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Call The Pocket

All you really need is a basic understanding of physics and a couple of Newton’s Laws bouncing around the back of your brainpan...


I love the game of pool. I love everything about it. I love the thunderous snap, crackle and pop of the cue ball breaking apart the carefully and or debatably-- obsessively placed triangle of stripes and solids in all manner of directions. There’s something that’s automatically onomatopoetically (is that a word?) pleasing about it.


Or is it known as billiards? Some people call it snooker. Wait. Those are three completely different games, you say? I guess my whole life is a lie, then. Billiards honestly sounds like you need to be wearing a smoking jacket at all times, replete with monocle and French cigarette holder in order to even be gained entrance into the most prestigious and auspicious of high-society clubs.


That is before one can even partake in said fancy-pants festivities of such an aforementioned ilk. Technically, billiards came first, but that game doesn’t use pockets. People like pockets. If we didn’t have pockets, then where would people named ‘Polly’ put all their stuff?


And snooker just sounds like an absolute reject of person-- even one too pathetic to walk along the boards of the Jersey Shore. That version’s played on larger tables with smaller pockets, and even smaller balls. Let’s all just collectively pretend that there’s only one version of this game, and it’s called ‘pool’, yeah? Sounds cooler. Pool is cool. Pool Hall still sounds fancy enough for all of them classy billiard folk, anyways. So, it’s a really a win-win any way you slice it.


I love the relative simplicity of the game. It’s either 1 v. 1 or 2 v 2. One side breaks, and whichever ball-type they sink first is the side they’re shooting for. Unless you like playing with a self-inflicted handicap. You go until you get to the Magic 8 Ball. And no, I don’t mean that kind of 8-Ball. Nor do I mean the weird sarcastic toy that probably informed a large part of my sense of humour from an early age. You think you can beat me at my own game?


Yeah, I wouldn’t count on it.


All you really need is a basic understanding of physics, a couple of Newton’s Laws bouncing around the back of your brainpan, and something to do with fairly famished hippos, wonderful earthly pot and... nooses. I dunno, I never really paid much attention in school.


But you can’t just sink the black ball into any pocket. Your game-winning shot must always be preordained. Always. You have to pull a titular and “call the pocket”. This heightens the suspense and raises the stakes of every single game’s climax to an always thrilling finish.


If you do so unfortunately manage to actually sink the 8-ball in a pocket that’s not the one you previously called, well, that's what’s known as a ‘slop’. If you sink the 8-ball in the pocket you called, but the cue ball goes along with it like the way of the ill-fated dodo, that’s the ultimate scratch. The game is a wash, and you lose. Good-day, sir or madame!


Anybody feel like losing their next paycheck? Come at me. Or—at the very least, have the

briefest blinding glimmer of hopeful belief that you can actually win. That’s cute. It really is.


In squaring off against me, there can be no victory.

Mary-Jane



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