Final Break, First Shot
The stale air of the 'Midnight Cue' tournament hall tasted like chalk dust, cheap beer, and desperation. It was a taste Kaizer Saint knew better than his own mother's cooking. Sixty-three years old, his back a roadmap of chronic pain, his hands knotted with arthritis, yet here he was. Under the harsh glare of the single bulb hanging over the championship table, he leaned down, his eyes – still sharp, still calculating – tracing pathways only he could see.
This was it. The final match of the 'Legends Last Stand' tournament. A ridiculous name for a gathering of has-beens and never-weres clinging to the felt like moss to a damp stone. But the pot was fifty thousand dollars, money Kaizer desperately needed. More than that, it was about pride. About proving, one last time, that the 'Saint of the Side Pocket', the man they once whispered about in awe, still had the magic.
His opponent, 'Fast' Eddie Carmichael – younger, flashier, all power and no finesse – had left him dirty. The cue ball was tucked tight behind the eight, the nine-ball – his winning ball – seemingly unreachable on the far rail. A safety was the smart play. The only play, for anyone else.
But Kaizer wasn't anyone else. He was the man who saw ghosts on the green felt, who could bend physics with a whisper of side-spin. He remembered a lifetime ago, watching Efren 'Bata' Reyes pull off miracles, and feeling a kinship, a spark of understanding. It wasn't just about hitting the ball; it was about knowing it.
He chalked his worn cue, the smooth, repetitive motion a calming ritual honed over fifty years. He ignored the tremor in his left hand, the dull ache radiating from his shoulder. He saw the shot. A three-rail kick, kissing the cue ball off the second diamond, catching the nine just thin enough to send it crawling towards the corner pocket. A shot with a margin of error thinner than a human hair. A Kaizer Saint special.
He drew back the cue, slow and deliberate. The crowd held its breath. Fast Eddie smirked, already counting his winnings. Kaizer focused, pouring every ounce of his remaining skill, his decades of experience, into this single stroke.
The thwack of the cue tip hitting the ball was crisp, perfect.
The cue ball danced across the table, a white phantom obeying its master's will. First rail. Second rail. It kissed the nine…
Agony.
Not the agony of missing the shot – the cue ball was tracking perfectly, the nine nudging gently towards the pocket – but a searing, blinding pain exploding in his chest. It felt like a hot poker stabbing through his ribs, stealing his breath.
His vision blurred. The roar of the crowd sounded distant, warped. He saw the nine-ball pause, agonizingly, on the lip of the corner pocket… and then drop. Victory.
But Kaizer couldn't savor it. He stumbled back, clutching his chest. The world tilted, the green felt swirling into the grimy ceiling lights. His cue clattered to the floor. Figures rushed towards him, shouting.
Regrets… The thought flashed through his collapsing consciousness. Should have spent more time with Maria… Should have taught the kid… Should have taken that offer in '88… Should have…
Then, only darkness. Cold, empty, silent.
A groan escaped lips that felt unfamiliar – too smooth, too young.
Kaizer's eyes snapped open.
Sunlight streamed through a gap in cheap, faded curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He wasn't in the 'Midnight Cue'. He wasn't on a cold, linoleum floor surrounded by panicked onlookers.
He was in… his childhood bedroom?
The garish band posters on the wall – 'Guns N' Roses', 'Nirvana' – were ones he hadn't seen in forty years. The small, cluttered desk with its clunky CRT monitor, the worn bookshelf filled with dog-eared fantasy novels and pool technique pamphlets he'd devoured as a kid. The smell… cheap wood polish and the faint scent of the laundry detergent his mother used back then.
Panic gave way to utter confusion. He sat up, expecting the usual symphony of creaks and pops from his aged joints. Nothing. He felt… light. Wiry. He looked down at his hands. Smooth skin, unblemished by age spots or the calluses built over decades. These were the hands of a teenager.
He swung his legs out of the surprisingly narrow bed, his bare feet landing on the worn shag carpet. He stood up easily, no back pain, no knee twinges. He felt a surge of energy, a vitality he'd long forgotten.
Stumbling towards the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the closet door, he braced himself.
Staring back wasn't the grizzled, sixty-three-year-old pool shark with tired eyes and thinning grey hair. Staring back was… him. But young. Fifteen, maybe sixteen? Awkwardly thin, a mop of unruly dark hair falling over his forehead, eyes wide with disbelief but holding an unnerving, ancient spark. His face was clear, unlined, full of the potential he'd both fulfilled and squandered.
"No… no way," he whispered, his voice higher, cracking slightly. It was his teenage voice.
He rushed to the desk, rummaging through papers. A school planner. He flipped it open. The date printed at the top: September 12th, 1995.
Nineteen ninety-five. He had gone back nearly thirty years.
The heart attack… had it somehow sent him back? Was this a dream? Purgatory? A second chance?
His heart hammered in his chest – a young, strong heart. He leaned against the desk, breathing heavily. The implications crashed down on him. He was back. Before the big wins, before the crushing losses. Before the bad decisions, the missed opportunities, the slow decline. Before Maria left. Before he alienated his son.
He had the body of a teenager, but the mind, the knowledge, the feel of Kaizer Saint, the pool legend.
A fierce grin spread across his young face, unsettlingly predatory.
He knew exactly what he needed to do first.
He scrambled to his closet, pushing aside clothes that smelled faintly of teen spirit and cheap cologne. There, in the back corner, leaning against the wall, was his first real cue. A simple, unadorned maple cue his dad had bought him for his fifteenth birthday. Not a high-end stick, but it was straight and true.
He picked it up. The weight felt familiar, an extension of his soul. His young fingers wrapped around the grip, muscle memory from a lifetime ago merging with the sharp recall of the old man he'd been just moments – or a lifetime – ago.
He needed a table. Now.
He threw on jeans and a faded t-shirt, pocketed the few crumpled bills he found in a jar on his desk, grabbed the cue, and practically bolted out of the room. He needed to feel the click of the balls, the slide of the shaft through his fingers. He needed to know if the magic, the ghost stroke, had come back with him.
His old haunt, 'Rack 'em Up' Billiards, was only a few blocks away. His steps were light, impossibly energetic. The world felt vibrant, loud, full of possibilities he hadn't appreciated the first time around.
This wasn't just a second chance at life. It was a second chance at pool. And this time, Kaizer Saint wouldn't just be a legend. He'd be undeniable.