Hill-Hill Pressure

The collective breath of the spectators around Table 1 seemed to hang suspended in the chalk-dusted air. 4-4. Hill-hill. Winner advances undefeated; loser takes the long, hard road through the one-loss side. Kaizer stood at the head of the table, the cue ball positioned precisely behind the head string, the gleaming rack of nine balls waiting like a puzzle begging to be solved. He had the break – a small but potentially crucial advantage earned by winning the lag what felt like a lifetime ago.

He blocked out everything else: the hushed whispers from the rail, the impassive face of Jesse Riley waiting in his chair, the memory of his own error in the previous game that led to this pressure-cooker situation. All that existed was the table, the balls, and the smooth, solid feel of the McDermott cue in his hands.

He settled into his stance, low and balanced. He visualized the impact point, the spread, the cue ball's path. Power was important, but control was paramount. He couldn't afford a scratch or a wild leave now. He drew the cue back in a smooth, controlled motion, paused for that critical instant of stillness, and then accelerated through the cue ball with focused intent.

CRACK!

Another authoritative sound from the McDermott. The impact felt pure, centered. Balls scattered across the table in a controlled explosion. Kaizer's eyes tracked the cue ball first – it hit the pack squarely, then drew back perfectly towards the center, just as planned. Then his eyes followed the object balls. The wings balls flew towards their respective pockets…

Thump! Thump!

Two balls down! The three-ball and the six-ball dropped cleanly into opposite side pockets. A roar went through the small crowd watching – a fantastic break under pressure. The lowest remaining ball, the one-ball, sat invitingly near the corner pocket where the three had just vanished, with a clear path to the two-ball afterwards.

It was the perfect start. An opportunity to run out the rack from the break and seize the match.

Kaizer took a slow, deliberate breath, calming the surge of adrenaline from the successful break. Don't get ahead of yourself. One ball at a time. He walked calmly to the one-ball, chalking his cue, going through his pre-shot routine. Simple shot into the corner. He focused on pocketing it cleanly and letting the cue ball drift naturally towards the two.

Clack. Thump. The one-ball disappeared. The cue ball rolled perfectly into line for the two.

He moved to the two-ball. Another straightforward shot. He pocketed it, using just a touch of topspin to move the cue ball forward for the four (the three having gone on the break).

Clack. Thump. Executed flawlessly.

He felt the rhythm returning, the connection with the cue solidifying further. He addressed the four-ball. Easy shot. Then the five, slightly tougher cut but manageable. He dispatched both with quiet efficiency, the cue ball landing precisely where needed each time.

Only the seven, eight, and nine remained. They were positioned openly, forming a gentle arc across the lower half of the table. No clusters, no tricky angles. A routine three-ball out under normal circumstances.

But these weren't normal circumstances. This was hill-hill against the tournament favorite, the son of his old rival. The weight of the moment pressed down. He could feel Jesse Riley's intense gaze from the chair, could sense the anticipation from the crowd.

He lined up the seven-ball. He needed a simple stop shot to hold the cue ball for the eight. He took an extra moment, wiped his bridge hand on his jeans, resettled into his stance. Focus. Breathe. Stroke.

Clack. Thump. The seven dropped. The cue ball stopped perfectly.

He moved to the eight-ball. Straight in to the corner pocket. Just needed to control the speed, avoid scratching, and leave an easy angle on the nine, which sat patiently near the opposite corner. He sighted the shot, drew the cue back…

And hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. A flicker of doubt? The memory of dogging the eight-ball against Spike earlier? The pressure manifesting as a tiny hitch in his usually fluid motion?

He forced himself to recompose, took another breath, and completed the stroke.

Clack…

The sound wasn't as pure this time. He'd hit it slightly off-center, maybe tried to guide it too much instead of trusting his stroke. The eight-ball rolled towards the pocket… wobbled… and hung there! Right on the lip. Déjà vu.

A collective gasp, louder this time, filled the room. Kaizer stared in disbelief. He'd done it again. Choked on a routine eight-ball with the rack at his mercy. The cue ball, lacking the intended speed control due to the miscue, rolled too far, ending up near the center of the table but leaving Jesse a clear, makeable shot on the hanging eight.

