Sticks (16 page)

She looks at Serena and smiles brave as Joseph pats me on the back. “Play with heart, son. That’s all you need to bring to the table.”

Big Earl is checking in the last-minute sign-ups. I rub my left hand, which I’ve been icing since I got up. It’s near frozen.

“I’m sorry! It wasn’t my fault!”

Petie Pencastle is standing in front of me, waving his arms.

“Huh?”

“I told my parents it wouldn’t be fair; he’s
so big
and all and nobody was expecting him!”

Petie points a shaky finger toward the counter, where a huge boy is signing the tournament sheet. “It’s my cousin!” Petie wails. “They’re up visiting from Elizabeth for the weekend. He’s a real good player, Mickey.” Petie lowers his voice. “They call him the
Sledgehammer
.”

We look at the giant, who’s getting instructions from Big Earl. If Arlen and I stood side by side, we’d maybe be as wide.

“He’s too old to play!” Arlen shouts. “You can’t play if you’re over thirteen. He’s sixteen at least.”

“He’s thirteen,” Petie says, groaning. “He turns fourteen next week. His father had to show his birth certificate at school. He’s too big to fit into the desks. They must be giving him steroids.”

“This isn’t happening!” Arlen screams.

I look at Buck, who’s doing his shoulder-loosening motion.

I look at the Sledgehammer, who’s so big he’s casting a shadow over the counter.

I put both hands on table nine and lean over.

I’m finished.

Joseph Alvarez leans in. “Blinders,” he says.

Man. It’s so much easier when you’re practicing.

Poppy blows her tournament whistle. I move slowly into place.

Poppy runs her kids’ tournament official, just like the grown-up ones.

“We’re going to play this tournament like the great game of pool should be played,” Poppy shouts to the crowd. She’s wearing her red Vernon’s sweatshirt today—Poppy always wears red on special occasions. “We don’t want any foul language. We don’t want any cheating. If you do either of these things, you’re out.”

Slam. Poppy’s fist hits the counter.

“We’ve got umpires at each table and, believe me, you don’t want to mess with them.”

All the umps look tough—Snake Mensker, Big Earl Reed. Madman Turcell shakes his ponytail like a crazy dog and cracks his knuckles.

“Now let’s face the flag of our great land and say the Pledge of Allegiance.”

Poppy brings the flag out for tournaments. I’m saying the pledge loud like I’ve been taught. Buck’s not pledging and I wonder if I can turn him in.

“All right now!” Poppy screams.

The kids who won first up bend down to break.

The umpires lean forward.

Poppy blows her whistle.
“Crack ’em good!”

There’s a crash so loud it shakes the walls as twenty-four cue balls ram across twenty-four tables.

My heart’s pumping.

Pool games are won one ball at a time.

Rick Plotsky gets nothing in on the break.

My turn. I make the one, two, three. I miss the four, but Rick does too. We battle ball for ball, but I win.

“Game to Mickey Vernon,” says Madman, punching the air.

I win the second game too. It’s best two out of three.

“And that’s a match to Mickey Vernon.”

Rick and I shake hands.

“Good game,” I tell him, and win first up against T. R. Dobbs, who just won his match. T.R. has never beat me.

I dig down deep and break with my whole body. The cue ball rams the one clean and breaks the balls apart. Six in the back corner. I chalk my stick light, moving around the table. No good shots. I do a safety like Joseph showed me—hiding the cue ball behind another ball to give your opponent a hard shot.

T.R. groans at the nightmare I left him and tries shooting the one, but gets the nine ball in by mistake. That’s the worst thing you can do.

“Game to Mickey Vernon,” says Madman.

I do like the way that sounds.

I ace the next rack. My match again.

My hand’s hurting, but I don’t care.

Dinah Glossup and I are up next. She’s a tough player. We battle hard. She snookers me behind the eight ball—I can’t get a clear shot on the six and flub the shot bad. Dinah wins the first game. I blow two shots on the rail. I just win the second game.

