Sophie's (hopefully) survives

I was in Sophie's Friday night when I overheard owner Bob Corton asking where he could pick up a copy of The Villager. Apparently, somebody had written an update on the fate of Sophie's and Mona's. Today I finally remembered to look up the story online. A nice piece by Patrick Hedlund, it can be read here. It inspired me to take a look at some pictures I shot in Sophie's August 16, 2005 (a Tuesday) and I was stoked to come across some pictures of my future teammates playing a match. While I am a relative newbie to Sophie's, I can definitely identify several of the people mentioned in the story. Obviously, there's Caveman (above), about whom the following was written: "Caveman, described as a large, brutish man with full beard, famously slugged pitchers of beer at a time — drinking directly from the source instead of a glass." Lots of other great tidbits. Well worth a read. I thought these two sentences were particularly well crafted:

The stories still hang in the dank ether of the rotting space, seen on the inexplicable tchotchkes adorning Sophie’s faded bar facade, and trapped inside the peeling paint and crumbling brick where the faces of drinkers past hang immortalized in original paintings. The stories are embedded in the wooden bar, which appears not to have seen a coat of lacquer since the Reagan administration, and etched into the well-trodden, chipped cement floor.

Brownstone Brooklyn

Back in early December I took the B train to 7th Avenue in Brooklyn to photograph the band Electric Six at the live music venue Southpaw. I did a little research online and once I discovered Southpaw had a pool table I purposely set out early to check it out. Because whenever I photograph live music it invariably starts later than announced. I figured I'd have some time to play pool before the band took the stage. Once I got out of the subway I was getting my bearings when I found myself below a sign for a poolhall that vaguely rang a bell: Brownstown Billiards. Or, as I later found out, it's offically called Ocean's 8 at Brownstone Billiards.

So I went in, walked down some steps and found myself staring at a sea of about 30 pool tables. Still eager to get to Southpaw to check out its table, I ruled out renting a table to practice at Brownstone. But I did speak to the person behind the register about taking a picture. Because I only had my 50mm lens with me, I decided to take a few simple pictures that I could stitch together for a panoramic. As I was doing so, somebody else came up to me we started talking. He introduced me to their house pro, a woman by the name of Billie Billing. We chatted briefly, I told her a little bit about myself, that I'm mostly just a bar player but that I consider myself "a student of the game." Even though she was on her way out she asked if I wanted to play some. I told her I was on my way to an assignment, but that I would look her up some other time. After thanking everybody I went back up to street level, ate some tacos at a fast food Mexican place nearby and was at Southpaw in 15 minutes. Sadly, the pool area was roped off as a VIP seating area, apparently some deal sponsored by Camel cigarettes. So I played some Buck Hunter instead and patiently waited for the opening act to finish. Eventually Electric Six came on and got my shots and took off after the fifth song.

In a strange turn of events, a month and a day later I had another assignment at Southpaw, to photograph Kimya Dawson. But this time it was a Sunday matinee performance. I was told doors opened at 1PM, so that's when I arrived. Unfortunately, I quickly learned that there were two opening acts, one at 2PM and the other at 3PM. This meant Kimya wouldn't go on until around 4PM. I took another look at the pool table area, but it was jam packed with kids and parents and the table itself was covered. Perturbed at the prospect of a wasted Sunday afternoon, I quickly thought of heading over to Brownstone. And that is exactly what I did. I played for approximately 35 minutes, and my total was $3.50. There were a ton of kids there for some birthday party, and they seemed to like the air hockey tables more than the pool tables. So it was a cacophany of pucks being slapped around, kids shouting, the works. I discovered a very cool miniature bowling alley there as well. I have to say, next time I go back I'm gonna have to try my hand at bowling. Check out this video, it is pretty well done and definitely gives you an overall sense of the place.

Two good reads from Dyer

Many apologies for the lack of posts on this blog the past couple weeks. I've tried sitting down at the computer to write some posts but they're just not coming as of late. Then along came an email from Jake Dyer, author of "Hustler Days" and, more recently, "The Hustler and the Champ." He writes with news of two pool stories he's written for his newspaper, the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Thanks for the motivation Jake, a kind of bereavement meal for those of us not in the mood to churn out copy.

