Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 260
An outsider would here at once exclaim: “What? Can you so hit a ball as to make it move forward and strike another? Is such a thing possible?” I answer: “Yes, certainly.” I do not claim to be a first-class player — I mean in any absolute sense — yet I suppose I could undertake to make this stroke at least every other time.
That, however, is not all. The ball after hitting the other must go further on and strike the third ball: or it must drive one of the balls, either the red or the white (good players do not care which) into one of the “pockets,” which lie at the corners and in the sides of the tables: or else it must itself roll on from the ball it strikes and fall into a pocket.
Scores from the red ball count three, and the others two, the points adding up to 100, which is the game. Good players think nothing of reaching the 100 in a single evening, or at any rate quite early in the evening following.
The outline of the game is simple. But when one turns to the question of advice as to movement, strategy, speed, etc., one feels bewildered. It is difficult to say anything to the beginner without warning him that only long and arduous practice can lead to ultimate success.
Let me talk first of that which may be described as strategy, by which I mean the ability to seize opportunity and make use of it. The veteran player before making his shot takes a rapid survey of the entire position. His experienced eye tells him at once in which direction lies the best chance of success.
I can illustrate what I mean by describing an exciting episode in the earlier part of the game with Captain R. of which I am speaking.
It was my time to shoot. The balls were so situated that the red was well out in the table within no great distance from the side pocket on the right. I saw at once that the thing to do was to drive it into the pocket. I tried but failed. My own ball, then drifting near to the red ball, offered to Captain R., as, of course, he saw at once, a direct carom shot. He didn’t get it. The red and white, however, coming to rest nearly in a line, offered me a very pretty example of what we call a “follow” shot. I didn’t make it.
Captain R., seeing that my ball had stopped close to the cushion, at once seized the opportunity for the very showy but gentle shot called a cushion carom. He didn’t do it. But in failing he unfortunately left his own ball in such a position as to offer me a beautiful half-ball shot into the end pocket.
It is a shot regarded by all old hands as the key shot of the game: once get it nicely and the object ball may be returned to its position and the score continue indefinitely. I failed to get it.
By ill luck I left my own ball sitting on the very edge of the pocket, not more than half an inch from the edge. It was in vain for me to hope that the situation would escape my opponent’s eye. Captain R. saw at once the line of play suggested by the position of the ball. But he was too experienced a hand to hurry or bungle the shot. He first walked around the table and with his eye measured the distance from the ball to the edge of his pocket; he then chalked his cue, removed his waistcoat and hung it on the hook, and, with absolute assurance, with one splendid drive at the white ball, sank it to the very bottom of the pocket.
In spite of my mortification I could not help congratulating my adversary, not merely on the stroke itself, which was perfect, but on the strategic insight into the game that led him at once to a shot that others might have passed by.
I have mentioned, in speaking of this shot, the question of speed. I can imagine a junior player asking me, “What about speed? How do you calculate the speed you put on your ball?” To which I can only give; the rather mysterious answer, “I don’t.” What I mean is that a player of experience regulates speed, as it were, automatically and without calculation. I am afraid that the only advice I can give to the beginner on this point is practice, practice, and practice. If I were to try to lay down a rule, I might do more harm than good.
But perhaps one might without risk suggest a few general hints on speed that will be of use to the beginner. In the first place, each player will tend to have his own style and to shoot at a characteristic speed that comes natural to him. Thus Captain R., being French, plays with the characteristic élan and dash of his race, and shoots at about 100 to 150 miles an hour. He is able thus at times to lift or drive his ball clean off the table, and on one occasion, I remember, he even drove it out of the open window of the club.
The beginner might ask, “Why do this? What object is there in driving the ball off the table?” The answer is quite simple. The ball may not go off the table, and suppose that with this high speed by good luck it keeps on the table, then it is bound to make a series of concussions right and left, probably setting all three balls in rapid motion. When the table is quiet again Captain R. need only visit all the pockets in turn to be sure of finding something to his score.
But as against this dashing hazardous type of play, you may set, if you like, the opposite form, the quiet, steady bull-dog game to which those of us who are British naturally incline. Here the speed is reduced to almost zero; the ball, however, moves steadily but irresistibly forward. Nearer and nearer it comes to the object ball. The slow speed guarantees the deadly accuracy of the shot. It moves nearer and nearer over the cloth.
Moving the length of the table (twelve feet) in six seconds, it is only traveling at the rate of one kilometer, five-eighths of a mile, per hour. But its approach, if sufficiently sustained, is absolutely certain. It gets nearer to its goal with every fraction of a second. Unfortunately it doesn’t always get there. It stops too soon. But the bull-dog player has at least the consolation that he was only prevented from scoring by the fact that his ball stopped.
I am frequently asked — I suppose that in these random notes, the order of the discussion doesn’t matter — what is the proper costume to put on for billiards. To which I reply that it is not a question of what costume to put on, but how much to take off.
