’re going to shoot it, it will behave more the way you want it to.”

Benjy practiced his new technique diligently. It took the regulars in Benjy’s favorite room some getting used to the new approach, as he would plan and measure his shots from four or five tables away. Benjy was fearful not to make direct eye contact with the cue ball as he stalked, because that might tip off the shot. Then he would scurry back to his table as he completed his attack. A few balls went in now and then, more or less as they always had, but Benjy was supremely happy.

The first time Benjy took his new tactics into combat, it was a $3 9-ball game in a bar. Sure enough, his opponent left a tough 9 and Benjy retreated to the door. He tipped his omnipresent hat over one eye, for a tubby but cool Sinatra look; he glanced out of the corner of his other eye at the shot, like a man trying to look up a woman’s skirt without being too obvious. “Excuse me,” he said courteously to sweators and patrons alike, menacing his table covertly from a distance of 30 feet.

His bemused opponent asked, “Might I inquire as to exactly what is transpiring before me here?” or somewhat more coarse words to that effect.

“Be patient,” Benjy called out above the bar’s din. “I’m sneaking up on it.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m sneaking up on my shot,” Benjy shouted in explanation, closing in to within 20 feet, pardoning himself gallantly as he bumped into someone emerging from the restroom. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

The opponent had yet another query: “Was you planning to get to that shot anytime in the near future?”

“Were you planning,” Benjy corrected. “Patience, please. I’m getting there.”

Four minutes later, Benjy charged the table with a rich primal sob and, with no practice strokes, twitched the 9 into diamond 1 1/2, thence off four rails, a cue ball kiss, and into an unsuspecting side pocket.

“Sweet Jesus,” the opponent observed, depositing three dollar bills in blind panic upon the table and hurtling himself through the door, never to be seen again.

“Isn’t that always the way?” Benjy protested to anyone who cared to hear. “I work my fingers to the bone getting my game together, I finally turn the corner, and the opposition runs like thieves in the night. I may have to give up hustling pool altogether now.”