The Gravity of the Green

The sharp clack of Jake Miller pocketing the one-ball echoed Kaizer's internal compromise. He watched, leaning against the cool concrete, as Jake smoothly transitioned to the two-ball. Unlike Spike, Jake's movements were economical, his eyes constantly scanning not just the object ball, but the entire layout, calculating three or four shots ahead. He wasn't just trying to make balls; he was trying to control the table. Kaizer recognized the mindset immediately – it was a less refined version of his own approach. This kid had potential. Or at least, he wasn't a complete hack like Spike.

Jake dispatched the two-ball cleanly, leaving himself a good angle on the four (the three having been pocketed on the break). He paused, chalking his cue with deliberate slowness, surveying the table. The five was near the head rail, the six partially obscured by the eight near a side pocket, the seven easily available after the five, and the nine sat patiently near a corner. It wasn't a guaranteed run-out, but it was makeable for a solid player.

"Playing nice tonight, Jakey?" someone called out from the small cluster of onlookers near the garage entrance.

Jake offered a confident smirk without looking up. "Just getting warmed up. Gotta see what Pool Boy here is really made of." He bent down, sighted the four-ball, and executed a smooth stop shot, pocketing the four and leaving the cue ball perfectly placed for the five near the head rail. Clean. Controlled.

Kaizer felt a grudging respect mingle with the rising tide of his own competitive instinct. This wasn't going to be a walkover. Jake wasn't just relying on power or luck; he had fundamentals, positional awareness. Playing him on this bumpy table with a warped house cue required focus. The easy confidence Kaizer felt against Spike evaporated, replaced by the familiar, laser-like concentration needed for a real match.

Jake pocketed the five easily. Now came the crucial sequence: getting shape on the six, which was partially blocked. A simple shot on the seven waited afterwards, but navigating from the five to the six, then the six to the seven, was the key to the rack. Jake studied the angle, considering his options. He could try to draw the cue ball back dramatically, risking the eight-ball interference, or play it with topspin, letting it bounce off the head rail and hopefully drift into position for the six.

He chose the topspin route, hitting the five with authority. Clack. Thump. The five dropped. The cue ball kissed the head rail, bounced off… and rolled about six inches further than intended, leaving him thin on the six, with the obstructing eight still very much in play. Not disastrous, but definitely not ideal.

A low murmur went through the small crowd. Jake frowned, nudging the brim of his cap slightly. He'd overhit it, misjudged the speed of the table or the reaction off the rail. He now faced a tricky cut on the six, needing pinpoint accuracy to avoid hitting the eight and precise speed control to get shape on the seven.

He took his time, visibly calculating. This was where pressure separated the good players from the merely decent. Could he execute under scrutiny? He leaned down, focused, and stroked.

Click. The six-ball caught the edge of the pocket… and rattled out, spinning agonizingly before coming to rest inches away. The cue ball, meanwhile, deflected off the eight and rolled towards the center of the table. A collective groan came from Jake's immediate friends.

"Tough break, Jakey!" someone yelled, though it sounded more like heckling than sympathy.

Jake straightened up slowly, his jaw tight. He'd had the run-out laid out for him and choked on the key shot. He looked over at Kaizer, his expression a mixture of frustration and challenge. "Table's yours, Kaizer. Don't screw it up." He stepped back, trying to project nonchalance, but the missed six clearly stung.

Kaizer pushed off the wall, the warped cue feeling slightly more familiar now. He surveyed the table. Six, seven, eight, nine remained. The six was sitting right near the pocket it had just rattled out of – a hanger. The seven was open. The eight wasn't difficult. The nine was near its pocket. An easy clean-up.

But Kaizer wasn't just thinking about cleaning up. He was thinking about the hundred-dollar McDermott cue. About the tournament. About the look on Jake's face. He needed not just to win, but to win decisively. To re-establish the dominance he'd felt slipping away as Jake ran the first few balls.

He pocketed the six effortlessly. Then, instead of just playing simple position for the seven, he decided to add a little flourish – a subtle demonstration. He hit the cue ball slightly lower than center, pocketing the seven while drawing the cue ball back across the table, making it kiss the side rail gently and roll perfectly into line for the eight-ball, positioned across the table. It was unnecessary, showy even, but perfectly executed.

A low whistle came from someone in the crowd. Jake's eyes narrowed slightly, recognizing the deliberate display of superior cue ball control. Spike just scowled deeper in the shadows. Tank watched, his expression unchanging but his focus absolute.

Kaizer calmly pocketed the eight, leaving the cue ball sitting almost perfectly straight-in on the nine. He could have tapped it in and collected his ten dollars. That would make thirty-five dollars total. Still a long way from the $125 he needed.

