Down to the Wire

Kaizer stepped back from the table, a cold knot forming in his stomach. He'd been one positional shot away, one slightly less stunned cue ball, from taking a commanding 5-3 lead. Instead, his own lapse in precision had gifted Jesse Riley an open invitation back into the game, maybe even the match.

He watched as Jesse approached the table, his expression calm, betraying nothing of the immense pressure resting on his young shoulders. The layout wasn't complex, but the circumstances amplified every angle, every inch of green felt. The seven-ball sat about two-thirds of the way down the table, a long but relatively straight shot into the corner pocket. The eight was near center table, the nine closer to the opposite corner. Make the seven, get decent shape on the eight, finish with the nine. Simple on paper, brutal in reality with the match score at 4-3.

Jesse chalked his cue with deliberate care, his eyes scanning the path from the seven to the eight, then the eight to the nine. He wasn't just looking at the pocket; he was calculating the cue ball's entire journey. Kaizer recognized the look – the intense focus of a player mapping the entire sequence before striking the first ball.

He settled into his stance for the long seven-ball. Low, balanced, perfectly still. He took one smooth practice stroke, then another. The usual hush of the tournament crowd seemed to deepen, all eyes fixed on Jesse. Kaizer found himself holding his breath, a spectator to his own potential undoing.

Jesse stroked the cue ball smoothly, hitting it dead center with just enough speed to reach the pocket comfortably and bring the cue ball back towards the center for the eight.

The seven rolled true, tracking perfectly towards the corner.

Thump. It disappeared without a hint of hesitation.

The cue ball, responding precisely, rolled back off the foot rail, heading towards the center… maybe a fraction faster than intended? It kissed the side rail gently and came to rest, leaving not a perfect angle on the eight, but a slightly awkward, thinner cut than ideal.

A low murmur went through the spectators. It wasn't a disastrous leave, still very makeable, but it added a layer of difficulty, demanded more precision on the next shot to achieve position on the nine. Kaizer watched Jesse's reaction. No change in expression. No sigh of frustration. Jesse simply walked around the table, studied the new angle, rechalked his cue. Robot-like focus.

He lined up the thin cut on the eight. He needed to cut it cleanly into the far corner pocket while controlling the cue ball's path, avoiding scratching in the side pocket and trying to leave an angle on the nine that wasn't straight-in (often harder to judge speed on) but wasn't too sharp either.

Again, the deliberate routine. Stance, sight, practice strokes, pause, execute.

Clack. The eight-ball sliced towards the corner. It caught the edge of the pocket facing but had enough momentum to muscle its way in. Thump. Another ball down.

The cue ball, struck with controlled side spin, caromed off the eight, hit the side rail, then drifted towards the nine-ball. It stopped about two feet away from the nine, leaving a slight angle into the corner pocket. Not a tap-in, but a routine shot under normal circumstances. Now, with the score potentially tying at hill-hill, it felt like the heaviest ball on the table.

Jesse walked calmly to his chair, placed his chalk down deliberately, then walked back to the final shot. He surveyed the angle, took his stance. The crowd was utterly silent. Kaizer watched, his own frustration momentarily forgotten, replaced by a professional appreciation for Jesse's composure mixed with the gnawing anxiety of the situation.

Jesse took his practice strokes, smoother and more deliberate than ever. He drew the cue back, paused for that infinitesimal moment that separates champions from contenders, and stroked through the cue ball cleanly.

Clack. The cue ball struck the nine. The nine rolled purposefully towards the corner pocket. No rattle this time. No hesitation.

Thump. It disappeared cleanly into the leather.

Game. The score was tied, 4-4. Hill-hill.

A wave of applause rippled through the spectators. Jesse allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible nod, retrieving the cue ball without expression. He'd stared down the pressure and delivered a clutch three-ball run-out to keep himself alive.

Kaizer felt a knot tighten in his own stomach. He'd had the match on his cue and let it slip. Now it came down to a single game, sudden death. He pushed the frustration down. Recriminations wouldn't help now. All that mattered was the next rack.

According to tournament rules for alternating breaks, it was his turn to break. The final game, winner takes all (in terms of the winner's bracket, at least), and he had the potential advantage of the opening shot.

He walked to the table as Jesse racked the balls tightly. Kaizer took the cue ball, placed it carefully behind the head string. The noise in the room seemed to fade again, funneling down to just the table, the balls, the cue in his hand. The McDermott felt solid, reassuring. He'd adapted quickly, played well for the most part. The error in the previous game was positional, a misjudgment, not a mechanical flaw. He could trust the cue. Could he trust himself?

He looked across the table at Jesse Riley, who stood waiting, composed, seemingly unaffected by the pressure or the previous game's clutch performance. Two players, tied at four games apiece, one final rack to decide who advanced undefeated to the tournament final. The ghost versus the prodigy. It didn't get much better than this.

Kaizer took his stance, visualized the explosive break, the perfect cue ball control. Everything came down to this.