Pool, Zen and the art of STFU
Lately, my mantra has been "stop saying words." After all, they're just symbols we use to communicate these unseen conceptual idea type thingies that someone else has probably already come up with better words for, or done it in such a way that makes more sense, takes less time to absorb, less effort even. They usually end up getting us in trouble, especially when we say too many or not enough, or the wrong ones, or even the right ones in the wrong way.
I've been reading the Tao. According to the Tao, we should not always be talking. This is Sage wisdom, y'all. For true. We need to listen to others. If we don't, what's the point in this entire thing we call the world and all the other folks in it? If you think you already know everything, go ahead and do us all a favor and leave so the rest of us can pay attention. Or you know, maybe help us out, if you're so wise.
I'm guilty of not listening. Oh so guilty. I'm not hating because we all go through this. That's life, so they say...it's a long song, a rambly tangent we're thrust into by forces beyond our understanding and control...what's that? You think you have control? You do, but only so much of it. You're best off just using your control to regulate your emotions and keep your head above the proverbial water.
Tonight, I pitched a fit til I got ten dollars from my dad, bought a cheap pack of cigarettes and some gas and drove to a local bar to play some free pool. Yes, I am an asshole. No, I am not good at "adulting," which my generation has turned into a fucking verb because we can't seem to become legitimate versions of them as a noun. We just "adult" when we need to and behave like petulant children or hormone driven teenagers in the meantime.
I felt more like an adult as a child, honestly. I listened. I read. I stared at screens. I absorbed everything. I knew how to win the quiet game...til one of my cousins looked at me with a shit eating grin and we held our breath til we erupted into full on raucous belly laughs.
We had a billiard style pool table in our game room in the house I lived in as a child. We would mostly pile blankets on top and sleep underneath it. It became our own little cave, or tent or whatever our imaginations wanted it to be that night. Sometimes we'd "play." Of course, we rarely played by the rules. We'd use our hands to hold the cue and knock the other balls in because who needs sticks? Who needs rules? We're making this shit up as we go along. It's much more fun that way.
Now, I enjoy playing pool and I get angry when people don't play by the rules. I typically end up playing with guys who let me take shit shots and block the cue from going in when they think I'm about to scratch. If I fuck up on the break, they re-rack the balls and tell me to try again. It pisses me off. It pisses me off not just because it's not fair but because they're fucking with the Universe at that point.
How do they know the cue was going in for sure? It might've bounced off the pocket. What if my supposedly sub-par break had led me to an epic win? What if by shooting again after making an accidental shot, I line my opponent up to clear the table? It's all happened before, and I'm calling shenanigans.
When I play pool with someone, whether male or female, young or old, I want them to shoot their best game, play by the rules we mutually agree upon, don't touch the cue unless they're removing it from the hole after a scratch, beat me fair and square. I don't like winning by default. It happens often. I have three or four balls left on the table, someone feels bad, so they don't go for the obvious shot, call an odd pocket and effectively scratch.
In pool, there should be no feelings involved. No pity at least. If you're good, fucking win because the only way I'm going to improve my game is to play folks who are more experienced. Show no mercy. Then, when I finally do win, I'll know it wasn't a fluke, or by default. It's because I've honed my skill enough to do the damn thing, and do it well.
Tonight I was playing with an old man, royal blue bandanna covering his long grey hair to match his shirt. He kept telling me, "Slow down. Line up the shot. Take your time. You're just whacking the cue and seeing what happens."
I said that had become my basic approach to life. He didn't take the bait on my attempt at a pseudo philosophical conversation. He banked in the eight and re-racked the balls, told me to break. I said, "If I slow down and think about it too much, I'm just going to mess it all up. I don't think speed has much to do with it. I think it's just the confidence that this ball is going in that pocket. Then again, I've been wrong before." He just shook his head and asked me my name. I told him and he didn't make any pop culture references. He said, "They call me Heart-Attack," and shook my child-size hand too hard.
"Now this time, I'll shoot fast and you slow down," he said. I agreed to try it his way. I became increasingly frustrated as my calculations proved incorrect and he won easily, literally with one hand behind his back. He just poked the balls in, as if he were encouraging a dying fire.
That's when I realized that it wasn't even about confidence. It's about FOCUS. Mine was clearly crocused. "Why do they call you Heart-Attack?" I asked. "Is it because you're as serious as one?"
He half grinned and shook his head as he lined up some practice shots for me. "Is it because you've actually suffered one?" I wondered aloud.
"Five," he said. "Now where do you need to hit that four to make it in the corner?"
I figured the angle and lined it up with my stick. Before I shot, he said, "Alright. Take a practice aim. Know where it's going."
