Tempo and Temperament

The break between matches stretched longer than Kaizer anticipated. He watched the tournament board, saw names crossed off, others advancing, the brackets slowly filling in.

Jesse Riley won his third-round match with the same quiet lethality, another decisive victory – 5-1 this time – further cementing his status as the player to beat. Watching Jesse's unflappable precision, Kaizer felt a familiar competitive fire ignite, mingled with a healthy dose of respect and caution. Riley was playing textbook, high-percentage pool, making very few mistakes for his opponents to capitalize on.

Kaizer spent the downtime trying to stay loose but focused. He leaned against the back wall, sipping water he'd filled in the restroom sink – buying a soda from Mel felt like an unnecessary expenditure now that his pockets were officially empty again, every cent having gone towards the entry fee and the essential McDermott cue. The prize money suddenly felt less like a bonus and more like a necessity again, not just for validation, but for basic things like bus fare home or maybe even celebrating with a slice of pizza later, should he actually win.

He mentally replayed shots from his match against Larry Peterson, analyzing the safety exchanges, the moment he chose caution over aggression, the satisfying feel of the run-out that closed the match. He felt more in sync with the McDermott now, the initial unfamiliarity replaced by a growing appreciation for its solid hit and responsiveness. It wasn't his old custom cue, but it was a reliable weapon, capable of executing the shots his mind envisioned.

He also couldn't help but let his thoughts drift to the upcoming week. The job shifts with Mel on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday afternoon – cash flow would start eventually. The accounting work for his dad – maybe there'd be more once the Henderson audit was fully wrangled, a continued source of income and maybe, just maybe, continued thawing of their relationship. The pickup of the cue yesterday felt like a huge victory, a cornerstone laid.

But Mark's suspicious gaze across the cafeteria, Vince's likely simmering rage… those were loose ends, potential complications waiting in the wings. For today, though, all that mattered was the next match.

Finally, the tournament director called out, "Saint! Jones! Table two!"

Kaizer straightened up, grabbing the McDermott case. Marcus Jones. He'd watched a bit of Jones's previous match. The kid was younger than Peterson, maybe Kaizer's physical age or slightly older, played with a quick, almost jittery energy. He had fast hands, wasn't afraid to take on sharp cuts or risky combinations, and possessed a decent break.

But Kaizer also noticed a tendency towards impatience, a lack of sophisticated safety play, and positional routes that sometimes prioritized flash over percentage. An aggressive tempo player. The exact opposite of Larry Peterson.

He met Marcus at Table 2. Marcus Jones was shorter than Kaizer, wiry, with restless eyes that darted around the room before settling on Kaizer with a challenging intensity. He offered a quick, jerky nod instead of a handshake.

"Heard you got lucky against Vince last night," Marcus said immediately, his voice quick and sharp, skipping any pretense of pleasantry. The rumor mill had clearly been working overtime. "And Spike said you dogged an eight-ball against him earlier. Guess you ain\u0027t invincible."

Kaizer raised an eyebrow slightly at the confrontational opening. Trying psychological games already? "Guess not," Kaizer replied mildly. "Still won, though. Let\u0027s lag."

Marcus's attempt at intimidation seemed to falter slightly at Kaizer's calm response. They lagged. Marcus, perhaps trying too hard, hit his ball too firmly; it bounced off the foot rail and came up short. Kaizer executed another smooth lag, winning the break easily.

Kaizer racked his own balls – Mel insisted players rack for themselves in tournaments unless a referee was present, which wasn't the case here. He focused on getting the balls tight, ensuring no gaps. He took his break, aiming for power and spread, trusting the McDermott.

CRACK! Another solid hit. Balls scattered. The one-ball vanished on the break. The cue ball rolled nicely to center table, leaving an open shot on the two.

Marcus watched, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, cue tapping impatiently against the floor. Kaizer ignored him, settling into his pre-shot routine. He felt good, centered. The cue felt like an extension of his will.

He started the run. Two-ball, clean. Three-ball, perfect position. Four-ball, smooth follow for the five. He moved with a quiet rhythm, deliberately slowing his pace slightly, countering Marcus's nervous energy with calm efficiency. He could feel Marcus watching, vibrating with impatience, wanting his turn.

Kaizer continued methodically. Five, six, seven. The pattern was straightforward, requiring only basic positional play, which the McDermott handled beautifully. He was completely in sync with the cue now, the shots flowing effortlessly. He lined up the eight-ball, needing simple top-spin to follow forward for the nine.

He executed it perfectly. Clack. Thump. The eight dropped. The cue ball rolled gently forward, stopping perfectly straight-in on the nine. Rack one, run-out. 1-0 Kaizer.

