Feeling Out the Wood

The solid CRACK of the McDermott cue striking the cue ball echoed with satisfying authority through the crowded hall. Kaizer held his follow-through for a beat, watching the explosion of color on the green felt. Balls scattered beautifully, far better than any break he'd managed with the house cues or his cheap maple stick. He felt the energy transfer – smooth, powerful, controlled – humming back up the shaft into his hand. This cue… this cue was alive.

His eyes tracked the balls' paths. One ball – the yellow one-ball – dove straight into a corner pocket. Another – the purple four-ball – caught the side pocket cleanly. Two balls down on the break. The cue ball, hit with just the right amount of center-low english, drew back perfectly from the pack, spinning gently to rest almost dead center table. A textbook break, the kind he used to execute effortlessly. Doing it cold, with an unfamiliar cue, felt like a massive victory in itself.

A low murmur went through the nearby spectators who had gathered to watch the first matches. Even Spike Jenkins looked momentarily taken aback by the quality of the break, his usual sneer flickering with surprise before resetting into forced indifference.

Kaizer allowed himself a small, internal nod. Okay. The cue had power and responded predictably to center hits. Good start. Now for the finesse.

With two balls down, the lowest remaining ball was the two-ball (blue). It sat invitingly near the side pocket opposite where the four had dropped. The three-ball (red) was easily accessible afterwards. The layout was wide open, a direct result of the powerful, accurate break. A roadmap to a quick first-game win lay before him.

He circled the table, his movements economical, already mapping the sequence: two, three, five, six, seven, eight, nine. His eyes weren't just on the balls; they were feeling out the table, the roll, the subtle nuances amplified by the better cue. He chalked the McDermott's tip – a fresh tip, thankfully – feeling the fine grit bite into the leather.

He settled into his stance for the two-ball. This would be his first non-break shot with the cue under pressure. He focused on a simple stop shot, wanting to gauge the cue's reaction to a softer, precision hit. Smooth backswing, pause, accelerate through…

Clack. The sound was clean, crisp. The two-ball rolled true, disappearing into the side pocket. Thump. The cue ball stopped almost perfectly, maybe drifting forward a hair more than he'd intended. He noted it mentally: the cue was lively, maybe slightly stiffer than he was used to, requiring a touch less force on follow shots, a touch more precision on stop/stun shots. Adaptation required.

He moved to the three-ball. Again, a relatively simple shot. He decided to play it with a touch of topspin, aiming to roll the cue ball forward gently for position on the five-ball (orange), which sat near the center. He adjusted his aim point slightly, compensating for the cue's perceived liveliness. Stroke…

Clack. Thump. The three dropped. The cue ball rolled forward, kissing the head rail softly and coming to rest almost exactly where he'd visualized it, leaving a perfect angle on the five. Better. He was starting to get the feel, the dialogue between his hand, the cue, and the ball beginning to flow more naturally.

He moved with increasing confidence now. The five-ball went down, cue ball drifting smoothly for the six (green). The six followed, the cue ball nudged gently off the side rail for ideal shape on the seven (brown). He felt the rhythm returning, the decades of experience flowing through his young limbs, channeled through the superior instrument in his hands. This McDermott wasn't his old custom cue, but it was worlds better than anything he'd touched since his return. It responded, it communicated, it allowed him to play again, not just compensate.

Spike watched, arms crossed, his initial surprise hardening back into a sullen glower. He likely still clung to the 'luck' narrative, but seeing Kaizer methodically clear the table after a powerful break, executing precise positional shots, had to be planting seeds of doubt. The small crowd around the table watched quietly, recognizing the skill on display, whispering comments Kaizer tuned out.

Kaizer pocketed the seven, leaving the cue ball below the eight-ball for a straightforward shot into the corner pocket. Only the eight and nine remained. A clean run-out on his first rack with the new cue. A perfect start to the tournament. He felt a surge of confidence, maybe bordering on cockiness – the old Kaizer peeking through.

He lined up the eight-ball. Simple cut shot into the corner. He needed just a touch of inside english to bring the cue ball off the foot rail and back up slightly for perfect position on the nine, which sat near the opposite corner. He knew the shot instantly, had executed variations of it thousands of times.

He stroked it smoothly, confidently… maybe too confidently.

Click.

The sound wasn't quite right. He felt it immediately – a fraction too much side spin applied, perhaps overcompensating for the new cue's reaction, or maybe just a momentary lapse born of overconfidence. The eight-ball caught the facing of the corner pocket, wobbled precariously… and hung there, refusing to drop. The cue ball, carrying the excess spin, deflected wider off the foot rail than intended, rolling up-table and coming to rest near the side rail, leaving no direct shot at the still-waiting nine-ball.

A collective groan rippled through the onlookers. Kaizer stared at the hanging eight-ball, disbelief warring with self-recrimination. Stupid! He'd dogged an easy shot, a routine positional play, simply by trying to show off slightly, by getting ahead of himself with the unfamiliar cue. The transition wasn't seamless after all. The cue was different, requiring constant vigilance, perfect calibration. He wasn't there yet.