All players find that it is convenient to take off the coat; without that the movement of the garment itself against the body disturbs the delicacy of the aim. But when the coat is gone the waistcoat begins to give a similar sense of awkwardness and spoils many and many a good shot. Again and again I have missed very simple shots when I was sure that the miss was due entirely to my waistcoat. Off with it. Without it the player is lighter, nimbler, easier in hand and eye.
The braces should go next. At any critical period of a good game the player will feel that he must discard his braces. If he is wise, he will discard also his collar and necktie. Many a good shot, such as those in which the player shoots lying upon the table, is hopelessly disturbed by the movement of his collar against his ears.
It is not customary, in the older clubs, to remove more than this. But players of experience often feel that they could play with greater accuracy and finesse if they were allowed to strip to the waist and have their body well oiled between shots.
I suppose that if I were to keep on yarning like this, some young aspirant to billiard honors would start to ask me about fancy shots and how to do them. For instance, the shot called the massé shot is one that always attracts the beginner, but which only the player of long experience need hope to achieve.
In this shot the ball to be hit with the cue is almost touching another ball. The player then, by holding his cue almost vertically in the air, hits downward with such force as to cut a piece out of the cloth of the table.
It is a neat and effective shot, not really as difficult as it looks, but less suited for performance on a public table than for exhibiting to a group of guests on a private table in the host’s house.
But I fear that my very love of the game has protracted my remarks beyond any reasonable limit. They represent about the current of my thoughts during the course of the game on my anniversary evening. It so happened that just when I had reached the point here indicated in my reflections Captain R. was called from the billiard room of the club to speak on the telephone. The score stood at 96 all.
In an instant I realized my opportunity. Every player knows that it is possible to score better, faster, and with greater certainty when the other man is at the telephone than at any other time. I at once requested the club attendant who was making the score to go and fetch me a cigar.
When he returned along with Captain R. I was fortunate enough to be able to tell them that I had made four and won the game. I have not played billiards for forty years quite for nothing.
The Hero of Home Week
HOW ED SMITH Came Back to Our Home Town
Last week was Old Home Week in the town which I happen to inhabit in the summer. They put it over on a pretty big scale, so as to make a success of it. The town had made a big hit with Mother’s Day just a little before, and with Father’s Day the week after that, and, I believe, there was talk already of a Grandfather’s Afternoon. So, naturally, the committee wanted Home Week to go over well.
They had the town decorated and all that sort of thing: flags across the main street, American, British, Belgian, Japanese, and French — a lot they had left over from the war time — and they had a band in the park for an hour every evening, and something going on all the time. The stores, too, kept wide open so as to make it feel like a holiday.
There were, I understood, a great many who came back to the town for Old Home Week: some who were on the road and generally came home for week-ends, and others who didn’t “make it” more than once a month or so, and others again who had been away for a year, or maybe for two years straight.
But the most noticeable one of the returning sons of the town was Ed Smith, who hadn’t been back home for ten years on end, and hadn’t even seen the place in all that time. Ed had wired from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, “Hope to make town for Old Home Week,” and the local papers, both of them, had carried headlines: “Will Make Town for Old Home Week — Ed Smith Will Hit the Home Trail from Saskatoon, Sask.”
There was talk of a demonstration at the train for Ed. But the boys were mostly in the stores and couldn’t make it. The committee meant to go down in a body and welcome Ed, but none of them were able to get off. However, Ed got a hack at the station and drove to the hotel by himself. He told us that it was the same old hack that he had driven away in ten years ago, and the same driver, too. He said the station looked just about the same, too, the track just where it was, and the platform and everything.
The committee had got up a special luncheon for Ed, that is to say, they all had dinner at the Continental Hotel at noon. (It was quicker than going home. They generally ate dinner there.) And I was present as a sort of guest, with the right to pay for my dinner. As a result, we all ate there and each paid for his own dinner, and Ed sat with us and paid for his. But, of course, Ed was the hero of the occasion and naturally as the dinner got near its end the talk fell on old times, and Ed lit a cigar and began to talk of what he remembered.
“I remember,” he said, “that years ago (most of you fellows wouldn’t remember it) there was a little old frame store down on the corner of West Street — queer-looking, tumble-down place — it’s a pity these little old joints get knocked down — —”
“It’s not knocked down,” said one of the listeners. “It’s right there.”
“Oh, is it?” said Ed. “Well, as I was saying, there used to be a queer old character living in it, called Mulvaney, a real old-timer — you fellows wouldn’t remember him — —”
“Oh, yes, yes,” interrupted three or four of the men, “he’s there still. That’s right. Jim Mulvaney’s still on the corner of West Street.”
“Is he?” Ed said, and he looked for the moment a little set back. “Well, what I was going to say was that in the days I’m speaking of Mulvaney had a dog, the queerest-looking creature you ever saw. It was all brown, except just one ear and that was all white — —”
“He’s got it still,” chorused the crowd all together. “Jim Mulvaney has that dog yet — —”
“Has he? What?” said Ed, evidently a little discouraged. “He has, eh? Well, I’m surprised. I was going to tell you about a darned funny thing that happened one day with that dog when I used to live here. Old Jim used to like to sit out in front of the house on the step with the dog beside him and watch the people go by. And a queer thing about that dog was he never could stand the sight of anything blood-red, just like what they say about a bull. Well, the Chief of Police happened to come along, and as it was a pretty warm evening, darned if he didn’t happen to stop right there and pull out a big red handkerchief and mop his face with it. Well, sir,” continued Ed, beginning to laugh, “as soon as the dog saw this, darned if he didn’t make one leap for the Chief — —”
But this time Ed couldn’t even finish his sentence.