I look over at Buck, who is definitely gunning
down the enemy on table three. Pike Lorey is shouting every time Buck makes a shot. Poppy tells Pike if he doesn’t zip that lip of his, she’s going to pick four of her biggest umpires to toss him in the street.

Pike shuts up, fuming.

I’m taking Tylenol for my third game with Dinah.

I break hard. Eight in the corner.

English on the one to gain position, look at the effect each shot will have on the next. Find the angles.

Shoot it straight
.

Concentrate
.

I win it.

Dinah shakes my hand.

I’m looking around. I don’t know where Arlen is.

I’m rubbing talcum powder on my hands so my stick won’t slip. I win three more matches, four.

“Match to Mickey Vernon.” Madman’s saying it over and over.

We stop for lunch. I’m icing my hand. It’s aching bad. I haven’t played this long since I sprained it. I’m taking deep breaths, keeping my focus. Easy stroke. Easy win.

I find Arlen in the corner by the Sledgehammer’s table writing something on a piece of paper. He always watches
me
play. I tell him I’ve been winning.

“Well,
of course
you have,” he says, and goes back to writing.

Poppy comes over, looks at my left wrist.

“How bad is it?” she asks. “You tell me the truth now.”

“It’s half bad.” The soreness is shooting from
my wrist through my fingers. My elbow’s feeling it too.

“Can you play?”

“I can play.”

“Then don’t concentrate on where it hurts. Concentrate on all the places that feel fine.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Every day.”

Poppy blows her whistle and we’re playing again. My nose is feeling pretty good and I concentrate on that. I’m shooting, breaking, banking, hurting.

The games blur into each other. Straight shots. Safeties. Double banks. I’m acing my banks.

Ninety-degree angles.

Forty-fives.

Divide the angle by two. Nail it hard and
yes
.

I make a 140-degree bank against Shelty Zoller and Madman’s eyes go back in his head.

I’m still standing.

I’m playing twelve- and thirteen-year-olds now. Nicky Prinz. Ted Carothers. Pike Lorey. Pike tries cheating and moving the cue ball, saying he didn’t mean to touch it. Madman is all over him and gives me the game. I whip Pike extra nice on the second rack, just in case he didn’t think I could lick him for real.

But with each new game, my hand gets worse. Still, the Meucci’s shooting like a rifle.

I don’t know where it’s coming from.

Madman’s saying it different each time.

“
Match
to Mickey Vernon.”

“Match
to
Mr. Vernon.”

“And another match to
Mick the Stick
!”

Mom is grinning.

Joseph Alvarez is beaming.

Poppy’s playing it cool, but I can tell inside she’s busting.

Where is Arlen?

It’s three o’clock.

I keep climbing higher, higher, one ball at a time. I’ve got to play Tim Irons. He’s a monster on position. Tim gets in place. I’m looking over at Arlen but he’s watching the Sledgehammer like he’s the big show.

What’s he doing?

I’ve got to focus. Blinders like my dad. Tim’s big. He’s got power. He’s not injured.

He throws himself into the break, cracks the balls apart, but gets nothing in.

But what he leaves me is a miracle. An easy shot off the one ball to pocket the nine. If I make it, I win the game with one shot.

I make it.

Anything can happen in nine ball.

“Game to Mickey here!” Madman shouts.

I can’t believe it.

Tim slumps over as Madman racks the balls.

My break. I bust them up—three ball in the corner. I foul on the one and Tim uses it for position. We battle to the wire until the nine ball’s left. Tim makes it, but he scratches on the break in the next game. I don’t know how, but the balls roll with me. I run the table, tap the nine in the side. Tim’s standing there like he’s been struck by lightning.

“Maaaaaaaaaaatch to Mickey Vernon.”

Yes!

*   *   *

It’s four o’clock.

There are four players left. Me, Buck, Cindy Grassini, and the Sledgehammer. I’m the only player not thirteen years old. It’s a miracle I’m here. I stand extra tall because I’m the shortest.

My hand is throbbing. I don’t know if I can play anymore.

