I'm such an angry player.

Or rather, I'm such an emotional one.

I get angry, that's undeniable. A seething rage often grows in the pit of my gut when things go from fine, to acceptable, to bad, to frustratingly worse as I watch again and again in disbelief as balls simply refuse to go where I want them.

I'm completely aware that their annoying behavior is my fault. I'm not good enough yet to make those fucking balls submit to me and do my bidding, but it still hurts so goddamn much when I fail. The hurt is birthed from a disappointment that weighs a metric ton and nearly crushes my heart, and when I fail enough I still have a bad habit of ceasing to care.

Last night, whenever I missed, I turned my back away from the table and refused to look at it while my opponent was shooting.

I need to change that.

Things need to fucking change, and they need to change fast if I'm gonna give myself the best chance at beating Fabricio.

But enough of musing about the past.

I'm attending my first tournament tonight.

It's a regular eight ball extravaganza, with players youngish and old as fucking dirt crowded around pool tables and dining tables alike, all discussing scratches, etiquette, and some even talking shit like no one's talked shit before with dripping chicken wings between their fingers. A rather animated game between two bearded guys wearing baseball caps backwards ended with one of them sinking his last ball with authority before jumping up and yelling, "GO SIT YOUR ASS DOWN!" That drew a litany of whistles and laughter, and when the two fiery gentlemen refused to shake hands, a heavy blanket of oohs and aahs, and it was then that I realized I'm nowhere near my fucking element.

Don't get me wrong, there's an invisible lasso of camaraderie that binds us all, regardless of ability, because we're all gathered for one exciting purpose: to play some fucking pool. And that feels good. It feels good to know that you belong somewhere, that you've practiced and sacrificed enough to be able to shoot effectively (enough) with so many different players talking and moving around you, that the pressure isn't so intense that you can barely put together a decent stroke.

I'm not nervous. Not at all. I've never had issues dealing with the noise and energy of a crowd, even an intimidating one. I'm confident enough to walk tall and socially hold my own, no matter where I am.

But that doesn't matter at all here.

My social prowess means dick if I can't play some respectable fucking pool.

And as I watch more and more of these players navigate their well lighted seven footers, it's becoming more and more apparent that I haven't got a fucking chance in the world. I'm gonna get bent over and fucked with ease, no matter how much my defiant ass tries to resist the inevitable and relentless caravan of fifty seven inch two-piece dicks aimed straight at my puckered asshole.

This is gonna be fucking bad.

A marathon runner version of Santa Claus is effortlessly pocketing balls and spinning his cue ball around his green felted table.

A metal song just started blaring over the hall's pretty decent sound system. Part of its lyrics go, "And we put ourselves against the wall," and I feel that I've heard it before, but I can't put my tongue on the band. Regardless, two players practicing on a more beaten table didn't hesitate to start banging their heads while sticking their tongues out of their mouths.

A well-groomed character dressed like the world's most successful insurance salesman is potting balls like he's played every second of his days not spent hounding stressful folks for his quota.

Two pudgy men in sandals speaking Chinese are passionately arguing about something involving the avocado green six ball.

And another older, balding cueist, aged without the tell of a single gray hair, is quietly eliminating his balls without hitting them with any aggressive measure of force. He's deliberate, focused, and graceful, the kind of player I wish I was.

The tournament organizer just finished reading off the event's list of players over the mic, and a few moments later came back on to remind everyone that alternate breaks would be happening tonight.

A massive, professional wrestler looking motherfucker just walked up to the graceful cueist and thanked him because, by watching him, he was learning what NOT to do.

Fucking joker.

This is fun.

I went to the organizer, who was seated behind a curved keyboard and glowing row of monitors set up so perfectly that Batman would've came in his tights, and provided my phone number to receive updates on the bracket. I guess all I have to do now is sit around, watch, and wait my turn.

The tourney hasn't started yet and there's a pulsing energy in the air, the kind of aura a squad of Roman gladiators must've given off before being unleashed upon a blood soaked arena. Some men and women are standing around with serious frowns on their faces while gripping their cues. Others are laughing and simply enjoying a fun night out with friends.

There's a gallery of folks watching the proceedings on a raised platform in front of the concession area. It doesn't bother me that maybe I'll be watched by a few people, but it does add to the pressure of what I'm about to put myself through.

