Waiting Games

The echo of the nine-ball dropping, securing his shaky 5-4 victory over Jesse Riley, seemed to reverberate long after the applause died down.

Kaizer screwed the McDermott apart with hands that still held a faint tremor. The adrenaline was slowly beginning its retreat, leaving a residue of profound relief mixed with sharp self-criticism.

He'd won. He was in the final, undefeated. But the victory felt tainted by his choke on the eight-ball, salvaged only by Jesse's own shocking miss on the nine. Luck had played as much a role as skill in that final exchange.

Against top-tier opponents, the kind he faced routinely in his previous life, relying on luck was a death sentence. He couldn't afford that kind of mental lapse again, especially not in the finals.

He packed the cue carefully into its case, the smooth finish of the wood a comforting, solid presence. He needed to regroup, recenter, analyze what went wrong in that last game.

He found an unoccupied plastic chair against the far wall, away from the main flow of traffic near the tournament board and the counter, and sank into it, the cue case resting securely between his feet.

From this vantage point, he could observe the rest of the pool hall without being easily drawn into conversation. The energy was still high, but focused now on the remaining matches in the loser's bracket. Several tables were still active, players battling fiercely for a chance to climb back towards the final rounds.

The tournament director scurried between tables, updating the bracket, calling out scores. Mel watched impassively from behind his counter, occasionally exchanging gruff words with departing players or ringing up sales for sodas and candy bars Kaizer currently couldn't afford.

His eyes inevitably found Jesse Riley. After their match, Jesse hadn't stormed off or shown outward frustration. He'd simply reported his score, checked the loser's bracket, and then found a quiet spot himself, methodically cleaning his own cue, his expression thoughtful, analytical.

Now, he was back at a table, starting his first match on the one-loss side against a player Kaizer recognized as being decent but prone to erratic shot selection.

Kaizer watched Jesse's match with the intensity of a surgeon studying X-rays. How would Riley respond after that tough, demoralizing loss? Would the pressure of the loser's bracket, where every match was an elimination match, affect his game?

The answer, Kaizer quickly realized, was a resounding no.

Jesse played with the same unnerving calm, the same methodical precision he'd displayed earlier. If anything, the loss seemed to have sharpened his focus. He capitalized ruthlessly on his opponent's mistakes, played impeccable safeties when necessary, and ran out racks with chilling efficiency whenever given the chance.

His opponent, clearly feeling the pressure, started forcing shots, making errors, digging his own grave. Jesse won easily, 5-1, his face betraying no emotion as he shook hands and waited for his next assignment.

Watching Jesse's clinical performance sent a fresh wave of unease through Kaizer. That choke on the nine-ball in their match… it seemed increasingly like an anomaly, a momentary crack in an otherwise flawless facade. If Jesse fought his way back through the loser's bracket – and Kaizer had little doubt he could – the final match would be a monumental challenge.

According to standard double-elimination rules often used in these types of tournaments, Kaizer, being undefeated, would have to be beaten twice in the finals by the winner of the loser's bracket. It was a significant advantage, a reward for navigating the winner's side unscathed.

But against a player like Jesse Riley, playing with the focused intensity he was currently displaying, even needing to win two separate matches might not be an insurmountable obstacle for him. Kaizer couldn't afford to be complacent. He couldn't afford another choke.

He leaned his head back against the cool brick wall, closing his eyes, trying to analyze his own lapse. Why had he missed that eight-ball? It wasn't the cue; the McDermott felt true. It wasn't a lack of skill. It was purely mental. Pressure? Overconfidence after running the previous balls? A subconscious tightening because the finish line was in sight?

In his prime, under the crushing weight of championship finals with thousands of dollars and world titles on the line, his focus had been absolute, almost inhuman. He could block out crowds, opponents, personal problems, everything except the table and the path to victory.

But now? Now, things felt… different. The stakes were objectively lower – a junior tournament, a couple hundred bucks prize money – yet the internal pressure felt immense. It was the weight of the second chance, the desperate need to prove to himself that he still was Kaizer Saint, that the magic hadn't died with his sixty-three-year-old body. Maybe that weight, paradoxically, was making him more susceptible to pressure on routine shots than he used to be when playing for fortunes.

He needed to find that old equilibrium, that state of detached focus where execution became automatic, unburdened by hope or fear. He focused on his breathing, slowing it down, picturing the smooth, effortless strokes of his practice drills, the perfect roll of the cue ball. He visualized sinking the eight-ball cleanly, following through for perfect shape on the nine. He replayed it in his mind until the error felt corrected, overwritten by the intended outcome.

