A couple of blogs ago, I introduced you to Big J and Little J, a father-son duo who used to spend a good amount of time at Speeds pool hall in Dallas. In addition to taking some booking action, Big J spent most of his time hustling a little pool, throwing some darts, and in general, trying to come up with angles with which to put food on the table. By being unemployed, he got out of his alimonial responsibilities, and he had custody of Little J (I just assumed the ex-wife and her new boyfriend didn’t want him; I never asked and didn’t really care all that much). But being unemployed for several years does not pay the rent, so Big J was always trying to come up with additional scams and angles.

Some guys minded Big J’s approach quite a bit. He was ruthless and semi-desperate enough that no proposition he ever offered was remotely square, even to his friends, or at least, the acquaintances around Speeds. I’m not sure that he had any friends, in the “thick and thin, brothers til the end” sense of the word. Tom the Bartender’s friend Brad, in particular, used to get REALLY pissed at Big J about the Cowboys’ spread every week. “F’n A, J, the paper says the line’s Boys minus-4! You want me to give 7?!” I heard this every week, but Big J knew Brad was too lazy to find another bookie, and too much of a degenerate not to place a bet. Some people might have a problem with sticking it to a friend like that. Not me. Not really, anyway.

See, if you’re too lazy or too stupid to think through a bet and figure out how bad you’re taking it, then you deserve to lose it. Plain and simple. And you have no one to blame but yourself.

One night, I was playing 9-ball with Big J and after getting a few games ahead giving him the wild-8, he asked for a different spot. I asked what he had in mind…I knew I could probably keep beating him if we moved up to the call-7, but I also knew Big J would sandbag me to set me up for later, so I had my guard up. He said, “Let’s try something new. I don’t want a spot. Wouldn’t hurt you, boss…you’re good enough to smack me around the room however we do it.” Nice try. He continued, “When it’s my first shot, I get to move the ball three fingers in any direction. Sound OK?” I said I needed to take a leak and grab another beer.

A spot like that sounds pretty innocent…but I hadn’t finished unzipping my fly before I figured it out. With that advantage, he could set up his first shot every time to get the right angle for the next ball, making every subsequent shot MUCH easier. Worse, it also meant I couldn’t snooker him on any shot. Three fingers about as wide as a billiard ball, so he could always move out of danger. I couldn’t play
defensively if I wanted to. I’d have to run out every time (I was never close to THAT good) or rely on him to make far more mistakes that I’d expect him to.

I didn’t want to stiff Big J while I was up. That wouldn’t be proper, not with someone I saw all the time and used as a bookie. So I wasn’t going to turn him down, but I didn’t want to give back my profit on the night either. So while getting a beer, I told Stacy & Prof. James Acquaintance (who were loitering, staring at a soundless MTV) to come get me in 10 minutes and beg me to make a Taco Cabana trip. Big J and I split two racks with his three-finger spot, I said “adios” gracefully, and the chorizo-and-egg burritos were on me. Well, technically, on Big J.