People Narrate The Time Someone Didn't Know They Were An Expert At A Task

“A traveling pool hustler came to our little town looking for rubes and marks. I happened to be in the town’s best pool bar waiting for a friend, so I was casually practicing some shots and having a beer.

The hustler strolled up and complimented my game. (a common hustler ruse) Then he asked, ‘Y’all ever play for some bank?’

I replied with another common hustler’s line, ‘Maybe just little something to keep it honest, but not too much.’

We agreed on a low-stakes game for $2 a round. He won the toss but did not run the table. It’s bad form for hustlers to run out from the gate.

That scares the mark and prevents higher stakes later.

If you’re outside of the pool community, you might not know how we feel about ‘hustlers.’ We think they are liars and grifters because they hide their skill to ‘hustle’ funds from poor rubes. He followed the classic dishonest hustler’s agenda. So, I got my shot and ran out.

With the break now in my possession, I ran two more racks.

He paid up every time cheerfully, as all good hustlers do. Then he popped the inevitable question, ‘How about we make it a little more interesting?’

‘OK,’ I say smiling like the dumbest rube on Earth. ‘How much?’

‘You already have six of my dollars.’ (again, a very common hustler strategy) ‘Five a game shouldn’t be too bad huh?’

Like other gamblers, Hustlers know betting strategies to ensnare less informed amateurs. This ‘almost double when you’re ahead’ gambit is a common trick that has led many marks to financial ruin.

‘Sure, so long as I still have the break.’

‘Oh yeah! It’s your table!’

So, I broke the rack, started to run, but got into trouble on a bad cluster.

I tried to make the shot I called, but by accident (wink) left the cue-ball in a terrible position for him.

The ‘follow into a pack’ safety is one of the easiest to do, and it also disguises skill since so many amateurs do it by mistake so often. He was not suspicious, so I continued running two more racks after that game.

He flubbed, and I am sure it was not for lack of trying!

It’s hard to shoot at your only available ball, near the center of an end rail, when the cue is stuck inside a cluster of opponent’s balls.

So, he let me out. We played two more $5 games of 8-ball after that.

Then he claimed he was running out of time and would like a chance to win some of his 21 bucks back. ‘OK.

Do I still have the break?’

‘Sure. But this time for $20 a rack.’

So, I ran three more racks. No mistakes. No ‘unintentional’ safeties. He must have been suspicious by then. His quiet fierce expression on his face said, ‘This guy is either the luckiest idiot in the world, or is really that good.’

The psychological ploy for hustlers in this position requires they make a bold play that rattles the rube’s nerves.

He had no way of knowing I had just returned from another state championship where I defeated Earl ‘The Pearl’ Strickland in 9 balls. This was before pool tournaments were widely televised on cable TV and neither my face nor my name was well known. As expected, he played his trump card…

‘Listen, ol’ friend, I know you shoot a mean stick. I’ve seen a stroke like that before.

Let’s cut the horseplay and get to business.’

‘Uh, OK. What do you propose?’

‘You see that man over there?’

‘Yes.’

Then he motioned to the man who walked over. He wore a business suit and sunglasses. I suspected he was traveling with the hustler by the way he kept intently watching our games. The hustler introduced him as ‘Steve, my personal backer.’

The idea was to intimidate me by the fact he has someone willing to pay for his pool gambling. That’s supposed to indicate he is so good that you poor local punks have no chance. This ruse has been used on so many rubes that amateur hustlers often find a buddy to act like backers, even when they are just friends. They got nervous when someone did this to them.

They think it will work on others too.

By the challenging tone of voice and heated glare in his eyes, I saw this guy and his ‘backer’ were the type of men who are prone to anger, rash actions, and potentially dangerous bar fights. When you tend bar for decades, you acquire an instinct about these people and can read body language. These were not the kind of customers the owner (my friend) or the manager (me) wanted around.

Steve was a stout fellow; a trifle shorter than me but significantly stronger judging by his four-square build. As I shook his hand, I felt it could also be an iron fist when necessary. Steve had that ‘hard’ look. His weathered tan skin seemed tough enough that you could roller-skate on it. I’d guess he was a bricklayer or carpenter.