He stepped back from the table, forcing his expression to remain neutral, masking the internal frustration. He'd just handed Spike a golden opportunity.

Spike practically leaped towards the table, his eyes alight with renewed hope. "See? Told ya it was luck!" he crowed, grabbing chalk. He quickly assessed the situation. The eight-ball was a gift, sitting right on the lip of the pocket. He just needed to tap it in, then navigate for the nine.

He leaned down, sighted the eight carefully – even he couldn't miss this – and tapped it. Thump. The eight finally dropped. Spike straightened up, beaming, clearly feeling vindicated. Now, just the nine-ball. It sat near the opposite corner pocket, maybe four feet away from the cue ball, requiring a medium-length cut shot. Makeable, but not a guaranteed gimme, especially under pressure and with Spike's inconsistent stroke.

Spike circled the table, studying the angle. He chalked his cue again, took a few jerky practice strokes. Kaizer watched, impassive on the outside, but calculating inwardly. Could Spike make it? His mechanics were flawed, prone to inconsistency under pressure. But it was just one ball.

Spike finally settled into his stance, sighted, and shot quickly, stabbing at the cue ball rather than stroking through it.

Clack. The cue ball hit the nine. The nine rolled towards the pocket… hesitated on the lip… and stayed out, missing by less than a hair's breadth. Spike had undercut it, likely due to nerves and his jerky stroke. The cue ball rolled harmlessly away.

Spike stared at the nine-ball, his mouth agape, then slammed his cue butt on the floor again – earning an immediate sharp glare from Mel across the room. "No way!" Spike protested. "This table's garbage!"

Kaizer stepped forward calmly, ignoring Spike's outburst. He now had ball-in-hand (since Spike had failed to pocket the nine after legally pocketing the eight), with only the nine-ball remaining. The easiest shot imaginable. He placed the cue ball deliberately, took his time, focused purely on executing a clean, simple stroke with the McDermott, feeling its solid response.

Clack. Thump. The nine disappeared.

"Game one," Kaizer announced quietly, retrieving the cue ball. He glanced at Spike, whose face was a mask of frustrated disbelief. "Your break."

The rest of the match followed a similar pattern, though Kaizer made sure not to repeat his unforced error on the eight-ball. He won the second game after Spike scratched on the break, clearing the table efficiently, getting more comfortable with the McDermott's feedback with every shot. He felt the cue settling into his grip, the slight adjustments becoming more intuitive.

Spike managed to win the third game, capitalizing on a rare positional mistake by Kaizer who was still fine-tuning his speed control with the new cue on the worn Rack 'em Up felt. Spike played surprisingly well under pressure that game, making a couple of decent shots to clear the remaining balls, his confidence momentarily boosted. The score was now 2-1 in Kaizer's favor, race to five.

But Spike's resurgence was short-lived. In the fourth game, Kaizer broke and ran the table flawlessly, the McDermott feeling like a natural extension of his arm now, the earlier awkwardness fading, replaced by smooth, confident execution. Every positional shot landed precisely where intended. He finished with a satisfying nine-ball break, leaving Spike sitting in his chair, shaking his head. 3-1.

The fifth game saw Spike break dry. Kaizer calmly assessed the open layout, the McDermott feeling perfectly balanced in his hands now. He felt the zone descending, the state of effortless focus where the table geometry becomes crystal clear, the cue ball an obedient servant. He moved around the table with quiet grace, pocketing balls, flowing from one shot to the next, the cue responding instantly to his commands for spin and speed. Two, three, four… He barely noticed Spike slumping deeper in his chair, or the quiet nods of appreciation from some of the better players watching from nearby tables. Five, six, seven, eight… He left himself a perfect, straight-in shot on the nine.

He paused before the final shot, not out of hesitation, but to savor the moment. The feel of the cue, the satisfying geometry of the solved rack, the quiet hum of the tournament hall, the knowledge that he was back, playing the game he loved, the way it was meant to be played. He stroked the nine-ball smoothly into the heart of the pocket.

"Game and match," he said quietly, offering a neutral nod towards Spike as he began unscrewing the McDermott. The final score: 5-1.

Spike just stared at the table, then pushed himself out of his chair, grabbing his own cue without a word and stalking off towards the loser's bracket side of the tournament board, defeated and likely finally convinced it wasn't just luck.

Kaizer packed his cue away, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. He'd won his first match, overcome the initial unfamiliarity of the new cue, and handled the pressure well. He glanced at the tournament board. His next match wouldn't be for a little while. He saw Jesse Riley had also won his first match easily on a nearby table. Their paths wouldn't cross yet, but Kaizer felt the inevitable pull of their eventual confrontation.

He stepped away from the table area, finding a relatively quiet spot near the back wall to lean and observe, letting the adrenaline subside. He needed to stay focused, conserve energy. The tournament was a marathon, not a sprint. But the first hurdle was cleared, and the McDermott felt like it was ready to run.