How Not To Play Pool

Metaphor alert

A man walks into a bar. He’s a big guy, braggadocio dude, confident in his heft. Kind of guy who slaps his car keys down on the table to make it clear he’s driving something fancy. He’s got money, you better believe it. He’s a big fucking deal.

Buys a drink, Scotch rocks. Takes a gulp. Leans back on the bar, takes in the scene. Sees the pool table. Pool, that’s a competition, right? That’s something you can win. There’s people playing already, bunch of locals, hanging out, doing their thing. Maybe a good thing, may be a bad one, whatever. He could leave them be.

But no, he walks over, slaps a dollar down. He wants to get in on the action. Stands there. Watching. Smirking. Yo, people — you noticed I’m here, right?

Then it’s his turn to play. Challenger breaks, always. So he does. Whacks the ball at the pack, hard as he can, making it clear he’s bull-strong. Balls go everywhere. Sound and fury. Point made. The man has arrived. But nothing goes down.

The other guy takes a shot, misses by a whisker.

Our guy has one obvious pot. Hunkers down over the green, fucking whacks that sucker. Gives it everything he’s got. The ball SMACKS into the pocket, hammers down. He straightens up, nodding, in his element. Everybody knows he WON THAT SHOT. You could probably hear it out on the street. He’s the man. He sunk that hard.

BUT…

Whoops. He didn’t give a moment’s thought to where the cue ball would end up.

The follow-up shot’s for losers, right? Just nail the pot right in front of you. Fuck it hard, get it down, take the plaudits, do a victory lap. Okay, so, bummer, the white ball wound up way over there. No easy next shot. Nothing that makes sense.

He tries something, misses. But hell, he nailed that first one, right? Fuckin’ A. Let’s roll that tape again. And again.

The other guy leans over the table, takes a shot. Pots it. Annoying. Takes another. Misses… but leaves the white ball, the cue ball, in a position where our guy’s… got nothing. Our guy tries something, fails. But, early days. This engagement could take a minute, right? All good. The other guy quietly leans down again, pots something. Nothing fancy, and he misses the one after, but again leaves the cue ball safe.

Asshole. It’s going to be a slow, turgid game. No glamor shots. Nothing impressive.

So after a while of this our guy — our big, bluff guy — starts to get kinda bored. This is no fun. He wants the money shots. But even if he somehow gets one, he’ll still not be thinking about where the cue ball goes, so he’ll be screwed. Again. This is bullshit. This isn’t going to get him on world news. This isn’t shock and awe. This is slow, grinding reality, reading the table, judging the reality of it, making sure you know what you’re going to do next. Used to call it diplomacy in the old days.

Our guy’s balls are now spread all over the table. Half of them up against cushions. Horrible pots. Too fucking hard. Our guy yawns. This scene’s getting old fast.

Tries a couple more shots, half-hearted. Misses. This is pissing him off now. Seemed like it was going to be fun but the other dude’s being so fucking boring about it. Ugh.

Our guy looks at his watch. It’s a big, expensive watch, naturally. Time to bail on this shitshow. He gives his cue to some randomer — hey kid, finish this up for me. Said kid looks down at a nightmare spread, thinking: how the hell am I supposed to fix this? Kid gets so pissed at the mess that he’s suddenly thinking about starting a bar fight with people just standing there. Pretty soon people are throwing punches.

Meanwhile our guy throws back the rest of his Scotch — fine, spendy Scotch, only the best for our guy — swaggers through the chaos to buy another, maybe see if he can get in the pants of that hot chick at the bar. Cool accent. Maybe Russian or something.

Having ruined everybody’s evening, and achieved literally nothing.

Yes, I’m talking about American foreign policy.

It’s always been this way. But now it’s going to get much, much worse. And I am not some generic hater. A third of my life has been spent in the United States. I left England and came here with my family, by choice. I’m an immigrant. I’m a citizen. I love the people and the land and this is my home. But tell me it ain’t so.

If learned one thing during many hours of playing pool in the seedy pubs of North London thirty-plus years ago with my pal David Rogers — who was a good deal better than me — it’s that if you play a shot without considering where the cue ball’s going to wind up, then you’re giving away the game.

And yes of course some of the time the locals playing pool are utter assholes. Sometimes you have to play in the interests of world peace. But if you keep playing this way there’s a danger that one of these days you’re going to charge in and whack that white ball clean off the table. What happens then?

The whole bar burns down.