I started playing pool in October of 2021, which means that soon I'll have played for a year. I don't know how much longer I'll keep doing it, I could get struck by lightning tomorrow or run over by a bus on my way to the liquor store, but it's quickly become my favorite game. Sometimes I fantasize about me playing as a balding old man, teaching some young arrogant smartass a thing or two and that makes me smile.

It's 3:42 in the morning and I played more games against Rudi last night and got my ass eviscerated. He's your typical happy-go-lucky Hawaiian with long gray hair (as straight as the strands on a horse's tail, usually pulled back in a tight pony), missing teeth, and an endless supply of energy. He was listening to some music on old headphones that would've snapped if someone sneezed on them, and even though I told him over-the-ear sets were better than the wires he had stuck in his ears he only smiled and said what he had was good enough. I got his number and sent him a link for some good over-the-ears anyway, for cheap. I don't believe in spending hundreds of dollars on headphones when cheaper ones do the same job. When I told him that he flashed that aged smile of his and replied that most people buy expensive stuff to impress others. I had to agree. I hope he buys the headphones I recommended. I don't wanna see him using those wires anymore.

Rudi says he used to be a hustler back in Hawaii. He started at 16 and would spend most of his restless adolescent days in school, on the waves, and in pool halls. He was taught by an old man, he says, like I so often find myself being taught, someone who made sure to teach him to keep his bridge arm straight at all times, even on a rail, and to make sure his cue was always touching the side of his body to help keep it straight. I tried that but it only messes me up. I guess it's something you have to make a part of you, something only thousands of hours and thousands of frowns can make yours.

It's interesting to watch him play because although he nitpicks at my technique he never adheres to any of his own advice. He has no pre-shot routine, at least not a conventional one. He doesn't stay down after his shots and when he's stroking hard his back leg comes off the ground in an entertaining and amusing kick that jolts his entire body. Yet he rarely misses.

I'll fault old age, inactivity, and the occasional (as well as unfortunate) accident for when he does. He likes to shoot basketball but had his ankle snapped one night when a kid lost control of his skateboard on the court and caused him to slip on it. He was in the military also, and I'm sure that's put some painful miles on him.

A part of me doesn't like it when he misses. It makes me feel sad inside, because I can only imagine him remembering a time when he didn't miss, when it was easy for him to hustle man after man for hundreds of dollars to make his rent because perfecting his game was a necessary aspect of life. But maybe I shouldn't feel sad. I don't know what's going on in his head, after all. Maybe he's just happy to be playing against someone who's willing to listen to him and take his advice. Maybe missing doesn't matter as much to him anymore as it once did, or as it so painfully does to me now. Maybe, to him, it's now just about struggling to stretch over a pool table and sharing a smile and a laugh with someone who loves it as much as he does.

If that's the case then there's no reason for me to be sad at all I guess.