HomeAbout Billiards DigestContact UsArchiveAll About PoolEquipmentOur AdvertisersLinks
Tips & shafts
By George Fels
Consulting Editor George Fels has been writing for Billiards Digest since 1980, and his "Tips & Shafts" column is usually our readers' first stop when they crack open the magazine. For better or worse, pool has been his only mistress for 40-plus years.


Archives
• March 2024
• February 2024
• January 2024
• December 2023
• November 2023
• October 2023
• September 2023
• August 2023
• July 2023
• June 2023
• May 2023
• April 2023
• March 2023
• February 2023
• January 2023
• December 2022
• November 2022
• October 2022
• September 2022
• August 2022
• July 2022
• June 2022
• May 2022
• April 2022
• March 2022
• February 2022
• January 2022
• December 2021
• November 2021
• October 2021
• September 2021
• August 2021
• July 2021
• June 2021
• May 2021
• April 2021
• March 2021
• February 2021
• January 2021
• December 2020
• November 2020
• October 2020
• September 2020
• August 2020
• June 2020
• April 2020
• March 2020
• February 2020
• January 2020
• December 2019
• November 2019
• October 2019
• September 2019
• August 2019
• July 2019
• June 2019
• May 2019
• April 2019
• March 2019
• February 2019
• January 2019
• December 2018
• November 2018
• October 2018
• September 2018
• July 2018
• July 2018
• June 2018
• May 2018
• April 2018
• March 2018
• February 2018
• January 2018
• November 2017
• October 2017
• September 2017
• August 2017
• July 2017
• June 2017
• May 2017
• April 2017
• March 2017
• February 2017
• January 2017
• December 2016
• November 2016
• October 2016
• September 2016
• August 2016
• July 2016
• June 2016
• May 2016
• Apr 2016
• Mar 2016
• Feb 2016
• Jan 2016
• December 2015
• November 2015
• October 2015
• September 2015
• August 2015
• July 2015
• June 2015
• May 2015
• April 2015
• March 2015
• February 2015
• January 2015
• October 2014
• August 2014
• May 2014
• March 2014
• February 2014
• September 2013
• June 2013
• May 2013
• April 2013
• March 2013
• February 2013
• January 2013
• December 2012
• November 2012
• October 2012
• September 2012
• August 2012
• July 2012
• June 2012
• May 2012
• April 2012
• March 2012
• February 2012
• January 2012
• December 2011
• November 2011
• October 2011
• September 2011
• August 2011
• July 2011
• June 2011
• May 2011
• April 2011
• March 2011
• February 2011
• January 2011
• December 2010
• November 2010
• October 2010
• September 2010
• August 2010
• July 2010
• May 2010
• April 2010
• March 2010
• February 2010
• January 2010
• December 2009
• November 2009
• October 2009
• September 2009
• August 2009
• July 2009
• May 2009
• April 2009
• March 2009
• February 2009
• January 2009
• October 2008
• September 2008
• August 2008
• July 2008
• June 2008
• May 2008
• April 2008
• March 2008
• February 2008
• January 2008


Best of Fels
 
June: FOCUS
June 2009
MY WIFE told me it was pool or her. Sure gonna miss that woman." The moronic bumper sticker (with "golf" substituting for "pool" now and again) often has considerably more to do with truth than it does with hilarity, of which it had precious little to begin.

We've looked at pool's impact on relationships before. The results can be unpretty. Not only is there the unending financial uncertainty, but it's a boring life, and one frequently turned upside-down into the bargain by play-all-night-sleep-by-day. If you seek intellectual stimulation, you might as well quest after the sabre-toothed tiger.

But few if any of the couplings examined had their principals meeting in 4th grade, then successfully carrying the association through adulthood. Yet I - we - did. And pool came between us in a very different way than financially (I never bet very much, and held down a regular job anyway), nocturnally (that job again) or intellectually. You're welcome to pick the rivalry of your choice: Hercules vs. Samson (if indeed they ever fought, or even heard of one another), Yankees/Red Sox, Frazier/Ali, Carolina/Duke, Godzilla/King Kong, or even Godzilla/Bambi for that matter. None of those conflicts had anything on Dale Fels vs. pool.