The first piece is his recent dispatch from the Derby City Classic in Louisville, in particular the happenings in the "action room" there. The Derby City Classic has a reputation for being the "Woodstock of Pool," and there's lots of color in this story. Tens of thousands of dollars in duffel bags, a sixth-degree bodyguard, all-night games of pool that are still going when the cleaning ladies come to work the next morning. He starts and ends the story talking to Grady Matthews, aka The Professor, whose drawl manages to come out even in his quotes.

The second story is an entirely different subject: the ghost of a pool hustler named U.J. Puckett. The story describes a pool hall in southern Fort Worth called Fast Freddy's that is haunted by Puckett. Many of the regulars swear by the ghost's presence: televisions that get turned on by themselves, pool cues falling to the floor from the wall racks, shadowy human forms caught on surveillance tapes. You couldn't make up a more interesting character. He was born Utley J. Puckett in Prattsvile, Arkansas in 1911. His father was killed in a logging train accident, and he dropped out of high school to work as a professional boxer and later as a Hollywood actor. He learned pool as a kid and by his 30s was holding his own among some of the greatest hustlers in the sport. He died in 1992 and has gone on to haunt Fast Freddy's. Supposedly there's a chair in the pool room near table 19 that Puckett still claims as his own.

Ending on a positive note

On Tuesday I sent a message to four of our txt-savvy players that read: "hope to see you all tonight at sophie's, it's been a while. we are hosting a team from edge that beat us 2-3 in oct. we are 4-9 for season, let's improve to 5-9." I wanted to rally the troops, as opposed to intimidate them, which is why I didn't write "let's not make it 4-10." But coming off a five-week losing streak (the last three of which were all 1-4 losses), followed by a two-week holiday break, I was prepared for the worst. Looking at the sheet Tuesday night, I saw that our team was in last place with 39 points. Thinking about this today I did the math: 39 points divided by 13 weeks we'd played thus far leaves us with an average of 3 points per week. Although, for those not familiar with how the point system works, an extra point is granted to every team when they turn in their sheets on time. For example, even if your team gets beat 0-5 on a given night, you'll still earn a point if you turn in the scoresheet along with player's dues. The winning team in the same situation would get 6 points: 1 point for each win, plus the extra point for turning in the sheet on time. Essentially, our average score for the season was 2-3.

So with nothing to lose, we went to battle. After the third game we had the momentum on our side and were ahead 2 games to 1. I took a gamble and put myself up, hoping to carry the momentum further on toward a win. They put up a 5 who I had never played, so I wasn't sure what to expect. I made some embarrassing mistakes, most notably when going for the 8 ball. My nerves were getting the best of me and I was rushing into shots. Missing the 8 a few times caused some big groans from my teammates, I just couldn't get it to fall. In the end I got my wobbles all straightened out, leaving myself with a straight-in shot on the 8 for the win. It was a race to 4 games and I won the first, third, fifth and sixth games. My opponent's two wins came from my mistakes, a scratch on the 8 and an early 8 in the second and fourth games, respectively. Sloppy as it was, the win gave us a little confidence to end the season on (although one of our departing players ended up losing the final match of the night/season). The next two weeks are devoted to the playoffs, and then the spring season begins for us January 29th. I've included a shot of the sheet that I use to tally everybody's scores. I've blacked out the names of my opponents.

The Great Cue Ball Carom/Timing Controversy

Every once in a while at the Hamilton Fish Rec Center there always seems to be some new rule that's gone into effect because of some argument that got started about a shot. There are some long-standing rules that are easy to accept and deal with. For instance, under no circumstance is it okay to kiss or carom off your opponent's ball, even if you call it beforehand. Thus, the words "off your ball" are never spoken. Another rule is that if you break and sink, say, a stripe but yet the cue ball scratches (or, even better, flies off the table), you still get to remain stripes. Whenever it's my break and the cue ball scratches, I always insist it's still open no matter what else fell. Probably my biggest pet peeve is the (selectively enforced) rule that says when kicking at a ball, it's not enough to call which pocket you're going for. You have to say how many banks the cue ball is going to touch before it hits the object ball. Invariably, you'll go to kick at a ball in the corner pocket, and you'll say just say "corner pocket." But if the cue ball skims against a second rail just before pocketing the intended ball, somebody might say "Did you call it two rails?" I always loudly contest this rule, explaining that if we don't have to call any rattling in a pocket then we shouldn't have to call any skims either.