Poppy puts our names in a Yankees cap and picks two at a time to decide who’ll play who next. Cindy is the only one I can maybe beat, and I’m not laying money on it. She’s tough. Poppy hands the names to the umpires. I’m trying to read her face, but she’s wearing the one she uses for poker—eyes straight ahead, jaw shut, the one Big Earl says no one can decipher.

“How come I gotta go there?”
Buck Pender’s looking at Snake Mensker, who’s pointing over at my table.

“Because I said so.”

I close my eyes.

No!

I got
Buck
!

That’s it.

I’m not going to even make the finals. This whole year I’ve been picturing Buck and me as the last guys standing.

Snake steps back to let Buck pass. Mr. and Mrs. Pender follow him. Mrs. Pender whispers, “Be a good sport now, Buck.” Cindy Grassini walks to the Sledgehammer’s table.

My hand hurts so bad. I stand there at table nine because I don’t know what else to do.

Buck stomps over, wipes his mouth on his work-shirt, and looks at me, laughing.

“You’re going down,
Vernon
.”

“This is the semifinal round!” Poppy announces.

The pool hall is quieter than I’ve ever heard it. I step up to the table; I’ve got the break.

Mom has her arms folded tight, trying not to look nervous.

Joseph Alvarez nods at me and winks.

The crowd around the table is two deep. Buck’s people on the left, mine on the right. I can’t concentrate on who’s here. I can’t think about my hand and how much it hurts. I can’t worry that Buck’s trying to get to me with that expression on his face that says I’m wasting his time.

This is the semifinals.

Slam
.

I ram my stick into the white cue ball and get two in on the break. My people applaud extra loud.

I make the one. The three. Just get the five, tip
the six into the corner pretty wobbly, but it goes in. That’s all that matters in pool. Three balls left.

I can’t look at Buck even though he’s looking at me. I can feel it, though. Feel his fat smile breaking across his face.

I miss the seven.

Stupid!

My people groan.

Buck steps up to the table like he owns it. He looks at his father, who doesn’t look back. Buck aims long on the seven, bends down, and rams it straight in.

He eyeballs the eight. It’s lying on the rail—a tough shot. Buck wipes sweat from his forehead, wipes sweat from his hands. He aims low; his stick slips.

The eight moves three inches.

I hit it in fast and set up pretty for the nine ball. I get the nine nice in the side pocket.

“Yes!” shouts Joseph above the rest.

“Match to Mr. Mickey Vernon!” Madman shouts, strutting.

Buck’s looking at me like he can’t believe it.

I look right back at him.

Believe it.

Madman racks the balls. I’ve got maybe one more break in me and then my hand’s going to stop working. I push back on my super-mega-traction Nikes.

The cue ball crashes down the table.

Seven in the corner.

I rub my wrist. It hurts so bad. I do an okay safety on the one.

“I’ll get him now,” Buck says to his father. Mr. Pender sits there like a statue. The only thing moving is that vein beating in his neck. Mrs. Pender is fiddling with her purse strap.

Buck gets the one in the side in a great shot. He nails the two, the three, then he scratches on the four, which is a big mistake.

I put the cue ball by the four ball, which is three inches from the side pocket.

You can’t beat me,
Vernon
.

Yes I can
.

Wham!

My stick’s on fire. Five in the corner. Bank the six in the side. Long drive on the eight—right on the money.

Just the nine ball and me.

Nobody’s moving.

It’s a long corner shot.

I look down the table like it’s a runway. Focus in. Shoot.

And
yes!
The nine speeds into the corner. That’s the
match
!

Mr. Kopchnik’s shaking Mr. Gatto. “Did you see that, Gatto?”

“I saw it, Kopchnik!”

I touch the dark green cloth of table nine and throw back my head.

Madman yells it so everyone can hear.
“That’s a shutout for Mickey Vernon!”

I go toward Buck to shake hands, but he won’t do it. He’s yelling it’s not fair, table nine’s a bad table, his stick wasn’t straight, the whole thing was rigged. He wants a rematch!