by Joan Bauer
“You get the diaper off your hand, Vernon?”
I look right past him.
“Excellent,” Arlen whispers. “Pay no attention. He’s a dead man. Total concentration. We’re here for one thing.”
Arlen racks the balls. I take a stick from the wall, feel its weight. I take some practice strokes at the air. It’s good to be back.
I bend over table twelve.
Aim at the racked balls dead center.
And on the snap.
The balls go flying, but nothing drops. I rub my left wrist. It aches. But I expected that. No pain, no gain. I aim again and shoot the one ball. The two. Arlen asks if I need ice yet.
No.
I need to practice. I need to catch up.
Pow.
Arlen’s using string and a ruler to show the lines the balls will travel. “You’ve got to think about the lines the other balls will follow when you pick your shots.” He takes the string away. “Can you see it?”
“Not yet.”
I’m rubbing my wrist. My fingers hurt. “Line up the shot,” Arlen says, “see the line the ball will travel, find the angle of incidence, and hit it there.”
I’m playing for position.
Hit the four with English, let the cue ball move into place near the five. I scratch on the six. I wasn’t thinking ahead.
Joseph Alvarez comes in to watch me.
Arlen and I show him all about seeing the table. He says that in all the years he’d known my dad he never told him about the lines. He really gets into it, and we’re all brainstorming together about different shots and the lines Dad might have seen cutting through them. That’s when he tells me to just call him Joseph if I want, which I really do.
“Welcome back,” Joseph says, and puts a thin gray case on table twelve. “Open it.”
I open it. There’s a cue stick inside. White and gray with black racing stripes.
I look at him.
“That’s a decent stick for you,” he says. “It’ll fit your hands and weight.”
I’m looking at the stick. My own stick—a Meucci.
I don’t know what to say.
He screws it together for me. I take it. The weight is perfect.
“It’s great, Joseph! Man!” I’m aiming it. Arlen’s touching it like it’s made of diamonds. “Thank you!”
“My pleasure, son. You earned it.”
I take a few shots with it; a few more. The light on table twelve beams over us. It’s like the stick was made for me.
But my hand’s hurting bad. I promised Mom I wouldn’t push it. I look over at Buck, who’s crashing balls into pockets like a machine, and go upstairs with Joseph to ice my hand.
I keep ice on it up to when we leave for Cruckston High School to see Camille’s play. Nobody told me it was about people falling in love. I close my eyes every time the boy and girl get close and start singing. The costumes are almost the best part. The best part is when the curtain crashes down on one of the dancer’s heads right when she’s twirling and everyone onstage is shouting to pull it back up.
Camille goes onstage at the end and everyone claps for her. I stomp my feet up and down so I won’t hurt my hand, and make a much cooler noise than clapping.
* * *
Six days to go.
All day at school I keep thinking about the tournament.
During recess, when we’re playing king of the mountain and I keep getting shoved off too easy when I make it to the top.
During art, while I’m working on my African warrior mask, painting the papier-mâché cheeks bright gold and purple. I stick feathers at the top and make the mouth look angry and I picture this huge warrior with a spear doing a death dance around Buck Pender. T. R. Dobbs is working on his mask next to me. He’s descended from African Zulu warriors and he says a Zulu never retreats in the face of the enemy. I’m descended mostly from potato farmers, which isn’t a lot to hold on to when you need to be tough. I lift the mask to my face and shout the Zulu war cry T.R. taught me.
“Zuuuuluuuu Zuuuuluuuu!”
Mr. Pez, the art teacher, looks up. I look down and keep painting. Nobody turns me in.
It’s easy to be brave when the enemy isn’t around.
* * *
The days go fast and slow. I keep practicing and my hand keeps hurting.
I’m wondering how athletes play in pain. Arlen said it must be the big-time money they earn that keeps them going. I’m playing anyway, but playing’s like a blur.
Hitting.
Breaking.
Over and over.
Arlen hasn’t left anything anywhere for six whole days. He has his motto, THINK WOOD, everywhere. I’m thinking wood now too, and really helping him. Every time I pick up my new stick I make him check his stuff to see if he forgot anything. Best friends help each other.