I was at the rec center last night playing my least favorite person, who will go unnamed. This guy is the kind of person who, even if he's not playing, will sit like a hawk and watch your game and will sort of "advance announce" to the whole room the outcome of your shot. For example, I'll be lining up to take a shot and loooong before the object ball is anywhere close to its pocket this guy will yell out "Nope!" or "Too soft." The worst is when he yells out "Next!" as his 8 ball is rolling toward its pocket. He's just a tit. I had gotten to the rec center first last night and when he came in several minutes after me I was sorta hoping he'd go downstairs and lift weights before playing pool. No such luck. He comes over and says "You ready?" as he was putting his cue together. Considering I had some warmup time, I was kind enough to give him the break. He said "Last pocket?" I said "Nah, let's just play a quick one straight out, any pocket."

One thing you need to know about this guy is that he's always listening to music via headphones. He's always got this air of superiority about him, as if he's too good to be able to talk to you. And he'll keep you waiting as he's fiddling with his iPod, just a total jackass. More and more I think him listening to music gives him opportunities to say he didn't hear something. So as I was nailing banks and stopping the cue ball on a dime and leaving him with nothing whenever I missed, I think he got a little intimidated. He missed a long shot on the 3 ball in the corner and instead hit the 8, which ended up at the other end of the table clustered with a group of his solids. And then he said, incredulously, as if to make it seem like hitting the 8 first was what he had intended all along, "Because we're playing last pocket." I was like "Nah man, we're not." Then he said "But I broke." I said "No, it was my table, I gave you the break and you asked what we were playing and I said any pocket."

So, annoyed, it was then that I was left with the shot that's diagrammed above. I was shooting stripes and didn't have a direct shot at my 14 in the corner. So I said exactly this: "Okay. Cue ball is gonna go OFF my 11, into the 14." I got down on the shot, put a little top left english on it, and drove the cue ball pretty full into the 11. Then the cue ball caromed directly into the 14, without even hitting a rail first, sinking it. I didn't pay attention to where the 11 went because my eye was glued to the cue ball. But the 11 had gone on to break up his cluster, sinking one of his balls. Then he got ready to shoot. I was like "What are you doing? That shot went exactly as I called it." And then he said "No it didn't. My 1 ball fell in before your 14 did." Dumbfounded, I was like "Come on man, you know that was a great shot I just made. I'm going again." That's when, without saying anything, he picked up his jacket and cue and took it over to the other table to play somebody else. I went on playing the rest of the game by myself, thinking how absurd a rule that was, wishing somebody else was there to also call him out on it. After a minute or so I went over to shake his hand, just because I thought it was childish to have hard feelings. He scoffed, saying "Yeah yeah, good game, whatever. I don't want to talk about it."

So I went on to play some friendly games with a man named Miguel, who is easily one of the top three players at the rec center, a very gracious player win or lose. At the end of our first game, I was straight-in on the 8 into a side pocket, but I said "Let's bank the 8." I went on to win that first game, then he won the second. By the third game two other players had shown up and were watching us, wanting to play the winner. So I said "You know what? Let's just finish this game straight out, no banks, so these people aren't waiting for us." He went on to win it.

I had to make a phone call, making some plans to meet a friend soon nearby. But I wanted one more game before leaving. Turns out it would have to be a rematch against Mr. Ego, over on the loser's table. I could tell he was annoyed by me wanting to play him. Sure, it would have been easier for me to just wait for him to lose so that I wouldn't have to face him again, but this was a challenge I put myself up to. He of course made sure I heard him say "Last pocket." He started strong, going on a three or four ball run after making something on the break. But I was determined to make this last game my best. After a flurry of decisive shotmaking I was down to a perfect setup for a runout that even I was surprised by. Down on the 8, I purposely hit it softly so that if I missed at least it would still be in the vicinity of the right pocket. It rolled straight to the pocket, but stopped on the very edge without falling in. A stinger for him, it locked up the game for me. He went on to miss his next shot, an impossible bank, leaving me with a long reach shot. I should have been safe and gone to get the bridge. But the fact that he wouldn't concede the game, the fact that he was going to make me go over and sink that pathetic little pocket hanger, infuriated me. So I did a little one-armed poke at the cue ball, sinking the 8 for a handshakeless win and a surge of vindication.