Lo and behold, that purple bugger went clean in the hole. Heart-Attack grinned as if to say he'd told me so. He had. I said I needed to get out of there. The DJ was getting on my nerves with all his electro beats that I didn't have appropriate drugs to appreciate. He gave me a half hug and said he was on his way out too. I thanked him and he waved as he carried some empty glasses up to the bar and made his exit.
I've been reading the Tao. According to the Tao, we should not always be talking. This is Sage wisdom, y'all. For true. We need to listen to others. If we don't, what's the point in this entire thing we call the world and all the other folks in it? If you think you already know everything, go ahead and do us all a favor and leave so the rest of us can pay attention. Or you know, maybe help us out, if you're so wise.
I'm guilty of not listening. Oh so guilty. I'm not hating because we all go through this. That's life, so they say...it's a long song, a rambly tangent we're thrust into by forces beyond our understanding and control...what's that? You think you have control? You do, but only so much of it. You're best off just using your control to regulate your emotions and keep your head above the proverbial water.
Tonight, I pitched a fit til I got ten dollars from my dad, bought a cheap pack of cigarettes and some gas and drove to a local bar to play some free pool. Yes, I am an asshole. No, I am not good at "adulting," which my generation has turned into a fucking verb because we can't seem to become legitimate versions of them as a noun. We just "adult" when we need to and behave like petulant children or hormone driven teenagers in the meantime.
I felt more like an adult as a child, honestly. I listened. I read. I stared at screens. I absorbed everything. I knew how to win the quiet game...til one of my cousins looked at me with a shit eating grin and we held our breath til we erupted into full on raucous belly laughs.
We had a billiard style pool table in our game room in the house I lived in as a child. We would mostly pile blankets on top and sleep underneath it. It became our own little cave, or tent or whatever our imaginations wanted it to be that night. Sometimes we'd "play." Of course, we rarely played by the rules. We'd use our hands to hold the cue and knock the other balls in because who needs sticks? Who needs rules? We're making this shit up as we go along. It's much more fun that way.
Now, I enjoy playing pool and I get angry when people don't play by the rules. I typically end up playing with guys who let me take shit shots and block the cue from going in when they think I'm about to scratch. If I fuck up on the break, they re-rack the balls and tell me to try again. It pisses me off. It pisses me off not just because it's not fair but because they're fucking with the Universe at that point.
How do they know the cue was going in for sure? It might've bounced off the pocket. What if my supposedly sub-par break had led me to an epic win? What if by shooting again after making an accidental shot, I line my opponent up to clear the table? It's all happened before, and I'm calling shenanigans.
When I play pool with someone, whether male or female, young or old, I want them to shoot their best game, play by the rules we mutually agree upon, don't touch the cue unless they're removing it from the hole after a scratch, beat me fair and square. I don't like winning by default. It happens often. I have three or four balls left on the table, someone feels bad, so they don't go for the obvious shot, call an odd pocket and effectively scratch.
In pool, there should be no feelings involved. No pity at least. If you're good, fucking win because the only way I'm going to improve my game is to play folks who are more experienced. Show no mercy. Then, when I finally do win, I'll know it wasn't a fluke, or by default. It's because I've honed my skill enough to do the damn thing, and do it well.
Tonight I was playing with an old man, royal blue bandanna covering his long grey hair to match his shirt. He kept telling me, "Slow down. Line up the shot. Take your time. You're just whacking the cue and seeing what happens."
I said that had become my basic approach to life. He didn't take the bait on my attempt at a pseudo philosophical conversation. He banked in the eight and re-racked the balls, told me to break. I said, "If I slow down and think about it too much, I'm just going to mess it all up. I don't think speed has much to do with it. I think it's just the confidence that this ball is going in that pocket. Then again, I've been wrong before." He just shook his head and asked me my name. I told him and he didn't make any pop culture references. He said, "They call me Heart-Attack," and shook my child-size hand too hard.
"Now this time, I'll shoot fast and you slow down," he said. I agreed to try it his way. I became increasingly frustrated as my calculations proved incorrect and he won easily, literally with one hand behind his back. He just poked the balls in, as if he were encouraging a dying fire.
That's when I realized that it wasn't even about confidence. It's about FOCUS. Mine was clearly crocused. "Why do they call you Heart-Attack?" I asked. "Is it because you're as serious as one?"
He half grinned and shook his head as he lined up some practice shots for me. "Is it because you've actually suffered one?" I wondered aloud.
"Five," he said. "Now where do you need to hit that four to make it in the corner?"
I figured the angle and lined it up with my stick. Before I shot, he said, "Alright. Take a practice aim. Know where it's going."
Lo and behold, that purple bugger went clean in the hole. Heart-Attack grinned as if to say he'd told me so. He had. I said I needed to get out of there. The DJ was getting on my nerves with all his electro beats that I didn't have appropriate drugs to appreciate. He gave me a half hug and said he was on his way out too. I thanked him and he waved as he carried some empty glasses up to the bar and made his exit.