Mom’s worried. She says I’m too driven. She yelled at Joseph when he was telling me the great secret of the pros—play your best, whether you’re ahead or behind.
“Is that all that’s important to you?” she shouted. “Winning?”
“No, Ruthie, it’s just something to shoot for.”
I’m definitely behind.
The days click off. It’s hard to concentrate in school. Mrs. Riggles calls Mom in for a conference about it and Mom gets all upset at me, even though I got an A minus on my soldier letter. Mom says the tournament is becoming bigger than life.
“It’s always been pretty big,” I say.
“I want you to concentrate on your schoolwork!”
Mrs. Riggles is so worked up about the American Revolution, she’s jumping to 1783, when the Treaty of Paris was signed and the British and the Americans finally quit fighting; jumping back to 1775 and Paul Revere’s ride, when he warned the colonists that the Redcoats were coming. Mrs. Riggles teaches history backward and forward so we’ll get the connections. She says Paul Revere had to push beyond himself and his personal safety to get on that horse and sound the warning to his countrymen.
I’m looking at the picture of Paul Revere on Mrs. Riggles’s desk wondering how he found the courage.
* * *
We have pasta for dinner Friday night. I have thirds to boost my energy for the next day. The tournament starts in thirteen hours.
I’m watching a video of my dad playing pool. It’s the only video we’ve got when he loses.
Dad’s wearing a green shirt and black pants. The sign behind him says WORLD CLASS BILLIARDS. The crowd watching him is quiet out of respect. Dad’s in stroke, shooting fast and easy, holding his stick like it’s part of his arm. His body curves into the slam he gets on the ball. He’s smiling.
Then he messes up. Hits a bummer shot, which leaves him with nothing. The crowd groans. Dad’s face gets hard. He tries a tough bank shot on the seven ball and misses bad. The crowd sighs, but Dad just shrugs, smiles, and steps away from the table as the guy he’s playing wins the championship.
The crowd is clapping away. Dad’s the first one up to shake the winner’s hand. He’s still smiling and it’s for real, not those fake smiles losers get sometimes. He slaps that man on the shoulder and whispers something in the guy’s ear. The guy laughs and Dad walks off to let the winner have his day.
I think about that as I brush my teeth and get into bed.
I know my dad wanted to win that tournament, but losing didn’t crush him. Maybe losing can only hurt you if you open the door and let it in.
Poppy comes into my room with an ice pack.
“I don’t think I’m going to do too well tomorrow,” I say, getting used to the idea.
Poppy sits on the bed next to me and puts the ice pack on my hand. “Only the good Lord knows what’s going to happen, honey. But I can tell you this—sometimes just standing tall is a whale of a victory.”
CHAPTER
This is it.
Kids are everywhere.
Banners are flying.
Parents are giving last-minute playing tips, waving their arms and shoutin
g that it’s only a game.
Mrs. Cassetti keeps running across the street from the bakery asking if anything’s happened yet. Mr. Kopchnik closed his store for the day to root for me. Mr. Gatto’s here too. He got his son-in-law Dolan to manage Cut Rate Gas and Groceries, even though he says Dolan might run the business into the ground before lunch. Camille walks by with Brad Lunder, her almost boyfriend; she messes up my hair, wishes me extra good luck, and says that now that my splint is off, I can go back to laundry.
I’m standing at table nine putting my stick together. I’m wearing my black T-shirt, khakis, and my new high-top Nikes with super-mega-traction. My first game is with Rick Plotsky, who’s a pretty good player.
“Don’t be nervous.”
It’s Francine. She sits on a folding chair. She’s wearing an orange neon sweatshirt that says I BELIEVE IN MAGIC. “Nervous is a dirty word, Mickey. Nervous is out of your vocabulary.” She lowers her voice. “I lit a candle for you this morning at Mass.”
“Thanks.”
Francine whips a magic red scarf from her sleeve as Arlen runs up, adjusts his glasses, and looks at me.
“You’re ready,” he says.
