Gathering around the pool table in my grandfather’s store was a Sunday event as regular as sitting in the back pew of the First Baptist Church of Summerlee, waiting for the preacher to wrap up service. On Sunday afternoons, the neighborhood men, mostly retired coal miners and construction workers, would drop by the store for a beer and a game. I can remember being 7 or 8 years old and up on my toes, watching the balls careen across the table’s worn felt. The crack of the cue ball took me to a place where I made my own decisions, where strategy was key.
Because I had to put most of my money in the church collection plate, I’d wander the roads of Summerlee snatching up soda bottles to exchange for nickels and dimes, earning enough to slap a quarter on the table when I wanted to play. Sometimes the fellows would pull a stool up to the table so I could get a boost and a better angle with my stick. I usually lost; at least I did then. I grew, however, to become a fairly sharp player, good enough to get me through a night out in college without having to pay for a single beer.
One of the pool shots in my arsenal was the draw-spin. It was my favorite, and I’d use it when I wanted to back up the ball or position it in a different manner. I loved seeing the ball spin backwards; it was like magic. It was a shot I mastered as a kid when all the guys had gone home and there were two or three balls left on the table.
That’s why I got such a thrill out of seeing Jack Nicklaus pull this move on a green. I was running downstairs to grab a baseball glove when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw his ball spin backwards. I don’t know why the TV was turned to golf (I hated golf on TV because I always thought it was bumping a good baseball game) or what tournament Jack was playing in, but it instantly grabbed my attention. I stopped in my tracks and, for the first time in my young life, actually watched golf on TV. It was a striking sight that reminded me of trying trick shots on my grandfather’s pool table.
