A Game Of Pool (part 3)

 

My dad rearranged the balls in the triangle

After Fat-boy had just plonked ‘em in any-old-how

They didn’t toss to see who’d won the break

That honour was conceded to my dad

 

He chalked his cue up

Smearing blue chalk all over his forefingers and thumb

Then he scratched his nose

Accidently-on-purpose getting chalk all over his nose

Why he always did this

Only he knew

But it gave him some perverse feeling of one-upmanship

When his opponents thought… wrongly

That they knew something that he didn’t

Weird

But that’s my dad for you

 

He bent on his haunches

Examining the table

Before smacking the cue ball into the pack

Two stripes went in

It was a total fluke

But he acted like he had played the shot

“Well played”

“Good shot”

The yokels were impressed

And thought he HAD played the shot

He left himself with another easy stripe

Sitting tantalisingly easy over the centre pocket

That went in sweet as a nut

He failed to pot owt with his next shot

But left his opponent snookered

 

Fat-boy miscued

Conceding two shots and a free ball

 

“There’s a speck of chalk on the cue ball”

Said my dad

Then in a macabre and horrendous impression of Len Ganley

He took out his bottom set of false teeth

In a long slimy slaver of saliva

Before placing them to mark the position of the cue ball

Which he then wiped with a dirty handkerchief

 

It was a disgusting spectacle

Designed to put his opponents off

He didn’t allow for the stupidity of his adversaries

They were actually impressed by his antics

 

He used his free ball to pot a spot

Then after a bit of arguing about what a free ball meant

And whether or not he could use it to pot the opposition’s ball

 

He used his extra shot to clear the rest of the stripes

Neatly followed by the black

 

It was a sound thrashing

Seven spots left on the table

Only one spot potted and that was by my dad

 

The other yokels laughed out loud to see their friend

So soundly thrashed

 

Fat-boy was gracious in defeat

And shook my dad’s hand

 

“Well played mate”

“Are you in a league or summet”

“No” said my dad

“I hardly play at all these days”

“Oh” said Fat-boy

“Signs of a misspent youth”

 

It was meant as a compliment