Locking It Down and Looking Ahead

The weight of the one hundred dollars, tucked securely in the inner pocket of his backpack (he didn't trust leaving it loose in his jeans or hiding it in his messy teenage room), felt like both an anchor and a set of wings as Kaizer navigated Wednesday at Northwood High. The anchor was the knowledge that it was done – the desperate scramble, the dangerous gamble, the tedious sorting – it had yielded the necessary funds. The wings were the burgeoning anticipation of finally holding a real cue again, the McDermott D-17, the tool he needed to truly start reclaiming his game.

School passed in even more of a haze than usual. Equations on the blackboard morphed into positional patterns; historical dates blurred into tournament schedules from his past life. His mind was already leaping ahead: arranging the pickup with PoolShark88, getting the feel of the new cue, figuring out how to squeeze in meaningful practice time around school, his new job for Mel, and the ongoing accounting drudgery for his father (who, true to his word, had another box waiting for Kaizer when he got home Tuesday night, though the interaction remained surprisingly civil).

He saw Mark Jessop at lunch. Their exchange was brief, almost stilted.

"Hey," Mark offered, pushing food around his tray.

"Hey," Kaizer replied, sitting down.

They ate in silence for a few moments before Mark asked, "So, still planning on that tournament Saturday?"

"Yeah, definitely," Kaizer confirmed.

"Cool," Mark said, nodding slowly. "You, uh… get that cue you were needing?"

The question was casual, but Kaizer felt the probe beneath it. How much did Mark know or guess? Had the rumors about Benny's garage reached him? "Working on it," Kaizer said evasively, not wanting to reveal the exact status or the source of his funds. "Should have something decent by Saturday."

Mark just nodded again, seemingly accepting the vague answer, and turned the conversation to a new computer game magazine he'd bought. Kaizer felt the familiar pang of guilt at the distance, the secrets, but relief quickly followed. Mark wasn't pushing, at least not today. The GhostCue incident remained an unspoken tension between them, but for now, an uneasy truce held.

The moment he got home from school, Kaizer bypassed his waiting accounting homework (another box of Henderson Realty's chaos) and went straight for the Packard Bell. The modem shrieked its connection song, and he eagerly logged into 'The Phreak Zone'. A new message from PoolShark88 was waiting.

FROM: PoolShark88

DATE: 10/11/95 (Wednesday Afternoon)

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Cue Pickup Timing/Payment

GhostCue - Cash on pickup is perfectly fine, no worries about a deposit. Friday evening works for me, I should be home after 6 PM. Saturday afternoon is also possible before 2 PM if that's better? Let me know which day/approx time you're thinking so I don't make other plans. Looking forward to putting a face to the handle!

Kaizer grinned. Perfect. Cash on pickup. Friday evening. That was the optimal scenario. It meant he could potentially pick up the cue Friday after school (a bus ride to Edgewater and back would take time), have that evening to get the feel of it, maybe even find an hour for late-night stroke practice in his room, and then walk into the tournament Saturday morning properly equipped. Saturday pickup felt too risky, cutting it too close to the tournament start time.

He quickly typed his reply, locking it down:

TO: PoolShark88

FROM: GhostCue

DATE: 10/11/95 (Wednesday Evening)

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Cue Pickup Timing/Payment

PoolShark88 - Excellent, thanks for the flexibility. Cash on pickup it is. Friday evening works best for me. Planning to head over right after school lets out, so depending on bus times, probably aiming to get to Edgewater around 6:30 or 7:00 PM? Will confirm closer to Friday if that's okay. Really appreciate it.

-GC

He hit send, feeling a profound sense of accomplishment. The final logistical piece was falling into place. Barring any unforeseen disasters (like PoolShark88 recognizing him as definitely not the seasoned expert his online persona suggested), he would have the McDermott D-17 in his hands in just over forty-eight hours.

With the cue situation seemingly resolved, his focus shifted entirely to the gaping hole in his preparation: practice. His brief tryout shift for Mel yesterday hadn't offered any real playing time, just the tantalizing hint that Table 6 might be available during slow periods. His next shift wasn't until tomorrow, Thursday afternoon. Could he afford to wait that long to hit actual balls?

The tournament was Saturday. Today was Wednesday. That left Thursday and Friday. Two days. It wasn't nearly enough time to fully recalibrate his game, especially with a new (to him) cue arriving Friday evening. But it was better than nothing.

He needed table time. He considered going to Rack 'em Up tonight, paying Mel for an hour out of the cue money he'd so painstakingly earned. But the thought felt wrong, counterproductive. He needed that hundred dollars intact for PoolShark88. And showing up to just rent a table might seem odd to Mel after securing the job.

No, he had to rely on Mel's conditional offer. Table 6. During slow times. Tomorrow's shift, Thursday from 3 PM onwards, was his best bet. He visualized the layout of Rack 'em Up. Thursday afternoons could be hit or miss – sometimes dead quiet after the initial after-school wave, other times picking up early with league players warming up. He'd have to hope for a lull. And he'd have to be discreet. Mel's permission felt tenuous; Kaizer didn't want to abuse it by looking like he was slacking on his cleaning duties the moment he got a chance to play.

Frustrated by the lack of immediate practice options, he retreated to the familiar comfort of mental rehearsal and physical drilling in his room. He pulled out his cheap maple cue, the one that felt like a flimsy twig compared to the imagined solidity of the McDermott. He cleared space again, assuming his stance, focusing on the fundamentals.

Bridge stability. Pendulum swing. Level cue delivery. Follow-through.

He ran through drills in his mind, visualizing the cue ball striking object balls at precise points, imparting specific spins, traveling predictable paths. He worked on his pre-shot routine, trying to recapture the unshakeable focus he'd possessed in his prime. See the shot. Feel the shot. Execute the shot. Repeat.

He pictured Table 6 at Rack 'em Up – the slight roll near the side pocket, the faster rebound off the head rail Mel had recently refelted. He visualized setting up balls for specific practice scenarios: tricky banks, long draw shots, delicate safety plays, the jump shot he'd miraculously pulled off against Jake (though he had no intention of practicing that with his own cue or Mel's equipment).

He even started thinking about Jesse Riley. What kind of game would Dave Riley's son play? Dave had been a solid, strategic player, great under pressure but lacking that top-tier killer instinct or creative flair. Would Jesse be similar? Or would he have inherited something more? Kaizer knew he couldn't afford to underestimate him. Showing up rusty or ill-equipped against a focused, talented opponent like Jesse was a recipe for early elimination, regardless of Kaizer's own latent genius.

The mental practice helped, focusing his energy, sharpening his resolve. But it couldn't replace the real thing – the feel of the cue striking the ball, the sound of impact, the visual feedback of the balls rolling across the felt. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough. His shift at Rack 'em Up, his potential access to Table 6, felt less like a chore and more like a vital training opportunity.

He finally put the cue away and turned, reluctantly, to the waiting box of Henderson Realty invoices his father expected him to tackle. The contrast was almost comical – from visualizing world championship shots to deciphering faded billing codes. But this, too, was part of the process. Earning his keep, maintaining the fragile truce with his father, building the foundation for this second chance, one sorted invoice, one swept floor, one practiced stroke at a time. The grind continued, but now, with the cue almost secured, the ultimate goal felt brighter, closer, more real than ever before.