“Yeah.”
Buck pushes through the crowd, growling. His father marches behind him; Mr. Pender’s got a purplish splotch running down the side of his face. His eyes are puffy and gray. Mrs. Pender runs to catch up with them. She’s fiddling with her wedding ring, nervous.
“Well, this is nice,” she says to Buck, who doesn’t answer her.
Buck stares at Jerry Docks, who he’s playing first. Jerry gets pale.
Mom’s clutching her necklace, asking me about my hand for the third time.
“It’s fine,” I say, which is half true.
She looks at Serena and smiles brave as Joseph pats me on the back. “Play with heart, son. That’s all you need to bring to the table.”
Big Earl is checking in the last-minute sign-ups. I rub my left hand, which I’ve been icing since I got up. It’s near frozen.
“I’m sorry! It wasn’t my fault!”
Petie Pencastle is standing in front of me, waving his arms.
“Huh?”
“I told my parents it wouldn’t be fair; he’s so big and all and nobody was expecting him!”
Petie points a shaky finger toward the counter, where a huge boy is signing the tournament sheet. “It’s my cousin!” Petie wails. “They’re up visiting from Elizabeth for the weekend. He’s a real good player, Mickey.” Petie lowers his voice. “They call him the Sledgehammer.”
We look at the giant, who’s getting instructions from Big Earl. If Arlen and I stood side by side, we’d maybe be as wide.
“He’s too old to play!” Arlen shouts. “You can’t play if you’re over thirteen. He’s sixteen at least.”
“He’s thirteen,” Petie says, groaning. “He turns fourteen next week. His father had to show his birth certificate at school. He’s too big to fit into the desks. They must be giving him steroids.”
“This isn’t happening!” Arlen screams.
I look at Buck, who’s doing his shoulder-loosening motion.
I look at the Sledgehammer, who’s so big he’s casting a shadow over the counter.
I put both hands on table nine and lean over.
I’m finished.
Joseph Alvarez leans in. “Blinders,” he says.
Man. It’s so much easier when you’re practicing.
Poppy blows her tournament whistle. I move slowly into place.
Poppy runs her kids’ tournament official, just like the grown-up ones.
“We’re going to play this tournament like the great game of pool should be played,” Poppy shouts to the crowd. She’s wearing her red Vernon’s sweatshirt today—Poppy always wears red on special occasions. “We don’t want any foul language. We don’t want any cheating. If you do either of these things, you’re out.”
Slam. Poppy’s fist hits the counter.
“We’ve got umpires at each table and, believe me, you don’t want to mess with them.”
All the umps look tough—Snake Mensker, Big Earl Reed. Madman Turcell shakes his ponytail like a crazy dog and cracks his knuckles.
“Now let’s face the flag of our great land and say the Pledge of Allegiance.”
Poppy brings the flag out for tournaments. I’m saying the pledge loud like I’ve been taught. Buck’s not pledging and I wonder if I can turn him in.
“All right now!” Poppy screams.
The kids who won first up bend down to break.
The umpires lean forward.
Poppy blows her whistle. “Crack ’em good!”
There’s a crash so loud it shakes the walls as twenty-four cue balls ram across twenty-four tables.
My heart’s pumping.
Pool games are won one ball at a time.
Rick Plotsky gets nothing in on the break.
My turn. I make the one, two, three. I miss the four, but Rick does too. We battle ball for ball, but I win.
“Game to Mickey Vernon,” says Madman, punching the air.
I win the second game too. It’s best two out of three.
“And that’s a match to Mickey Vernon.”
Rick and I shake hands.
“Good game,” I tell him, and win first up against T. R. Dobbs, who just won his match. T.R. has never beat me.
I dig down deep and break with my whole body. The cue ball rams the one clean and breaks the balls apart. Six in the back corner. I chalk my stick light, moving around the table. No good shots. I do a safety like Joseph showed me—hiding the cue ball behind another ball to give your opponent a hard shot.
T.R. groans at the nightmare I left him and tries shooting the one, but gets the nine ball in by mistake. That’s the worst thing you can do.