He paused, looking at Jake. Then at the ten dollars lying on the edge of the table next to Jake's contribution. The memory of his sixty-three-year-old self, playing for fifty grand under the harsh lights of the 'Midnight Cue', flashed through his mind. The pressure, the stakes, the sheer need to win. It felt distant, yet intimately familiar. This ten-dollar game felt simultaneously trivial and monumentally important.

"Double or nothing on the next game?" Kaizer asked quietly, his voice cutting through the garage's low hum. He hadn't even sunk the nine yet. He was calling the next game before finishing the current one. A classic hustler's move – press the advantage when your opponent is reeling.

Jake blinked, taken aback. Then a slow, competitive fire lit in his eyes. He glanced at his friends, then back at Kaizer. He couldn't back down now, not after missing the run-out, not in front of everyone. "You haven't even made the nine yet," Jake countered, trying to regain some control.

Kaizer smiled faintly. He leaned down, sighted the nine-ball – a shot a child could make – and stroked it gently. Clack. Thump. The nine disappeared. He straightened up. "I have now. Double or nothing? Twenty bucks on the next game?"

Jake hesitated for only a second before nodding curtly. "You got it. Twenty bucks. My break again." He clearly believed his break was an advantage, and perhaps felt Kaizer's win was partly due to his own error on the six-ball.

Kaizer scooped up the twenty dollars from the table – his initial ten back, plus Jake's ten. He now held thirty-five dollars. If he won the next game, he'd have fifty-five. Getting closer. He placed a twenty-dollar bill back on the rail. The stakes had escalated. The promise he'd made to himself felt like a distant memory, drowned out by the immediate, intoxicating gravity of the green felt.

As Jake racked the balls with renewed intensity, Kaizer noticed a couple of side bets starting up amongst the onlookers. Whispered words, nodding heads, crumpled bills discreetly changing hands. They were betting on him versus Jake. The atmosphere in the garage grew thicker, charged with anticipation. This wasn't just a casual game anymore; it was becoming a spectacle.

He leaned back against the wall, trying to regain some semblance of the detached calm he cultivated in his prime. But it was harder now. The youthful body hummed with an energy, an eagerness, that his older self had learned to suppress. The desire to win, to dominate, felt sharper, less tempered by weary experience. He recognized the danger signs – the quickening pulse, the slight tunnel vision focusing only on the table, the rationalizations whispering that this was necessary, that the ends justified the means.

Jake broke again, another powerful, controlled crack. This time, two balls dropped – the one and the five. The cue ball came to rest near the center, offering a shot at the two. A commanding start. Jake looked focused, determined not to make the same mistake twice.

He ran the two, three, and four with precision, his earlier error seemingly forgotten. He navigated a slightly tricky position on the six, executing it flawlessly this time, landing perfectly on the seven. The garage was quiet now, everyone watching Jake methodically dismantle the rack. Seven... Eight... Only the nine remained. Jake had played a near-perfect game, leaving Kaizer frozen against the wall, never getting a chance to shoot.

Jake lined up the nine-ball, a simple shot near the corner. He glanced over at Kaizer, a triumphant smirk returning to his face. "Looks like that 'luck' might be running out after all, Pool Boy," he quipped, before stroking the nine firmly into the pocket. Thump.

Kaizer watched the ball disappear. He'd lost the twenty dollars. His total was back down to fifteen. The quick progress he'd imagined had vanished instantly. The sting of the loss was surprisingly sharp. He hadn't just lost the money; he'd lost momentum, lost the psychological edge.

Jake collected the twenty dollars from the rail, adding it to his own stash. He looked emboldened, vindicated. "My break again?" he asked, the question rhetorical. "Or you had enough 'warm-up'?"

Kaizer pushed himself off the wall. Backing down now, after losing, was unthinkable. It would confirm every doubt, every sneer. And he needed the money. The McDermott cue felt further away than ever.

"Your break," Kaizer said, his voice tight. He pulled out his remaining fifteen dollars, placing a ten-dollar bill back on the rail. He couldn't afford to play for twenty again immediately. He had to claw his way back.

Jake nodded, clearly enjoying Kaizer's predicament. As he racked, Kaizer tried to steady his breathing. Losing was part of the game, he told himself. Even the greats lost racks, lost sessions. The key was how you responded. Shake it off. Focus. Play your game.

But the pressure felt different now. It wasn't just about winning; it was about recovering. About not letting this setback spiral. The slippery slope he'd feared felt steeper, closer. One more loss, and he'd be wiped out, unable to even afford the basic cue at Mel's, let alone the tournament entry or the McDermott.

The digital world, GhostCue, the BBSes – they felt like a different universe, slow and intangible compared to the immediate, high-stakes reality of Benny's garage. Mark Jessop's probing question, hanging unanswered in cyberspace, was the furthest thing from Kaizer's mind. All that mattered now was the table, the balls, and the ten dollars sitting precariously on the rail – the last barrier between his ambition and utter failure in this reclaimed past. The gravity of the green felt heavier than ever.