Championship Point

Kaizer stood poised over the break shot, the twelfth game of the finals, leading Jesse Riley 6-5 in a race to seven. The entire pool hall seemed to hold its breath with him. This single rack held the weight of the entire tournament. Win it, and he was the champion. Lose it, and the momentum would swing violently back to Jesse, forcing a hill-hill decider – a situation Kaizer had already fumbled once today.

He forced the memory of that missed eight-ball, the missed one-ball in the last game, out of his mind. Dwelling on past errors was poison under pressure. He focused on the now: the solid feel of the McDermott cue, the tight triangle of balls gleaming under the light, the precise point on the cue ball he needed to hit.

He visualized the perfect break – power, spread, control, pocketing a ball, leaving the cue ball center table. He took a final, calming breath, let half of it out, settled into his stance, and delivered the stroke.

CRACK!

A clean, powerful impact. The sound resonated with authority. Balls scattered dynamically across the green felt. Kaizer's eyes tracked the cue ball first – perfect, drawing back gently towards the center after impact. Then the object balls – yes! The wing ball, the five, dove cleanly into the side pocket!

A wave of relief washed through him, quickly suppressed. He'd made a ball on the break. He had the first shot. The table was his.

He walked around the table, surveying the layout. The balls were spread nicely, no major clusters, no balls frozen to rails. The one-ball sat near the foot of the table, a medium-length but open shot into the corner. The path to the nine-ball wasn't a straight highway – there were potential tricky spots around the four and the six – but it was definitely navigable. The run-out was there for the taking. Again.

This time, there could be no mistakes. No lapses in focus. No overconfidence. Just pure execution.

He settled into his pre-shot routine, blocking out the hushed expectancy of the crowd, blocking out Jesse Riley's impassive presence in the player's chair. Chalk the tip. Visualize the shot line. Check the cue ball path. Stance. Bridge. Practice strokes, smooth and level. Pause. Deliver.

The one-ball dropped cleanly. Thump. The cue ball rolled forward perfectly, leaving an ideal angle on the two-ball near the side rail.

He moved to the next shot. Two-ball into the side pocket. He focused on stunning the cue ball slightly forward, staying below the four-ball for position on the three (which had gone on the break).

Clack. Thump. Perfect execution. The cue ball stopped exactly where intended.

He felt the rhythm settling in, the familiar zone descending. The McDermott felt like a part of him now, responding instantly to his slightest command. He addressed the four-ball, needing to navigate the cue ball past the six to get shape on the seven (the five and six having also gone on the break – wait, checking the mental list, the break only pocketed the five, so the three and six were still on the table. Recalculate. One, two down. Need path four -> six -> seven -> eight -> nine).

Okay. Correction. The break pocketed the five. He'd just pocketed the one and two. Lowest ball was the three. It sat near the center, slightly blocked by the four. The four was near the head rail. The six near the side. Seven below center. Eight near the foot corner. Nine mid-table. Not as simple as he first thought after the four went down mentally.

He reassessed. The four partially blocked the direct path to pocketing the three and getting shape on the four. He could play safe, nudge the three behind the four. Or he could attempt a riskier offensive shot – maybe a thin cut on the three, using side spin to swerve the cue ball around the four?

No. Too risky. Not now. Patience. He needed to control the table, not gamble unnecessarily. He opted for a controlled safety, playing the cue ball softly into the three, sending the three gently towards the side rail while the cue ball rolled behind the four, leaving Jesse hidden.

It was the percentage play, the smart play. But it felt… passive. He'd just surrendered the offensive advantage gained from the break. Doubts flickered. Should he have taken on the cut?

Jesse stood up, surveyed the table without expression. He had to kick at the three. He chose a one-rail kick, aiming to hit the three thin and hopefully leave the cue ball safe again. His execution was, as expected, excellent. He made contact with the three, sending it towards the corner but not close enough to be a threat, while the cue ball rolled back down table, partially hidden behind the eight. Not a perfect snooker, but awkward.

Kaizer studied the reply. He could see a sliver of the three-ball. He could attempt an extremely thin cut, or play safe again. He felt the tactical battle resuming, the tension ratcheting back up. He decided to apply pressure. He aimed for the thin cut on the three, playing it with speed, hoping to pocket it while scattering the cue ball somewhat randomly – an aggressive gamble, trying to force the issue.

He stroked it firmly… Click. He hit the three, thin as intended. It zipped towards the side pocket… and caught the point, spinning out! The cue ball, hit with speed, careened off two rails and came to rest near the center of the table, wide open. Another mistake. A gamble that hadn't paid off.

He stepped back, frustration prickling. Why couldn't he close this out cleanly? Why these small but critical errors at the worst possible moments?

Jesse stepped up calmly, the beneficiary of Kaizer's impatience. The table was now wide open for him. Three-ball near center, easy starter. Four near the head rail. Six near the side. Seven below center. Eight near the foot corner. Nine mid-table. A clear path.

Kaizer watched, feeling helpless again, as Jesse began his work. Three… thump. Cue ball perfectly onto the four. Four… thump. Perfect angle onto the six. Jesse was playing flawlessly now, capitalizing completely on Kaizer's error. He moved with quiet determination, each shot precise, inevitable.

Six… thump. Position for the seven. Seven… thump. Position for the eight.

Kaizer felt his championship hopes slipping away with each dropped ball. Jesse was three balls away from tying the match hill-hill again, and this time, he would have the break in the decider.

Jesse lined up the eight-ball near the foot corner. He needed to pocket it and bring the cue ball back up table for the nine, which sat patiently near center. He executed the shot perfectly, the cue ball drawing back smoothly off the foot rail, stopping about two feet from the nine, leaving a near straight-in shot.

Only the nine-ball remained. The tournament championship rested on this single shot for Jesse Riley. Make it, and the score was 6-6, forcing a final deciding rack. Miss it, and Kaizer Saint was the champion.

The silence in Rack 'em Up was absolute. Everyone watched Jesse. He went through his routine, calm, deliberate. He settled into his stance. Drew the cue back. Paused. Stroked…

Clack. A pure sound. The nine-ball rolled towards the side pocket. Straight. True.

It hit the back of the pocket. Thump.

Game Jesse.

6-6.

A mixture of gasps and applause filled the room. Jesse Riley had done it again. Clawed his way back from the brink, capitalized on Kaizer's mistake, and forced the absolute final game. Hill-hill. For the championship. (Or rather, to force a second set, Kaizer reminded himself. The double-elimination advantage still technically existed, though it felt meaningless right now).

Jesse allowed himself the smallest sigh of relief, retrieving the cue ball. He looked over at Kaizer, and for the first time, Kaizer saw not just focus, but fierce determination, maybe even a hint of confidence bordering on swagger. Jesse knew he had the momentum now. And he had the break for this final, deciding game.

Kaizer walked back to his chair, his mind reeling. How had he let it happen again? Two games on the hill, two chances to close it out, and both times he'd made critical errors under pressure, letting Jesse back in. Was his mental game truly this fragile now? Was the weight of the second chance too heavy?

He forced the negative thoughts down. Panic wouldn't help. Regret wouldn't help. All that mattered was this next game. Game thirteen. Sudden death. He had to watch Jesse break, hope for an opportunity, and if he got one, he had to execute flawlessly. No more mistakes. No more chokes.

He watched Jesse rack the balls for the final time in this set, his movements precise, focused. The entire tournament, weeks of effort, risk, and planning, boiled down to this single rack of nine-ball. Kaizer gripped the arms of the cheap plastic chair, his knuckles white, waiting for the final break.