The movie The Color of Money came out when I was 5 years old.
Because my father was a big USA/TNT channel watcher in the 90’s, I ended up watching it.
At the time, all I could see what the pool playing, something I had been doing in pool halls in Manhattan with my Dad around the age of 7-8 years old.
At that time, I was a bit of a prodigy; this young kid with a father who was a regular shark himself in the little pools around the Manhattan area.
He taught me everything.
At the age of 9-10 years old, I was beating seasoned league players around the city in games, not understanding what I had, what I was in relationship to these players, and having a father who, though saying ‘I love you’ was like pulling teeth, absolutely relished with pride, sitting back at his stool and watch this kid of his he never wanted absolutely wreck his peers at the game they’d been playing their whole lives.
It was as proud as I think I ever knew him to be of me.
As I’m going through this transitional time, the attached video popped up in my feed – by arguably one of my favorite modern author, Palahnuik, McCarthy, and Crichton be damned.
It inspired me to download and watch The Color of Money for the first time as an adult this evening.
It rekindled something.
When my father passed now three years ago, I inherited what little he had, post-stroke and paralysis – some tools, some creditors hounding his estate, an old beat-up motorcycle, and, unbeknownst to me that it was going to become a prized possession of mine from the man who was reluctantly my father and unable to show any sort of authentic love – his pool cues.
I had, one night, casually tossed his cues into the back of my car and gone to play pool. While I was there, I was stopped three different times by various players of different ages. They wanted to see what sticks I was playing with, as they were aged and unique.
What I didn’t know and learned from these various folks was that these cues are some of the highest-value collectors items amongst the pool-playing elite, identifying them as something more than I ever realized; something special, beautiful – not to be played with, but belonging on a wall, displayed with the fine china and any other generational family heirlooms to be appreciated by looking through glass and not touching.
I had no idea.
I also refuse to put them on a shelf.
These are the implements of my early education in the smokey pool halls of Manhattan, and now, inherited, will be once again put into service for the love of the game and in honor of one of the few things my father was ever visibly proud of, having inferred his knowledge, but leaving me to use my innate talents to elevate my game.
It’s crazy where inspiration will come from – this time being my favorite author by proxy, introduced to me under his pen name ‘James Wong’ when he worked at Cracked.com and now going by given nom de plume.
It’s time to revitalize my love of the game, knock the rust off, and do something with it. Jake got a small taste of the latent skill lying dormant under the surface about 5 or so years back, and every time I’ve played since, it’s been like riding a bicycle; it all comes back in a few warm-up games, unless alcohol and the distraction of beautiful women pull me out of the zone.
I don’t have either of those distractions anymore.
Paul Newman was and is an inspiration this evening. I don’t know what comes of it, but I have the cues next to my bed now, and will strive for some sort of excellence I’ve long forgotten.
I don’t know what the climb from rock bottom is going to look like, and there may be several of these posts as I work on trying to find my niches, but may this be the first.