By George Fels
[Reprinted from May 2005]
I’m sorry, but one of pool’s relatively rare limitations would seem to be the furtherance of love. A pool marriage is fraught with peril; the man’s passion for the game (or, for that matter, for not doing honest work) can easily be inferred as threatening competition for the romantic passion that’s supposed to be in place. Besides, most women with an IQ in excess of the teens want their man home at night; they would also like to know, even if they limit their interest to semi-polite inquiries, where their next buck is coming from. Only in rare cases does the game provide such.

There are exceptions in the pool world, of course, but those instances are, indeed, exceptions. And there is further evidence in these next two tales of enduring love and loyalty, both of which are eminently true. Some names have been withheld, although that is probably far better than the principals deserve.

Opus One: The redoubtable hustler Brooklyn Jimmy, then just a callow youngster still in his 20s, was a house guest in the home of yet another hustler, whom we’ll dub A Double Minus (as you’ll soon see, he was well removed from deserving a straight A). Hustler A Double Minus generally conducted himself in a way that seemed to prove out Darwin’s evolution studies. He committed the most unspeakable acts and was among the deepest pond scum to ever disgrace the human race. But, needless to say, he was a truly fine pool player.

One night, very late, Jimmy’s deep sleep was stolen, first by a raucous squabble between A Double Minus and Mrs. A Double Minus, and next by the hustler’s barging into his room and demanding support. “You gotta back me up here, Jimmy,” he bellowed. “She’s goin’ ballistic. She just doesn’t understand that I had the nuts.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Jimmy managed, staggering out of bed. Once his head had cleared, Jimmy recognized the dilemma. Hustler A Double Minus had been offered an extremely attractive gambling proposition, for which he lacked the bankroll. To raise that bankroll, he had merely sold his kids. Jimmy was now needed to project empathy, and help Mrs. A Double Minus understand.

“Tell her how this all came about,” suggested the hustler.

“Yes,” his wife agreed eagerly. “Please do tell me how I became childless, in my sleep.”

“Well,” Jimmy began forlornly, “A Double Minus here did have the nuts. And that, by and large, is how we pool hustlers make a living.”

“So I’ve been told,” countered the wife. “But I’m not sure I understand about ‘the nuts.’ Isn’t that like ‘the balls?’ Because we certainly don’t have any of those in this house.”

“Now, honey,” whimpered the husband.

“No, that’s not quite the same thing,” Jimmy explained, or tried to. “‘The nuts’ means a sure thing.”

“Here’s what it means to me,” Mrs. A Double Minus volunteered. “When I see some jerkwater sulking out of my house in the middle of the night with one of my kids under each arm like an Easter ham, I don’t conclude he was here collecting on our pledge to The United Way!”

“Technically, that would be true,” Jimmy allowed. “But the nuts aren’t offered all that often, and us pool players hate to miss out on them when they come along. You gotta capitalize. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“If it was such a great ‘sure thing,’ then why did he lose?”

“Now, that’s a tough one,” Jimmy admitted. “He did get some lousy rolls. But if it was me, you could be damn sure my kids would be right at home, safe in bed.”

“My congratulations on your reliability,” she said, seeming to grasp the conundrum better than most. “And please to extend my compliments to your wife.”

“Thank you very much,” said Brooklyn Jimmy humbly.

“This is support?” howled hustler A Double Minus.

As far as anyone knows, the kids were never won back, and it’s equally uncertain whether hustler A Double Minus ever again missed out on the nuts.

Opus Two: Hustler B was in court for a bail hearing over a non-violent crime. Modest bail was proposed and approved. B told the judge he couldn’t make it and would do the jail time until his trial instead.

“Normally, Mr. B, my role as a judge would be to simply say, ‘So ordered,’” the judge explained. “But I’m curious. You’re well-dressed and intelligent, you have a wife and family, and you have a perfectly respectable lawyer at your side. I’ve set a low bail, and you only have to post 10 percent of that to be free until your trial. Am I to understand that you’re somehow pleading indigence?”

“No, Judge,” B responded. “I have money. But it’s all in a safe deposit box.”

“So why not send your wife or daughters to get the money?”

“Their names aren’t on that box. Only mine is.”

“I’ll write an order granting them temporary access.”

“No, Judge!” B groaned. “I’d rather do the time.”

“Our jails are overcrowded as it is, Mr. B. What’s so important about making it worse? Most rational men would beg me for freedom. You’re not even charged with a serious crime. Exactly what’s the problem here? Why are you so eager to be put away?”

“You don’t understand. Them t’ree women been wit’ me for way too long now. They’re hustlers, exactly like me. If the ever got hold of that key, I would be, whaddycallit, ‘indigent’ for the rest of my days. You gotta lock me up. Now. Please!”

“So ordered,” sighed the judge.

With or without love, pool hustling, to state the case mildly, is one unstable business.