By George Fels
[Reprinted from August 2006]
As with opinions and anuses, everybody seems to have one: a recounted gambling heartbreak, or, as they’re somewhat scornfully known, bad beat stories. Widespread though they may be, they’re generally about as welcome as a wino at a first communion. In the sport of kings, it’s the worthless nag who runs a career race, coming from the skies in the stretch to nip your noble, brilliantly selected steed in the shadow of the wire. In poker, it’s the idiot who limps in with deuce-seven off-suit and builds deuces full of sevens to overtake your manly ace-king-high flush. I pool and/or billiards, the possibilities are simply infinite; enough sour grapes abound to start a fine vineyard.
There’s no argument over which was the first such cue-games story, and it’s so old it even predates me. In 1865, Louis Fox, a fine caroms player from Rochester, N.Y., was engaged in a close championship match. A fly entered the room and landed on, of all places, Fox’s cue ball. In attempting to shoo it away with his cue tip, he fouled. His opponent subsequently won the match. Whether Fox was versed in Kipling’s famous bit of wisdom — “If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same …” — is unknown. Fox met with his disaster somewhat ungraciously, by hurling himself into the Genesee River and drowning. At least it was not he who was around to torment others with this bad beat story.
Over on the pool side, there’s an equally famous crying-towel to be shared. Just before and in the early years of World War II, the city of Norfolk, Va., was very much like the Derby City Classic is now — only it wasn’t limited to 10 days. There was nonstop action around the clock. Suckers and sharks were side by side; the pool hustlers would lose their winnings at cards, and the cardsharps would promptly get hustled at pool. One pool player who virtually always won, and more often than not hung onto the money, was the late Luther “Wimpy” Lassiter. One of the highest rollers was the late Bill “Whitey” Howard, a room owner and bookmaker. On one fine afternoon, they collided at 9-ball, and Wimpy relieved Whitey of $5,000. Whited wanted a chance to get his money back, but had had enough of seeing the yellow-striped ball disappear. It took the men a full 30 minutes to agree on the game: straight pool for another five large, Wimpy’s 100 points to Whitey’s 60. An experienced gambler, Howard did not rattle and shot out to a fine lead of 58-8. Remarkably, nobody remembers exactly what happened on ball number 59, but everybody remembers what happened next: Wimpy calmly ran 92 and out to leave his opponent in the two hole and $10,000 lighter than when he’d had his morning coffee. Those of us who feel our Adam’s apples under attack as we contemplate the climactic shot in a $2 game of 8-ball at the corner bar will no doubt have a deeper respect for the enormity of Lassiter’s accomplishment. Those who do not can still commiserate with Howard.
As for your correspondent, I have been beaten far too many times and in far too many ways to cull a single favorite; besides, unlike most, my understanding that nobody wants to hear bad beat stories in the first place runs deep, deeper, deepest. The one opponent whom I can remember motivating to share his sorrow, turned out to be one of this magazine’s columnists. On this occasion, young Tom Ross was just a teenager, and he may not even have been old enough to be in the poolroom legally. The players’ room back in the early to mid-1970s in Chicago was called Marie’s Golden Cue. The room’s owner frequently staged quality tournaments. The match in question took place during a one-day handicapped straight pool competition. I was giving up close to half the game. Young Mr. Ross got a bit nonchalant with a very easy shot while needed — you guessed it — just two balls, and I somehow authored a 45-ball run to leave him there. He stomped off fuming without shaking hands. I was so far out of my brain with joy that I immediately joined a ring 9-ball game that included Tom Spencer and George Michaels, and I even won there too — $20 that I probably should have had mounted and framed. Roughly 30 years later, Ross showed up at a BCA Expo, sought me out, told me he was a big fan, and asked for my help in securing a writing job with Billiards Digest.
“After you failed to shake my hand for one of the greatest wins of my life?” I demanded.
He barely remembered what I was talking about, a pretty decent sign that his own bad beat story probably didn’t have much of a life. He did apologize, three decades after the fact, and I did help him get a column in the magazine.
In fact, bad beat storytellers are generally posting notice that they don’t have much else going on in their lives; otherwise, these catastrophes would not loom quite so large in their legends. But can you honestly put a number to all the pool stories you’ve hear that come out with the same boring punch line, “I ran out?” It’s wise to remember that without losers there would be no winners, and every single one of those dull winners’ stories has a flip side to be told. Be grateful you haven’t had to listen to those too. And, let’s face it, a great many losers have too much pride to broadcast that they indeed ever lost.
We cannot catalog all the ways there are to be admitted to pool players’ heaven (most of us, after all, have already sampled its hell). Even without achieving true playing greatness, many, many options are still available to you. A good number of these simply relate to conducting yourselves as the game deserves. But stifle your own bad beat stories, and you may be certain of dwelling in the kingdom of the Lord forever and ever. Amen.
