Chalk Dust and Butterflies

Saturday dawned crisp and clear, the kind of bright autumn morning that felt full of possibilities. For Kaizer, however, sleeping had been a fitful exercise, his mind buzzing with a mixture of nervous anticipation for the tournament and the phantom feel of the new McDermott cue in his hands. He woke before his alarm, the internal clock honed by decades of tournament mornings kicking in automatically. Today wasn't just another Saturday; it was game day. His first official competition in nearly thirty years, played in a body forty-eight years younger than the last time he'd felt this specific pre-tournament jitter.

He swung out of bed, the usual morning aches thankfully absent, replaced instead by a low thrum of adrenaline. His eyes immediately went to the corner where the black cue case leaned against the wall. The McDermott D-17. His weapon. Acquired through a combination of luck, nerve, accounting drudgery, and a near-disastrous detour into the world he'd sworn to leave behind. Just looking at the case solidified his resolve. Today was about the game, played legitimately, under the lights (however dim) of Rack 'em Up Billiards.

Getting ready felt like a ritual rediscovered. He chose his clothes carefully – not the faded band shirts he wore to school, but a simple, dark polo shirt and less baggy jeans. Look professional, feel professional, play professional – even if the stakes were comparatively tiny and the venue was a suburban pool hall. He carefully assembled the McDermott, feeling the smooth, solid connection of the joint, the comfortable weight, the perfect straightness of the shaft. He took a few slow practice strokes in the cramped space of his room, trying to imprint the feel, the balance, into his muscle memory. It felt good. Really good. But undeniably unfamiliar. Every cue had its own personality, its own subtle flex and feedback. Going into a tournament with zero actual table time on a new cue was madness. But it was the madness he was stuck with.

Breakfast was a tense affair. His parents were already in the kitchen. His father, Tom, was reading the newspaper, but Kaizer felt his gaze flick over him as he entered. His mother, Sarah, immediately zeroed in on the cue case Kaizer carried.

"Kaizer? What is that?" Sarah asked, her brow furrowing with concern. "And where are you going dressed like… like that?"

"It's… uh… the pool tournament, Mom," Kaizer mumbled, bracing himself. "Down at Rack 'em Up. I signed up, remember?" (He hadn't explicitly told them he signed up, only that he'd checked out the flyer and later secured the job.)

"The tournament?" Tom lowered his newspaper, his expression instantly hardening. "I thought we discussed your spending time at that place. And now a tournament? Involving gambling, I presume?"

"No, Dad, it's not like that!" Kaizer insisted, trying to keep his voice calm. This was the conversation he'd dreaded. "It's a junior tournament. Organized. Entry fee, prizes, rules. Like… like a school sport, kinda." He knew the comparison was weak, but he hoped the structure might appeal to his father's sense of order. "And I paid the entry fee with money I earned helping you and doing yard work." He made sure to emphasize the legitimate sources, conveniently omitting the fifty dollars won off Vince.

Tom looked skeptical, his eyes narrowing. "A tournament. For pool." He said the word 'pool' like it tasted foul.

Sarah intervened gently. "Tom, he did earn that money helping you. And Mel, down at the hall, even gave him a part-time job starting next week." She turned to Kaizer. "He seems determined, honey. Maybe… maybe it's just a hobby?"

Kaizer seized on the opening. "Yeah, Dad. Just a hobby. Something to try. It's organized, not like… hanging out." He held his breath, waiting for the verdict. He needed to leave soon; the tournament started at ten sharp.

Tom stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "Fine," he conceded, sounding utterly defeated rather than approving. "Go play your… game. But don't come crying to me if you lose all your money or get mixed up with the wrong crowd down there. And don't let it interfere with schoolwork or your chores. Or helping me," he added pointedly, gesturing towards the still-present piles of Henderson Realty paperwork.

"I won't, Dad. Promise," Kaizer said quickly, relief washing over him. It wasn't approval, not even close. But it wasn't a prohibition either. He'd take it. "Gotta go, don't want to be late." He grabbed a piece of toast, mumbled a goodbye, and practically fled the house before his father could change his mind.

The walk to Rack 'em Up felt different today. The air buzzed with more energy than a typical Saturday morning. More cars were parked along the street near the hall, more bikes leaned against the wall. As he got closer, he could see kids his age, some younger, some slightly older, milling around outside, carrying cue cases, their faces a mixture of excitement and nervousness. The tournament buzz was real.