Marcus practically jumped out of his chair before Kaizer had even finished screwing his cue apart to let it rest between games (an old habit to prevent warping, unnecessary now but ingrained). He racked the balls quickly, impatiently.

"My break," Marcus declared, placing the cue ball aggressively.

Marcus broke hard, sacrificing control for power. Balls flew, two went in, but the cue ball careened wildly off three rails, ending up near the head string, leaving a long, difficult shot on the lowest remaining ball. A typical result of uncontrolled aggression.

Marcus studied the shot, clearly tempted to fire at it despite the low percentage. He glanced at Kaizer, maybe expecting a reaction, but Kaizer kept his expression neutral. After a moment's hesitation, Marcus took on the long, sharp cut. He missed badly, the object ball hitting the wrong rail entirely, and the cue ball rolled away, leaving Kaizer an open table.

Kaizer stepped up calmly. This was the pattern he expected. Aggression leading to errors. He wouldn't get drawn into Marcus's rapid-fire pace. He took his time, assessed the layout, and started another methodical run. He didn't rush, didn't force shots. When faced with a slightly tricky position, he took the extra second to ensure his alignment and speed were perfect. He cleared the table again. 2-0 Kaizer.

Marcus's frustration was palpable now. He racked the balls with even more force, muttering under his breath. He broke again, sinking one ball, but scratched, the cue ball following the object ball into the pocket. Ball-in-hand for Kaizer.

With ball-in-hand and an open layout, the game was essentially over before it began. Kaizer carefully placed the cue ball, ensuring perfect position on the lowest ball, and proceeded to run the rack with clinical precision. Every shot felt smooth, controlled. The McDermott was singing. 3-0 Kaizer.

Marcus looked utterly demoralized now, the initial challenging energy completely gone, replaced by sullen silence. He knew he was outclassed, his aggressive style completely ineffective against Kaizer's calm, precise onslaught.

Kaizer broke for the fourth game. He made a ball, leaving himself a good opening shot. He felt completely in the zone now, the table an open book, the cue an obedient tool. He saw the entire run-out laid out before him.

He moved around the table, each shot flowing into the next. He felt some of the old magic returning, not just efficiency, but a touch of artistry in the way he manipulated the cue ball, making it dance to his will. 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 executed it perfectly. 4-0 Kaizer.

Match point. Marcus stepped up to break for the fifth game, looking resigned. He hit the balls limply, a shadow of his earlier aggression. Nothing went in. The balls were clustered awkwardly, presenting a challenging opening layout.

Kaizer studied the table. No easy starting shot. Several balls were tied up. Trying to force an offensive shot would be risky, potentially leaving Marcus an easy counterattack if missed. Patience. Control the tempo.

He opted for a strategic safety, playing the cue ball off the one, nudging another ball slightly to further complicate the cluster, and rolling the cue ball to the opposite end of the table, leaving Marcus long and potentially hooked.

Marcus sighed, surveying the messy layout. He attempted a kick shot, missed, and left Kaizer another opening, though still not an easy one. Kaizer assessed again. He could try a difficult combination, or break open the cluster, or play another safe.

He decided to break open the cluster, playing the lowest ball into the pack with controlled speed, pocketing the object ball while scattering the tied-up balls into more makeable positions. It worked perfectly. The cluster broke open, the object ball dropped, and the cue ball rolled into position for the next shot.

From there, it was just a matter of execution. Kaizer navigated the slightly more complex layout with careful precision, picking off the balls one by one. Marcus watched with defeated acceptance. Kaizer sank the nine-ball for the game and the match. 5-0.

A clean sweep. Faster and more dominant than his match against Peterson. His game was coming back online, boosted significantly by the reliable McDermott.

"Good shooting," Marcus mumbled, offering a quick, almost reluctant handshake before grabbing his cue and disappearing into the crowd heading towards the loser's bracket.

Kaizer nodded, accepting the acknowledgment. He felt good. Very good. He packed away the McDermott, the smooth finish of the wood cool beneath his fingers. He'd won three matches now, without dropping into the loser's bracket. He walked over to the tournament board.

His name advanced again. He looked across the bracket. Jesse Riley had also won his third match, another decisive victory. They were now the only two players remaining undefeated on the winner's side. Their next match, the winner's bracket final, would be against each other.

Kaizer Saint versus Jesse Riley. The showdown was set.

He felt a familiar thrill, the pure, unadulterated excitement of facing a truly worthy opponent. This was why he played. Not for the ten-dollar hustles in garages, not even primarily for the prize money (though it was certainly needed now), but for this: the test of skill, nerve, and strategy against the best.

His focus narrowed, the outside world fading away again. The rest of the tournament, the job, the money, Mark, Vince – all of it momentarily receded. All that mattered now was the upcoming match against the son of his old rival. The ghost was about to face the legacy.