He stepped back from the table, a wave of cold fury washing over him – fury directed entirely at himself. How could he make such a basic error, twice in one tournament, especially now? Was it the cue? Was it nerves? Was his sixty-three-year-old mind failing to fully command his fifteen-year-old nerves under pressure?

Jesse Riley stood up calmly, his expression unreadable. He walked to the table, surveyed the situation: the eight hanging over the pocket, the nine easily accessible afterwards. A gift. A lifeline thrown by Kaizer himself.

Jesse didn't rush. He chalked his cue. He studied the simple tap-in on the eight, then glanced at the position of the nine. He took his stance.

Kaizer watched, helpless, a sense of sickening dread replacing the earlier confidence. He'd choked. He'd handed the match, the winner's bracket final, to Jesse Riley on a silver platter.

Jesse tapped the eight-ball gently.

Thump. It dropped into the pocket.

Now, just the nine-ball. It sat about three feet away from the cue ball, a slight angle into the corner pocket. The exact same shot Jesse had made under pressure to tie the match at 4-4 just one game ago. Could he do it again?

Jesse lined it up. Same calm demeanor. Same deliberate pre-shot routine. He drew the cue back… stroked smoothly…

Clack. The cue ball hit the nine cleanly. The nine rolled towards the pocket…

And stopped. Dead. Right on the lip. An exact mirror image of Kaizer's miss just moments before.

The silence in Rack 'em Up was absolute, deafening. No one could believe it. Jesse Riley, the unflappable robot, had choked the nine-ball for the match, mirroring Kaizer's error on the eight. He stood frozen for a second, staring at the ball, a flicker of utter disbelief finally breaking through his calm facade. He looked down at his cue, then back at the ball, as if unable to comprehend the betrayal.

Kaizer felt like his heart had stopped, then restarted with a jolt. An unbelievable reprieve. A second chance born from his opponent's mirror-image mistake.

Jesse stepped back slowly, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, his face pale. He looked over at Kaizer, his eyes conveying a shared understanding of the brutal, unpredictable nature of pressure. He offered a single, curt nod. "Your shot."

Kaizer walked back to the table, his legs feeling strangely light. The nine-ball sat there, practically begging to be pocketed. An inch away. He also had ball-in-hand due to Jesse failing to pocket the nine after legally hitting it. He could place the cue ball anywhere.

He picked up the cue ball. His hand was trembling slightly. This was it. No more mistakes. No more pressure chokes. He placed the cue ball directly behind the nine, maybe two inches away. A straight tap-in. Impossible to miss.

He took his stance. Took a deep breath. Blocked out Jesse, the crowd, the pressure. Focused only on the cue ball, the nine-ball, the pocket.

He executed the simplest, shortest, gentlest stroke imaginable.

tap… thump.

The nine-ball disappeared into the darkness of the pocket.

Game. Match.

A wave of dizziness washed over Kaizer as the reality sank in. He'd won. 5-4. He was undefeated, advancing to the tournament final. He'd beaten Jesse Riley, despite his own near-fatal choke. It was an ugly win, salvaged by his opponent's equally shocking error, but it was a win nonetheless.

A hesitant burst of applause broke the silence. Jesse Riley walked over, hand extended again. The shock was fading from his eyes, replaced by a look of grudging respect and disappointment.

"Good match, Kaizer," Jesse said, his voice quiet but clear. "You played well. That safety game… tough. And that carom in the seventh… nice shot."\n\n"You too, Jesse," Kaizer replied, shaking his hand again. "That three-ball out to tie it up was clutch. Hell of a match." There was a sudden, unexpected camaraderie in the shared experience of the intense pressure and the mutual chokes on the final balls.

Jesse nodded, then picked up his cue case. "See you in the finals, maybe," he said, heading towards the loser\u0027s bracket side of the board. He had a long road ahead if he wanted a rematch.

Kaizer watched him go, then let out a long, slow breath, the tension finally releasing its grip. He'd done it. Winner's bracket final secured. He unscrewed the McDermott, his hands still shaking slightly. That was way too close for comfort. He needed to get his mental game, his focus under pressure, back to its old level if he wanted to actually win the whole thing. Relying on opponents choking wasn't a sustainable strategy.

But for now, he could breathe. He was one match away from winning his first tournament in this new life.