Game Room — May 7, 1970
I racked the balls tight, just like I taught him; just like my father taught me. I pointed the number on the black 8-ball straight up, for luck. The varnish on the rack had worn away, leaving light circular thumbprints. He always wanted to rack the balls. I always let him. I felt the place his fingers always touched as I put the rack away.
I circled the table, examining the rack of balls. I traced my fingers around the felt bumpers as I walked. They grazed the spot where we engraved our names. We built the table together. Billiards had always been a family game. Building a billiards table is a major undertaking. It requires so much precision, so much commitment. If the slightest measurement is off — the level, the square — the game suffers. The slightest mistake changes the game.
I positioned the cue ball at the first mark, lined up to the right. I set myself, exhaled, and then struck. I pocketed a stripe. I always took stripes. He wanted solids. He had loved the bright colors ever since I had to hold him up at the table. He had been so excited to build this. All he could talk about was the game. The game excited him. Everything excited him. When I was with him, everything excited me. (more…)