I just got called to table two. I just got fucking called to table two. My heart's fucking beating out of my chest but I'm trying my best not to show it. I refuse to show it. I'm going to relax, take a deep breath, walk over to my table, shake my opponent's hand (who I've forgotten the name of because honestly I'm a wreck right now), and just do my best to not think too much and simply make shots. Fuck pattern play, fuck position, fuck trying to plan out an entire rack. I'm just gonna do my best to fucking SHOOT.

I just failed a ridiculous combination, and when I say failed, I mean in the most horrible way. The embarrassment I felt as I watched the balls collide and roll away from each other in a way that I never intended made me want to curse, but I refuse to show my opponent anything. I have to train myself to be emotionless. Detached. Impervious to the crippling effects of failure.

Except I'm not.

Maybe I shouldn't be typing while playing a match, but that's no excuse, is it? I'm playing fucking horrible. I managed to come back with a few balls after my opponent made some errors, but after finally getting on the eight, I left it nice and snug in one of the corners and shrugged while sending it right in.

1-0

I'm not gonna type while playing through this second game of our set. I've missed more than a few times and he's now on the eight and about to get the out.

Okay, I lied.

He missed the eight and I just sat back down after blowing an opportunity at running five and taking the game. Now he's got another shot on the eight in a corner annnnnnd...he's missed it.

My turn again.

And I fucking blew it.

Of course I did.

I pocketed my last ball and had a slice on the eight into a corner, but that damn godforsaken black ball rattled and refused to go in.

What in the ever loving fuck.

But it is what it is.

2-0, and game fucking over.

What can I say?

I lost my first match and it doesn't really feel fucking good. Oh, and I have to take a fucking shit, so there's that too. But I'm gonna hold it in for now. I'm gonna use this shit pressure to somehow help me focus. Maybe it'll make me lucky. Maybe if I build up enough gas and fart badly enough while bending over in front of my next opponent it'll make the unfortunate fucker quit and I'll manage to leave with a small slice of pride knowing that I took one tonight.

I knew that I wouldn't be winning this evening. There was no chance that I'd be taking this tournament at all. I suck too much shitty dick and everyone around me is way out of my league. But I still wanna win. I still wanna fucking win.

I STILL WANNA FUCKING WIN!

The graceful cueist is still slowly working his magic at his nine footer and I guess I'll just sit here and watch him until my next match. There's not much else for me to do. This is a double elimination tourney so there's still a chance for me to leave with something that'll give me the warm and fuzzies before I go to bed later. I'll hope for that. No, I'll play for it. I'm gonna give it my all in my next match.

I'm gonna play to win.

So I'm matched up against a woman now and normally that wouldn't be a problem but she's pretty fucking cute. She's short, fun sized, Happy meal sized, however you wanna say it, and a little chubby, but that's not a deal breaker 'cause chubby women often suck a mean dick and big girls need love too, isn't that right? She's serious though. Deadly serious.

She tried to conceal it by acting sweet and friendly at first with a dainty little handshake but now that the match is on it's nothing but lasers from her eyes and balls are playing one of my favorite games: hide and stay hidden. It kinda took me for a loop but I'm a sucker for falling for it. I forget sometimes that even the most average looking woman could earn an Oscar. They're fantastic at pretending. It's really quite fascinating to see.

She's bending over for a long shot now and all I'm thinking about is how nice it would be to give her chubby little ass a squeeze through those yoga pants sprinkled with what looks like cat hair. If she has cats, I'd love to fuck her in front of 'em. They'd sit there and watch too, the nosy weirdos.

Oh, woe is me.

I made a lucky slice into a pocket when the cue ball was frozen against another, cut another ball down the table, and then fucked up a bank. After getting rid of the rest of her balls she ended up on an easy shot on the eight and I gave it to her. She's going to check if losers only play one game, and that's cool, I'll just sit here and watch her walk away.

Yep, only one.

I shook her hand and congratulated her on the win, but she seemed annoyed with me. Maybe she was annoyed with herself. Maybe she didn't play as well as she thought she should've. Or maybe she just didn't like me. If the latter's the case, then it is what it is. If I was worried about getting every woman to like me I'd never experience a moment of joy.

So, to wrap everything up, I royally fucking sucked tonight.

I did nothing right.

Everything was bad, I'm terrible, I'm embarrassed and supremely disappointed in myself, pool sucks, and I wish the world would fucking explode. I don't feel like I have to shit anymore at least.

I don't know what I was supposed to learn from this sorry showing of mine but I'll try to go over everything again when I get back home.

Or maybe I won't.

Maybe I'll just jerk off and bid another Friday adieu.

I fucking hate this game.