Shut Up and Shoot: A Pool League Rant

Maybe my issue in life is people who don’t take the serious things seriously—and have no room for a joke in everything else. I grew up competitive. Maybe that’s a poor-kid thing, I don’t know. A lot of my old classmates are probably surprised I even grew up.

Whenever I enter a contest—mental, physical, whatever—I do it to win. I don’t play “for the fun of it” or “for the sport” or “for the good time.” Those things might happen if everything goes well, but the goal is the W. The goal is to slaughter your opponent—on the board, at the table, in life.

Now, sure, I’m not in shape for physical contests anymore. My belly sticks out more than I’d like, and I’m too lazy to work out. So I’ve learned to be selective. I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll win a race or outlift anyone. But card games? You betcha. Board games? All in. Pool? Hell yes.

I love pool. Been playing my whole adult life—especially back when I drank. For some reason, society decided it was a great idea to hand drunk people heavy sticks, hard balls, and a platform to settle their beefs. Take away the brawls about whether Billy actually called that pocket, and it’s still a beautiful game.

Every shot matters. Every angle matters. What sets you up best for your next two, maybe three shots? What English should you put on the cue ball? How hard should you hit it? If you think you’ll miss, can you still make a defensive play that leaves you in a good position if you happen to sink it? It’s strategy. Physics. Intuition. There’s always room to grow.

So I joined a local league a couple years ago—to get out of the house, meet people, improve my game. And, like everything I pour my soul into, I went all in: custom carbon fiber McDermott, lizard-skin wrap, “Reaper’s Kiss” engraved in the butt. Not cheap. Not sorry.

I take it seriously. I play to win. I play to improve my decision-making. When I approach the table, I try to see my shot in the first second. I don’t stand there looking confused. I see it, I walk up, I shoot. Bam. Bam. Fucking bam.

But most people aren’t in it for the competition. In fact, I’ll say it flat-out: most are not. Same drunks, same bullshit, different bar. The local stink-and-drink is packed with loudmouths slurring out unsolicited advice like they’re Minnesota Fucking Fats. Walking around with their noses up like God Himself handed them a cue. Yeah, they’re decent players—but there’s a reason they’re in a bar league. Let’s not pretend otherwise.

Then there are the engineers. The analytics types. The shot sloths. They study the table like it’s a NASA launch. Even when the four ball is sitting right there—right fucking there—they circle the table seven times trying to “find an angle on the seven.”

FIVE. MINUTES. PER. SHOT.

It makes the night unbearable. I get bored and try to sneak out for air, but that’s always when they notice. “Grab me a beer,” they yell. “Just stretching my legs,” I mumble, dragging myself back to the table like a war prisoner.

Look—I know I’m not going pro. I’m not delusional. But I love the game. And I want to get a little better every time I play. But I also want to go home. I have work in the morning. We’ve got twenty-five games to play, and I’d like to finish before I hit retirement age.

So to the sloths: Hurry the fuck up.

To the drunk “pros”: If I want advice, I’ll ask for it.

And to everyone else:
Shut the fuck up—I’m trying to have fun here. 😉