The Prodigy Responds

The scoreboard, makeshift as it was on the tournament director's clipboard leaning against the wall, read 5-3 in Kaizer's favor. Race to seven. He was two games away – two racks, potentially – from capturing the Northwood Junior Nine-Ball Championship, undefeated. The culmination of the past frantic two weeks, the justification for the risks taken, the reward for the grind – it felt tantalizingly close.

But across the table, Jesse Riley looked anything but defeated. As he stood to break for the ninth game, the slight slump Kaizer thought he'd detected in his shoulders after the previous game was gone, replaced by that same unnerving, focused calm. If anything, facing the brink seemed to have sharpened his resolve. There was no panic in his eyes, only icy concentration. Kaizer recognized the look – it was the same look he used to wear when backed into a corner with everything on the line. This kid wouldn't fold easily.

Jesse racked the balls with his usual precision, took his stance, and delivered the break. It wasn't quite as explosive as some of his earlier ones, perhaps prioritizing control over power now, recognizing the critical importance of this rack.

CRACK. A solid hit. Balls scattered. The one-ball rattled in the jaws of the corner pocket and stayed out. Nothing dropped. The cue ball rolled slowly towards the side rail, stopping about mid-table, leaving Kaizer a look at the one-ball, but it was a long, thin cut with the cue ball near the rail – awkward bridging required, low percentage offensively.

Kaizer assessed the layout. The balls were reasonably spread, no major clusters, but no easy run-out either. He could take on the thin one-ball, but a miss could leave Jesse an easy starter. Or he could play safe. Given the score, 5-3, playing safe felt like the smart, percentage play. Keep control, force Jesse to earn his way back into the game.

He stepped up, the McDermott feeling comfortable, responsive. He sighted a safety, aiming to play the one-ball softly towards the foot rail while tucking the cue ball behind the distant nine-ball near the head cushion. It required delicate speed control.

He stroked smoothly… maybe a fraction too smoothly, too cautiously. The cue ball contacted the one softly, sending it rolling slowly as planned. But the cue ball itself died just short of its intended hiding spot, stopping a crucial inch or two before ducking fully behind the nine. It left Jesse still needing to kick, but it wasn't the perfect snooker Kaizer had intended. A slight lapse in execution, born perhaps from trying too hard not to make a mistake.

Jesse walked to the table, examined the situation without comment. He had to kick at the one-ball. He chose a one-rail kick, aiming to hit the one and leave the cue ball safe at the other end. His execution was nearly perfect. The cue ball kissed the rail, contacted the one-ball thin, and rolled back towards the head rail, nestling tightly against the cushion, leaving Kaizer absolutely nothing. A superb escape and return safety.

Kaizer nodded inwardly. Riley wasn't rattled. He exchanged a similarly difficult kick, making contact but leaving the one-ball exposed near the center of the table.

Jesse didn't hesitate. He stepped up, calmly pocketed the exposed one-ball, and landed perfectly on the two. From there, it was a masterclass in pressure pool. Jesse navigated the table with flawless precision, his cue ball control immaculate, his stroke unwavering. Two, three, four, five… he made them disappear, each shot seemingly simpler than the last, the cue ball flowing effortlessly from one position to the next.

Kaizer could only sit and watch, a unwilling spectator to Jesse's comeback statement. He felt a grudging admiration for the kid's composure. To play like this, down 5-3 in the finals after choking the previous winner's bracket match… it took serious mental fortitude.

Six, seven, eight… Jesse cleared them all without a hint of trouble. He lined up the nine-ball, a straightforward shot into the corner. No hesitation this time. He stroked it cleanly. Thump.

Game to Jesse.

5-4 Kaizer.

The momentum, which had felt so firmly in Kaizer's grasp just one rack ago, suddenly felt precarious again. Jesse hadn't just won the game; he'd won it dominantly, starting from a safety exchange and running out flawlessly after Kaizer's initial safety wasn't quite perfect. The message was clear: Jesse Riley was still very much in this match.

Now it was Kaizer's break again, leading by only one game. The pressure was back on him. A dry break or a mistake now could easily lead to a 5-5 tie, erasing his hard-won advantage. He felt the familiar weight settle back onto his shoulders.

He took extra care racking the balls, ensuring they were frozen tight. He focused on his breathing, trying to channel that state of calm detachment he needed. He visualized the break, the power, the control. He approached the table, settled into his stance.

CRACK! Another solid break. He made the wing ball again – the seven this time. The cue ball spun back, hitting the side rail and rolling out towards the center, leaving… a shot. A makeable shot on the one-ball, but partially obscured, requiring him to cut it thin past the five-ball. Not ideal, but definitely an opportunity.

He studied the layout. If he made the one, the rest of the rack looked manageable, though not a guaranteed run-out. If he missed, he risked leaving Jesse an easy start. Playing safe was an option, tucking behind the five, but it felt passive after Jesse's aggressive comeback in the previous game. Kaizer felt he needed to reassert himself, take control back. He decided to go for the thin cut on the one.