At least it wasn't about the game itself. Quite the contrary, she correctly thought it was a great game, and enjoyed playing herself now and then, especially with each of our two sons. She was a good natural athlete, and I had little trouble teaching her to run a few balls. What unnerved her instead - and "terrified" may well be a better word - was my unfortunate dual passion for her and the game. Even though we met at age 8, she had never seen anything quite like it; she didn't understand what it was; for that matter, she really didn't understand whom I was when it came to that. And she wanted most of the game's share of that passion for herself.

So early in our marriage, back in the '60s, I decided that maybe one way to douse the apparently eternal flame of her resentment was to show her the very best the game had to offer. Tournaments wouldn't work; the last time I tried that, I caught her brushing her teeth as we watched, a somewhat subtle hint she was ready to be taken home. So instead I took her to a Willie Mosconi exhibition. (If you had a wife, or girlfriend, or both, who was indifferent to rock music, wouldn't you want her to see the Stones?)

This was not a decision arrived at casually. I had been watching the champion play for a bit over 10 years by then, and beyond the magnificence of his game, there were things about him I thought she would instinctively like. She was a fairly tough audience when it came to looks, but she'd appreciate his being beautifully dressed as always; I was sure she would note his unmistakable rhythm, and as she was a highly disciplined person herself, I was most certain of all that she would be wowed by his methodical approach to the game. I really didn't see how Willie-Mosconi-as-balm could miss.

The opponent on this night was our city champion at the time, a bricklayer by trade, well-tanned, trim, flirting with bona fide handsomeness. "Cute," observed the love of my life, as the challenger entered the playing arena.

"Wait'll you see the champion," was my advice, "and then tell me who you think looks good." And, almost as if on cue, no pun intended, Mr. Mosconi made his own entrance, lacking only trumpets, elephants and bearers, nodding loftily to the sparse applause. The familiar three-piece suit was not in evidence this night, but he was still resplendent in his light blue Brunswick blazer and gray slacks as he nudged in a few practice balls.

"Well?" I asked.

"Compared to some of the slobs you've shown me around this game, George, he might as well be Tony Curtis. But he certainly isn't very tall."

"He'll never play for the Celtics," I allowed. "But that's not what you were asked. Do you like his looks or don't you?"

"He's very short," she re-asserted. She was a tightly focused woman.

Then the match began and, Godlike in my knowledge, I attempted to point out to her what made the champion so unique. For one thing, while most top straight-pool players did up to 90% of their scoring in the bottom two pockets, Mosconi utilized all six fully and sent balls into the far corners much more often than his alleged competition. Because he was never without an "insurance" ball on his secondary break shots, he didn't have to hit those shots very hard, and in most of the racks he ran, the clustered balls didn't move much at all. Rarely did he have any ball much farther away than two feet at which to fire. He perpetually identified the four object balls nearest the four corner pockets, and connected such balls in his position patterns, his cue ball circling the field like a lone Comanche around doomed covered wagons. Now and then, a diagonal shot across such a circular pattern would open everything up for him, a move I referred to (very nicely, I thought) as "cutting across Midtown." All these concepts were available to be seen in just in the match's first few racks, which Mr. Mosconi ran exquisitely, and my quiet lecture to the woman I loved was not only thorough but artful.

"Now do you see why I'm so badly hooked?" I murmured in summary. "Have you ever seen a game as beautiful as this? When did you ever see such mastery?"

My one and only soul mate leaned over, and spoke to me in a tone I had never quite heard from her before, something approaching but not quite attaining genuine awe. "He's got a mend in the crotch of his pants," she whispered. "And he's wearing Jockeys."

Tightly focused, she was.

MORE VIDEO...