Time crawled by. Matches concluded, names were updated on the bracket. Kaizer watched intermittently, conserving mental energy. He saw Larry Peterson, the defensive player he'd beaten earlier, get eliminated from the loser's bracket. He saw Marcus Jones, his previous opponent, win one match on the loser's side with his aggressive style before falling in the next round.

The crowd thinned slightly as eliminated players drifted away, but a dedicated core remained, drawn by the escalating drama of the final rounds.

Kaizer noticed Spike and Tank hovering near the tournament board, occasionally glancing his way. Later, Spike approached him hesitantly while Kaizer was getting water from the fountain.

"Hey, Saint," Spike mumbled, avoiding direct eye contact.

"Yeah?" Kaizer replied neutrally.

"Uh… that match against Riley… that was pretty intense," Spike stammered. "That safety battle… and that nine-ball miss at the end… crazy." He seemed genuinely impressed, his earlier animosity replaced by awe.

"It happens," Kaizer said with a shrug, not wanting to dwell on his own error.

"Yeah, well… uh… good luck in the finals," Spike offered awkwardly, before practically fleeing back towards Tank. Kaizer watched him go, a faint smile touching his lips. Winning, it seemed, was slowly changing perceptions, even among his initial antagonists.

He returned to his chair, the wait continuing. He resisted the urge to check his watch constantly. Patience was part of the game. He needed to stay calm, centered, ready for whenever the final match began.

He let his mind drift, thinking about the hundred dollars safely tucked away, about the McDermott cue waiting in its case beside him. He thought about Frank (PoolShark88) wishing him luck. He thought about the job sorting invoices, the unexpected connection with his father. Small victories, building blocks for this new life.

Then, inevitably, his thoughts turned to Mark. Had Mark seen his BBS reply yet? What would he think? Would he bring it up Monday? The thought sent a familiar ripple of anxiety through him. He mentally rehearsed casual greetings, noncommittal answers, ways to deflect if Mark pressed the issue at school. It was a distraction he didn't need right now, but one that refused to be entirely banished.

He also found himself glancing towards the entrance occasionally, a subconscious vigilance kicking in. Was Vince out there? Would he show up here, looking for revenge or his money back? Rack 'em Up felt relatively safe under Mel's watchful eye, safer than Benny's garage, but Vince struck him as someone who didn't necessarily respect boundaries or potential witnesses. Kaizer mentally filed the concern away – nothing he could do about it now but stay aware.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the loser's bracket final concluded. Kaizer had watched parts of it. Jesse Riley faced a surprisingly tough challenge from the same older kid he'd beaten easily earlier. This time, the kid played inspired pool, matching Jesse shot for shot in the early games.

But Jesse's relentless consistency eventually wore him down. Jesse pulled away at the end, winning 5-3, his expression never changing, his focus absolute.

So, it was set. As Kaizer knew it would be. The Grand Final would be Kaizer Saint versus Jesse Riley, Part Two.

The tournament director wiped sweat from his brow, consulted with Mel briefly, then stepped towards the center of the room.

"Alright folks! We have our final match!" his voice boomed, quieting the remaining conversations. "Playing out of the winner\u0027s bracket, undefeated today, Kaizer Saint!"

A polite round of applause followed. Kaizer stood up, grabbing his cue case.

"And fighting his way back through the loser\u0027s bracket, winner takes all, Jesse Riley!" Another round of applause, perhaps slightly louder, acknowledging Jesse\u0027s tough road back.

"This will be one extended race," the director clarified the format. "Since Kaizer is undefeated, Jesse will have to beat him twice. First match is a race to seven games. If Jesse wins, we reset, and play another race to five games for the championship. If Kaizer wins the first race to seven, he\u0027s the champion. Players, lag for the break! Table one!"

True double elimination. Kaizer had the advantage, needing only one match win (a race to seven), while Jesse needed two (a race to seven followed by a race to five). But seeing Jesse's determined focus after battling through the loser's bracket, Kaizer knew that advantage might not mean much if he didn't play his absolute best.

He walked towards Table 1 again, the path clearing before him. Jesse was already there, waiting, chalking his cue. Their eyes met briefly across the green expanse of the felt. No words were exchanged this time, just a silent acknowledgment. The anticipation was electric. This was it. The final hurdle. Everything he'd worked for, gambled for, stressed over in the past two weeks came down to this race to seven games.

He took his place, ready to lag, the McDermott feeling perfectly balanced, comfortingly solid in his grip. The ghost was ready to face the prodigy one more time.