He lined it up carefully, aiming to slice the one-ball just past the edge of the five and into the corner pocket. It required a precise hit with perfect speed to avoid unwanted collisions. He took a steadying breath, focused intently on the contact point. Smooth backswing, pause, deliver the stroke…

Click. He hit it cleanly. The one-ball squeezed past the five, tracking towards the pocket… Yes! Thump. It dropped.

The cue ball, however, hit the five slightly on its way past – an unavoidable consequence of the thin cut – altering its path just enough to leave him slightly awkward on the two-ball, which sat near the head rail. Not terrible, but not the perfect shape he'd envisioned either.

Okay. Adapt. He assessed the two-ball. He could force the position for the three with heavy spin, but that was risky with the McDermott still feeling slightly new on extreme english shots. Or he could pocket the two and accept slightly tougher shape on the three, relying on his shot-making to recover. Or… play safe again.

He opted for a blend. Pocket the two, but use controlled speed and slight spin to nudge the cue ball towards a specific area that left the three-ball makeable while also making a safety difficult for Jesse if Kaizer somehow misplayed the position. It was a higher-level positional play, thinking defensively even while shooting offensively.

He executed it well. The two dropped. The cue ball rolled into the target zone, leaving the three-ball makeable, but not simple. It was a medium-length shot into the side pocket.

He took his time on the three, ensuring his fundamentals were sound. He pocketed it cleanly, landing nicely on the four. Now he felt the rhythm returning. Four… five (avenging the earlier positional error)… six… He navigated the table with growing confidence, the memory of the previous game's choke fading, replaced by the smooth execution of the present.

Only the eight and nine remained. They sat openly at opposite ends of the table. A simple two-ball out to reach the hill. He played the eight into the corner pocket, using follow to bring the cue ball out towards the center for a near straight-in shot on the nine. Perfect.

He walked around the table to the nine-ball, feeling the weight of the moment again. One ball for a 6-4 lead. One ball for match point. He blocked out everything else. Pre-shot routine. Stance. Sight. Breathe. Stroke.

Clack. Thump. The nine dropped dead center.

6-4 Kaizer. He was on the hill. One game away.

A ripple of applause went through the crowd. Kaizer allowed himself a small, controlled fist pump, more relief than celebration. He'd answered Jesse's comeback with a composed run-out of his own, handling a slightly tricky layout under pressure.

Jesse stood up for his break, his face still impassive, but Kaizer thought he detected a subtle tightening around his jaw. The pressure was now immense on the younger Riley. He had to win this game, and the next two after that, just to force a second set.

Jesse racked, went through his routine. He broke. Solid hit, but slightly off-center. No balls went down. The cue ball rolled up-table, leaving the one-ball exposed but long, maybe eight feet away, near the foot rail.

Kaizer stepped up to the table, his heart pounding now. This was it. A chance to win the tournament right here, right now, on his own shot. The table was open, the run-out challenging but definitely possible. Just nine balls between him and the championship.

He studied the long one-ball. Makeable. He needed to pocket it and draw the cue ball back up-table significantly to get shape on the two, which sat near the center. A power draw shot with accuracy required. He felt the McDermott in his hand, solid, capable. He could make this shot.

He lined it up, took aim lower on the cue ball for the draw. He focused, took his stroke…

He hit it well, powerfully. The one-ball shot down the table towards the corner… caught the facing… and rattled out! Another crucial miss! The crowd groaned.

The cue ball, struck with heavy draw, spun violently back up-table… missed the intended positional zone… and came to rest near the head rail, leaving Jesse an open, easy shot on the one-ball Kaizer had just missed.

Disaster. Kaizer stepped back, stunned. He'd felt good on the shot, the stroke clean, but he'd slightly misjudged the angle or the spin required. Another unforced error at a critical moment. He'd just given Jesse Riley ball-in-hand, essentially, with an open table and the match on the line.

He watched, feeling sick, as Jesse calmly walked to the table. Jesse surveyed the layout – a simple roadmap laid out by Kaizer's miss. Kaizer could see the entire run-out from where he stood. Barring another shocking choke like the one in their previous match, Jesse would clear the table and force a hill-hill decider. Again.

Jesse started his work. One-ball… two-ball… three-ball… Each shot perfect. Each positional play precise. He moved like a surgeon, calm, methodical, dissecting the rack. Four… five… six…

Kaizer leaned against the wall, unable to watch directly anymore, just listening to the rhythmic clack… thump of balls dropping, sealing his fate in this game. He'd had two chances to close out the match – the eight-ball miss at 4-3, and now this miss on the opening one-ball at 6-4. He hadn't taken them. Jesse, given the openings, was proving clinical.

Seven… eight… Jesse lined up the nine-ball. A simple shot near the side pocket. No hesitation this time.

Clack. Thump.

Game Jesse.

6-5 Kaizer.

The crowd applauded Jesse's resilience. Kaizer pushed off the wall, his mind racing. He still led, but the momentum felt like it had shifted back to Jesse. Now Kaizer was breaking for the twelfth game, needing this single rack to finally close the door, while Jesse had battled back from the brink twice. The pressure felt reversed now.

He walked to the table, took the cue ball. His hands felt clammy. He wiped them on his jeans. Focus. Just focus. One good break. One good rack. That's all it took. But could he deliver, now that the pressure was ratcheted up to its absolute peak?