Slowly but surely, things are getting easier. I read in an article that new or novice players shouldn't expect much from the game, that they should simply enjoy the process of playing and learning and most importantly just keep showing up at the table. Practice builds confidence and with enough confidence a man becomes sure of his competence, and I've been feeling that lately, sometimes to my disbelief.

I'm not consistent yet, not by any means, but long straight shots aren't as hard as they used to be. Demanding cuts are still mostly difficult, but those that were once overwhelmingly infuriating aren't so intimidating anymore. There's something in the back of my mind as I lean over the faded felt and lay my forearm across the indestructible slate, a comforting knowledge that the shot I'm about to take is possible instead of impossible. Likely instead of unlikely. It's not cocky, it's not arrogant, it's not filled with the cruel and relentless desire to dominate. Not yet at least. But it's there, finally, a stable foothold of a feeling that says with the most pleasant simplicity, "You can do this. I know you can."

And it fills me with pride.

On another note, I visited my first pool hall today.

Alright, it was actually my second, but my true first wasn't perhaps what the average person would imagine when building one in their mind. It was a mom and pop kind of place, clean and colorful and safe, a spot that the entire family was welcome to frequent. Not exactly my cup of tea.

Don't get me wrong, there were fantastic players there. I watched a guy around my age break and run a few racks and string together a number of awesome banks that made my jaw drop, but I hadn't showed up for the talent. I wanted to experience the depths of seediness, and Moira's Family Billiards wasn't going to offer me a drop of that.

So I never considered it my actual first. It just wasn't threatening enough.

But Carlito's was.

It was a Mexican spot, owned and run by a stout gangster looking son of a bitch. His twitching mustache and slicked back hair complimented his tucked in collared shirt and filled in jeans, held steady by a giant belt that must have been made by some talented artisan. His weathered cowboy boots and twinkling rings on his callused fingers completed the picture, and when I spoke to him a deep scowl never left his face.

Men mostly crowded the hall. Women weren't there for pool. Their generous tits and asses were spilling out of their revealing clothing and they generally wore too much makeup, forming stiff masks that had trouble expressing genuine emotions as they laughed and fell into the groping hands of whoever was buying them drinks. Banda music blared from overhead speakers and white lines of cocaine were openly being passed around on double-digit bills. It was perfect.

But why was I there?

Because I needed chalk.

Days ago, I ordered a dozen cubes of Master chalk online, cubes that were supposed to have been delivered to me in a small white and red box. But it never was. It was lost in transit, stolen by opportunistic hobos, perhaps even eaten by a curious dog and shat out later as a gooey burgundy log. I don't know. What mattered was that I lacked what was crucial when trying to play good pool: motherfucking chalk. I'd also ordered two new cues, Viper one-pieces that were both everything I wanted and needed, and I wasn't going to use them without chalk. So I began a local search.

I called a number of sporting goods stores and even Moira's for the prices of chalks they possessed. What did they all have in common?

Ridiculous numbers.

At Moira's, for example, they were charging $17 for three cubes. Including sales tax, that would've been nearly $20, and you're out of your goddamn mind if you think I'm paying $20 for three cubes of chalk. The box of Master I ordered was under $10, and that came with TWELVE perfectly acceptable three-dimensional products. Why in the holy fuck would anyone charge close to $20 for THREE?

So, about to give up and begrudgingly wait for my replacement box of Master, I ended up finding Carlito's online and gave them a call. The hall sounded chaotic over the phone, and that's when I decided to visit it and buy some chalk from patrons there. I'd kill three birds with one trip:

visit a pool hall that most closely resembled what I wanted to experience in the pages of my wild imagination,

buy some fucking chalk,

and pay for an hour of practice using one of their nine footers (while also hoping that a drooling stranger approached me and asked for a game).

I have an intensely competitive spirit, one that has to be kept under control in situations where I'm out of my element. I still suck fat ass at pool, so I have to do my best to always bite my tongue and remain humble. It's the right thing to do. Respect from other players is earned only by beating them or giving them a hard time, and although I have every intention of one day giving good players a run for their money, I also understand that being delusional about my current abilities will do me no good in the end. Being brutally honest with oneself is of the utmost importance. It keeps your mouth in check and your boiling emotions fixated on one fantastic prize:

Dominance.

I ended up buying five new cubes of Master for $5 and a table for the same price, and even though no one approached me and asked for a game, I could feel myself being watched for a good while and that lit a spark in me as I practiced missing ball after goddamn ball. Way to look like a complete idiot, right?

Things looked up for me after I got back home though. As night fell, Skip appeared for more games as I practiced downstairs and we went back and forth for hours. At one point, I could tell he was getting annoyed. I don't know exactly why he was becoming unsettled, but it made me feel good. I was giving him good games, and that's really all a fledgling wants to offer their fellow enthusiast when competing in something they love, isn't it?