“Game to Mickey Vernon,” says Madman.
I do like the way that sounds.
I ace the next rack. My match again.
My hand’s hurting, but I don’t care.
Dinah Glossup and I are up next. She’s a tough player. We battle hard. She snookers me behind the eight ball—I can’t get a clear shot on the six and flub the shot bad. Dinah wins the first game. I blow two shots on the rail. I just win the second game.
I look over at Buck, who is definitely gunning down the enemy on table three. Pike Lorey is shouting every time Buck makes a shot. Poppy tells Pike if he doesn’t zip that lip of his, she’s going to pick four of her biggest umpires to toss him in the street.
Pike shuts up, fuming.
I’m taking Tylenol for my third game with Dinah.
I break hard. Eight in the corner.
English on the one to gain position, look at the effect each shot will have on the next. Find the angles.
Shoot it straight.
Concentrate.
I win it.
Dinah shakes my hand.
I’m looking around. I don’t know where Arlen is.
I’m rubbing talcum powder on my hands so my stick won’t slip. I win three more matches, four.
“Match to Mickey Vernon.” Madman’s saying it over and over.
We stop for lunch. I’m icing my hand. It’s aching bad. I haven’t played this long since I sprained it. I’m taking deep breaths, keeping my focus. Easy stroke. Easy win.
I find Arlen in the corner by the Sledgehammer’s table writing something on a piece of paper. He always watches me play. I tell him I’ve been winning.
“Well, of course you have,” he says, and goes back to writing.
Poppy comes over, looks at my left wrist.
“How bad is it?” she asks. “You tell me the truth now.”
“It’s half bad.” The soreness is shooting from my wrist through my fingers. My elbow’s feeling it too.
“Can you play?”
“I can play.”
“Then don’t concentrate on where it hurts. Concentrate on all the places that feel fine.”
“Is that what you do?”
&nbs
p; “Every day.”
Poppy blows her whistle and we’re playing again. My nose is feeling pretty good and I concentrate on that. I’m shooting, breaking, banking, hurting.
The games blur into each other. Straight shots. Safeties. Double banks. I’m acing my banks.
Ninety-degree angles.
Forty-fives.
Divide the angle by two. Nail it hard and yes.
I make a 140-degree bank against Shelty Zoller and Madman’s eyes go back in his head.
I’m still standing.
I’m playing twelve- and thirteen-year-olds now. Nicky Prinz. Ted Carothers. Pike Lorey. Pike tries cheating and moving the cue ball, saying he didn’t mean to touch it. Madman is all over him and gives me the game. I whip Pike extra nice on the second rack, just in case he didn’t think I could lick him for real.
But with each new game, my hand gets worse. Still, the Meucci’s shooting like a rifle.
I don’t know where it’s coming from.
Madman’s saying it different each time.
“Match to Mickey Vernon.”
“Match to Mr. Vernon.”
“And another match to Mick the Stick!”
Mom is grinning.
Joseph Alvarez is beaming.
Poppy’s playing it cool, but I can tell inside she’s busting.
Where is Arlen?
It’s three o’clock.
I keep climbing higher, higher, one ball at a time. I’ve got to play Tim Irons. He’s a monster on position. Tim gets in place. I’m looking over at Arlen but he’s watching the Sledgehammer like he’s the big show.
What’s he doing?
I’ve got to focus. Blinders like my dad. Tim’s big. He’s got power. He’s not injured.
He throws himself into the break, cracks the balls apart, but gets nothing in.
But what he leaves me is a miracle. An easy shot off the one ball to pocket the nine. If I make it, I win the game with one shot.
I make it.
Anything can happen in nine ball.
“Game to Mickey here!” Madman shouts.
I can’t believe it.
Tim slumps over as Madman racks the balls.
My break. I bust them up—three ball in the corner. I foul on the one and Tim uses it for position. We battle to the wire until the nine ball’s left. Tim makes it, but he scratches on the break in the next game. I don’t know how, but the balls roll with me. I run the table, tap the nine in the side. Tim’s standing there like he’s been struck by lightning.
