I challenged Fabricio to a race to twenty.

He occasionally shows up on Saturdays, playing alongside Bert, Jerry, and Phelps, the three caballeros of my tiny pocket billiards world.

Bert's got the kind of smoke gray beard you wanna rip from his chin and slap onto yours; it always looks like the perfect home for a pair of fairytale birds and squirrels with its enviable size, shape, and what I'm sure is the perfect texture. I'd honestly love to feel it but I got a feeling if I asked he'd think I was queer, so that'll remain a mystery to me. You rarely wanna mess with the perceptions of old-school folk, especially if their perception of you is positive.

He plays with one arm most of the time and it's always amazing to watch him work a table. It's like he transforms into a completely different person while hunching over and adjusting his balance for whatever shot's under his nose. He normally runs his mouth. When anyone's shooting against him you can bet the whole room'll hear his trademark phrase, "You better look at it twice, you can only shoot it but once!" and that gets me chuckling sometimes, but when he wraps his twig fingers around his jade green cue's Irish linen and lets his bad arm flop against his side he goes as quiet as an Alaskan tundra.

Jerry, despite his older years, has somehow maintained the rippled physique of a light heavyweight boxer. His skin is tight and clear of any blemish you could think of and the top of his bald head always shines when he takes off his black suede fedora to wipe his brow. He often sweats because to him everything is a workout and pool's no exception.

"And one for a mothafucka's ASS!" is his catchphrase of choice while shooting for gold.

Phelps is the Zen master of the three, a stout, clear-eyed man with the most beautiful cue I've ever seen. It looks like glass and the shaft is a midnight black with a blood red ferrule. It's a bonafide work of art. He's always saying, "Love, brother, love," and "Blessings, blessings," and even though he's usually quick to smile and offer encouragement he sings the saddest songs to himself while shooting, songs about love and loves lost. He's a bit of a womanizer even though he's married with kids, and I'm guessing he's fallen for some of his flings and had his heart broken more than a few times.

They're all much better than me. MUCH better, with Bert specializing in shotmaking, Jerry more than capable at defense, and Phelps as the kick and banking expert.

And Fabricio can hang with all of them.

He's been playing for over three years, starting not long after he first moved in and came across them shooting the shit one weekend afternoon. Like me, it wasn't long until he became hooked and Bert says it took Fabricio less time than he thought to "play competently with the big bad wolves."

He's a little taller than me, just an inch or two over six feet, and has longish oily black hair and a curly mustache he cares for more than his body. He's a big boy, and I get a kick out of watching him huff and puff around the table while muttering that he "needs to lose some fucking weight." He can crack a joke with the best of 'em though, and always manages to stump Bert into silence when the man tries to start a shit talking battle in the middle of a game.

"This lazy fat boy sure can play pool, can't he?" is his war cry.

I've played him once before. It was the second time we met, maybe about two months ago, and although I was impressed that he'd gotten as good as he was in the span of three years, I also had a good feeling I could beat him.

So, at the end of the night, before he started packing up his things, I challenged him to a race to three.

He beat me three games to one.

But I won one.

It was the first game of the match, and that win, in addition to his body language throughout the race, gave me enough confidence to believe that it wouldn't take much longer for me to get him.

So, after more time spent practicing and learning, I eventually decided it was time to soak my feet a little more.

I happily caught Jerry coming out of the elevator last night and told him to relay a message to Fabricio for me since he's guaranteed to see him every week:

A race to twenty in one month. We each put up $100 and he gets to decide the weekend.

I didn't worry about sharing any further particulars like who breaks after a win or what game we'd play, although I'm sure he'll assume it's eight ball. I'm not good enough yet for nine ball but you can bet your sweet ass that game'll be challenged in due time.

Jerry was surprised but I could also see excitement in his eyes, and that made me smile. It makes for something his crew can talk about and a healthy dose of drama never hurt anybody.

I'm hoping Fabricio accepts my challenge. If he does, I'm giving him a month until the match so he can brush up on any neglected skills. I want him at his best. I want to beat him at his best. For me, nothing else will do.