He pushed through the door, the jingle lost in the louder-than-usual hum of conversation and the clatter of balls. The hall was packed. Mel had clearly cleared most of the tables, setting them up specifically for tournament play. A makeshift tournament board – a large sheet of poster board with handwritten brackets – was taped to the wall near the counter. A slightly stressed-looking guy Kaizer didn't recognize seemed to be acting as the tournament director, checking players in off a list.

Kaizer scanned the room. He saw Spike and Tank near the back, looking unusually subdued, perhaps intimidated by the larger crowd and the organized setting. He saw other familiar faces from school, kids he knew played casually, looking wide-eyed and out of their depth. And then he saw Jesse Riley.

Jesse stood alone near one of the back tables, calmly assembling a sleek, dark cue that looked significantly more expensive than Kaizer's new McDermott. He wasn't talking to anyone, just focusing on his equipment, radiating an aura of quiet, intense concentration. He looked like he belonged here, like this was his natural environment. Seeing him again solidified the challenge ahead.

Kaizer made his way through the crowd towards the check-in table. Mel stood nearby, overseeing everything with his usual grim expression, occasionally barking instructions at the tournament director.

"Name?" the director asked Kaizer without looking up, pen poised over the checklist.

"Kaizer Saint," Kaizer replied.

The director found his name, checked it off. "Alright, Saint. You're paid up. Rules meeting in five minutes by the board. First-round matches start right after. Find your spot on the bracket."

Kaizer nodded and moved towards the large poster board. He scanned the hastily drawn brackets. It looked like a standard double-elimination format. He found his name – KAIZER SAINT – near the middle of the winner's bracket. His first-round opponent: SPIKE JENKINS.

Kaizer almost laughed out loud. Of course. Fate, it seemed, had a sense of irony. His first official tournament match in this new life, with his new cue, would be against the first kid he'd schooled upon his return, the one who still clung to the idea that Kaizer had just gotten lucky. Couldn't ask for a better warm-up, or a better chance to make an early statement.

He saw Spike craning his neck to see the bracket from across the room. Spike's eyes widened slightly when he saw their pairing, then narrowed into his familiar sneer. He muttered something to Tank, who just shrugged.

The tournament director called everyone over for the rules meeting – standard nine-ball rules, lag for the break, race to five games for early rounds, double elimination, sportsmanship reminders. Kaizer listened, but his mind was already focused on the first match, on the feel of the new cue under pressure.

After the brief meeting, players dispersed to their assigned tables. "Saint! Jenkins! Table four!" the director called out.

Kaizer picked up his cue case, his stomach doing a familiar flip-flop – the pre-match butterflies he hadn't felt in decades, yet recognized instantly. He walked towards Table 4, weaving through the crowded room. Spike was already there, impatiently tapping his cue on the floor.

"Ready to lose that entry fee back, Saint?" Spike greeted him, trying to project confidence but sounding slightly strained. The presence of the larger crowd, the official setting, seemed to have dampened his usual bluster.

"Let's lag for it," Kaizer replied calmly, unscrewing the McDermott, assembling it with deliberate care. He took a practice stroke. The cue felt solid, alive in his hands. Different, but good. He could work with this.

They lagged – shooting a ball from the head string to the foot rail and back, closest to the head rail wins the break. Kaizer's stroke felt smooth, controlled despite the unfamiliar cue. His ball kissed the foot rail and rolled back perfectly, stopping barely an inch from the head rail. Spike, perhaps unnerved, hit his lag shot too hard; his ball bounced off the foot rail erratically and stopped several inches away.

"Your break," Spike conceded grudgingly.

Kaizer nodded, retrieving the cue ball. He walked to the head of the table, placing the ball carefully behind the head string. He surveyed the fresh rack of balls, gleaming under the overhead table light. The noise of the surrounding tournament faded into a dull roar. It was just him, the table, the balls, and the cue. His first official break shot in thirty years. His first shot with the McDermott D-17. His first step back onto the path he was born to walk.

He settled into his stance, feeling the familiar alignment, the connection to the floor, the table, the geometry of the game. He drew the cue back smoothly, sighted his contact point, and accelerated through the ball, pouring decades of knowledge and muscle memory into this single, crucial strike.

CRACK!

The sound was crisp, solid, authoritative – completely different from the breaks he'd made with the cheap house cues. The McDermott delivered the energy beautifully. Balls scattered across the green felt like breaking fireworks.