“He bit him again yesterday,” they all interrupted.
“He did!” said Ed. “Well, that’s a caution. But I was going to say this time that I remember he leaped at him from behind, and, say, you’d have laughed to see it, he bit the seat right out of his pants!!”
“So he did yesterday!” cried all the listeners in a chorus.
That quieted Ed down for a little. But naturally after a while he got talking again, speaking of this person and that that he remembered from the old days.
“Poor old Tim Jackson,” he said, “some of you may remember him. He lived in the little cottage with all the flowers in front of it along Centre Street. Poor Tim, he had T.B. pretty bad.” (Ed lowered his voice to a becoming tone.) “I guess he didn’t last much longer. They said he’d die that winter.”
“No,” somebody said quietly. “Tim’s not dead. He’s there still.”
“He’s got over his T.B.?” Ed said.
“No, he has it still.”
“Is that so?” said Ed. “Well, anyway, they said he wouldn’t last through that winter.”
“They say he’ll hardly last this,” somebody said.
There was a little silence for a while. Then Ed began again. But this time, instead of telling stories, he asked questions.
“What became of old Gillespie that had the lumber yard?” he asked.
“He’s got it still,” they said.
“Oh, has he? And where’s old man Samson that kept the hotel down beyond the station?”
“He’s there. He’s keeping it now.”
“And who’s got Ed Bailey’s pool room now?”
“Ed has.”
“Is that so? I remember there used to be an old Swede who used to be the marker at the pool room and sell the cigars — old Heiney, they used to call him — a darned decent old feller. I’d give five dollars to see old Heiney again.”
“I think he’s outside,” said one of the listeners. “I’m sure I saw him as we came in through the lobby. Wait a minute and I’ll see if he’s there.”
“That’s all right,” Ed said. “I’ll see him later.”
After that Ed stopped asking about the people he used to know, and he began instead telling about how he left the town and what happened to him.
“I had it pretty hard for a while,” said Ed, lighting a fresh cigar and sitting well back in his chair as he warmed to his narration. “When I left here I was stone broke and I thought I’d head west and try what I could do. I hit Winnipeg one dark winter morning to find myself absolutely alone and without a cent . . .”
“Say, excuse me, Eddie,” said one of the boys. “I guess I’ll have to be getting back to the store.”
“That’s all right, Jim,” said Ed, and as Jim left he continued, “Well, I thought I’d look around and see where I could borrow five dollars — —”
“Say, I guess I’ll have to be going, too,” said another of the boys, looking at his watch. “You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Ed?”
“Certainly,” said Eddie, “that’s all right, Alf. Well, I remembered a fellow I used to know in Toronto and I managed to find him and he lent me five, and I got on a train and beat it as far as Brandon to work on a farm. At first it was tough — —”
“I’ll say it was!” said one of the listeners. “But, say, Ed, I’ll see you later on, eh? I’ll have to go.”
“That’s all right,” Ed said. “At first it was tough — —”
“I guess I’d better go along with Harry,” said another of the crowd, “so I won’t have to interrupt you any further. So long, Ed.”
“So long, Will,” said Ed. “At first it was tough — —”
“Hold on a second, Ed,” said another man. “I don’t believe I’d better stay either. My time is just about out. Did any of the fellers pay for you, Ed?”
“That’s all right,” Ed said.
When this man had gone, Eddie and I were alone and I let him finish telling me how tough it was to find himself in a place where he had no friends. I thought I could guess it anyway.
After he had finished his reminiscences, Ed rose up. “Let’s take a whirl along the street,” he suggested. “I’d like to look in and see one or two of the old boys. Here’s Mel Rose’s hat store. I must drop in on old Mel. I’ll bet he’ll be surprised.”
We dropped in. The store was full of people. “Mr. Rose in?” asked Ed of one of the shop men. “He’s up in the middle of the store,” the man said.
Mel Rose was standing with a customer, selling a hat. He saw Ed and turned his head slightly. “How are you, Mr. Smith, something in a summer hat? Miss Williams, something in a summer hat, please!”
Just that. As if Ed had only been away a day. He meant no harm. The years is just a day in our town.
We left the store and went into the jeweler’s next door to it. Ed said he wanted badly to see Frank Padden, the jeweler, one of his oldest pals around the town. His idea was that he’d drop in and give Frank the surprise of his life.
Frank shook hands limply over the counter. “How are you, Ed?” he said. “Something in a watch?”
In the next store Ed’s old friend, Pete Williams, said, “Something in a necktie?” and in the store beyond that, Joe Kay, one of the best fellers (so Ed had assured me) that ever breathed, shook hands and queried, “Anything in summer shirting, Ed?”