‘So, what are we talking about here?’ I asked.

‘Race to three, nine-ball, $500 for the set. Valley rules. One time, winner takes all.’

‘Hmmm… sounds like you know what you are doing! But, I just got paid yesterday and all my bills are done. Do I still get the break, or do you want to lag for it?’

‘This here is real money, Son. We gotta lag for it.’

I grew up in a big city.

I know when someone uses the term ‘Son’ to demean or intimidate. But having been through this exercise dozens of times, I was cool. Permafrost cold.

‘Sure why not? Just one thing, we should follow good pool etiquette here and give the funds to a third party to hold.’

They both agreed. I got out five hundred, so did ‘Steve,’ the hustler’s backer.

Then I called over ‘Tiny.’

Tiny is our bar’s friendly gay black bouncer, an off-duty police officer who makes spare cash on weekends checking IDs at the door. He looks great in his clean pressed uniform, is soft-spoken, and very polite: usually quite gentle too. He had been working for me at this place since we opened that year. He is 6’4’’ and built like the proverbial brick house.

He doesn’t carry a gun inside our bar. He doesn’t need to.

They were obviously a little nervous seeing a cop hold the funds since gambling is ‘illegal’ in our state. I explained that Tiny does this kind of thing all the time. No worries.

Tiny pocketed the grand and stood table-side to watch.

So, the only thing left was to determine who got the break.

We lagged. I won.

I confess I conned my way on this lag just a little. Since I was shooting left-handed and had the right side of the table on the lag, I took advantage of a small divot near my corner.

Amateurs don’t know how to properly execute ‘jump shots.’ They think they are supposed to scoop the ball up from underneath to jump.

That is how these awful divots are pounded into bar tables. I knew all the tables because I brushed them every night and was intimately familiar with every little bump.

Since I knew about the divot and had practiced this shot many times on that particular table, speed control was easy. It did not require great precision. A smooth stroke and slow speed get you there almost every time.

Then the divot ‘captures’ the ball like a little pothole. This divot grabbed the ball and held it an eighth-inch from the rail.

So, he racked. And I got ready to break: right-handed.

The hustler noticed this, laughed a little nervous laugh, and said, ‘I thought you were a shootin’, left-handed Son!’

I turned to look him straight in the eye and said, ‘Yeah.

I was. But for five-bills a game, I like to shoot the way I usually do.’

I can only describe the appearance of those two guys like this: They looked like a Dali painting; as if they were wilting and melting over their chairs. The hustler looked down at the floor with his stupid mouth open and pitiful eyebrows raised. Steve The Backer face-palmed and shook his head.

I broke and ran three. It didn’t take long. Nine-ball games are fast anyway, but now I was in my element and shooting at a normal pace.

Bar-sized pool tables are smaller than tournament tables because bar owners are usually short on floor area and need to squeeze every cent of profit from their limited real estate. Contrary to amateur players’ opinions, smaller tables are MUCH harder to run out on, because there is less room to maneuver.

A professional has good cue-ball control. That means I can put the cue ball where I want on almost any shot, and I always put the cue ball in places that lead to a complete run-out, or an unstoppable safety.

With only nine balls out for the game of ‘nine-ball’, it is actually much easier to get the cue ball where you want, because there is more room.

The table isn’t crowded and cluster screwed. So, I was more relaxed. I could afford to shoot at my normal faster pace, not slowly and deliberately as when I practice left-handed.

As the utterly out-hustled hustler and his tough-looking backer tacitly packed to leave, I noticed he had a book in his fancy expensive cue case: ‘Advanced Technique in Pool and Billiards’ by Robert Byrne.

I complimented him on his choice of pool-instruction books, then introduced myself with my full name. ‘Yeah, Bobby and I go back ways. He put four of my shots in this book.’ I picked up the book and showed him the two pages with my name, the name of our city, and the shots Byrne made of my special advanced ‘tricks.’

Tiny handed me the grand.

I handed back a hundred-dollar bill to Tiny for his ‘commission’ then I offered to buy those two guys a round of drinks on the house. They refused and left quietly without saying so much as ‘goodbye.'”