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My Friend Joe |
| Written by Kyril Popoff | |
| Thursday, 12 April 2007 | |
Joe served in the Army as an armorer doing small arms repair in Vietnam. For someone who dealt with the tools of death on a daily basis, Joe was quiet and unassuming. I fist met Joe when I started shooting pool in late 2003. We were playing in a Saturday night big-table 9-ball pool tournament at Southgate Billiards, and he beat me 7-0. I had just started playing a couple of months earlier, and plenty of attempts had been made by others to hustle me and get me to part with my hard-earned cash. Just about everyone - except Joe and a few others - was killing themselves to get a game with me. They were offering pretty good weight, too. But not Joe. He never bothered with any of the gambling, and when our match was done that night and he was waiting for his next one, he shook my hand, said "good match, Kyril", and quietly started pulling balls out of the pockets, softly rolling them onto the table, and just continued shooting balls off like he was walking an obedient dog; no effort whatsoever. Quiet. Smooth. Most of the time he shot with just enough speed to pocket the balls, but if he needed to shape a ball he did it; and so, so effortlessly. If he ever missed a ball he would, for just a split second, tilt his head while looking at the shot, almost like a dog that tilts its head when he's trying to figure out what you want from him. A mixture of curiosity and and objective wondering, as if to say, "Really? Hmm." Then he would just shoot the next shot. A miss for him was so rare that I can understand why he would do that. After I had started paying my dues on the table for about six months, I got up the nerve to ask Joe if he wanted to shoot a little, as he had won the Saturday Night 9-ball tournament in a quick, routine fashion that night, and the pool hall was still open. He said "Sure. What do you want to play?" I said "Whatever you want to." He says "Do you know how to play Straight Pool?" I said "No, but I'm a quick learner." Then, he comes back with this one: "Well, we'll know soon." From that night forward Joe and I would trade glances across the pool hall as our leagues / tournaments were winding up, as if to say to each other "Ready to shoot some straight pool?", without ever saying a word; and shoot we did. Hours upon hours we shot, night after night on Table 3, Joe being totally quiet unless I asked him a question; his reply usually being quite short, as Joe was never one to waste words: "Hey Joe; man, I cannot figure out what the hell is wrong with me tonight." I was expecting a response, but Joe said nothing. I later asked Joe why he had nothing to say, as I wanted to figure out what I was doing wrong that night. He said: "You never asked me a question." That left me dumbfounded; then I realized that I had made a statement, and had not asked him a question. Joe seemed to know the difference, and would not give me any unsolicited advice. I respected the hell out of him for that. Unknowingly (possible) or knowingly (I suspect), Joe was educating me on alot more than just pool. If I wanted an answer, I had to first ask a question; and that question had to be the right question in order for me to get the answer I desired - and only if Joe felt I was ready for the answer. If you are ever in Northwest Wisconsin in a pool hall, or more specifically the city of Rice Lake, just find a bar or pool hall and any pool player in it will know his name. Joe never liked attention, but he was just that damn good. You couldn't not know who he was after a while, because he played in every league and shot in every tournament around, and he fared well. He was kind and gracious when he won, and even more so if he lost, which was rare. When I first got my 9' pool table installed in my basement, Joe was the first person I called up to come over and shoot on it. We shot all day, 14-1, 8-ball and 9-ball. When we took a break from shooting that afternoon, we walked out into the backyard to strech our legs for a bit and Joe just sat down in the grass, 'Indian-Style', with his arms stretched out over his knees, like he was sitting in the most comfortable chair in the world. He gazed up at the sky and looked around at the trees with a half-smile, almost like a grandparent watching their grandchildren at play. We sat out there for about 15 minutes; me doing most of the talking, Joe just silently nodding his head or letting out a slight chuckle now and again. Then Joe stood up slowly, as if he was tired and ready to go home; he wiped the grass off of his jeans, looked around once more admiring the beautiful spring day, and said "Well, let's shoot some one-pocket!" It was the most excited I'd seen him in a long time, and I was more than happy to oblige. It was a great day. Joe and I met up at the pool hall every week since then, and we would go at it in every kind of pool game you can name; but we never bet on a single one, ever. Joe and I played for the mere "Let's-see-if-I-can-do-it-better-than-you" factor. That doesn't mean that Joe couldn't compete, however. He was on the winning team in the Twin States Regional Tournament in 2004, and has won more singles tournaments than I can list. Joe never asked to be on anyone's team - they were always asking him. A couple of months before his death, when the cancer and chemo had left him in a particularly weak state, Joe and I were shooting a league 8-ball match left himself a really tough shot. Joe just nonchalanlty raised his cue, glanced one time at the short rail, and then glanced back down at the cue ball. He poked down hard, and banked the eight off the short rail and into the other side pocket! I was in disbelief. Joe just started slowly taking the balls out of the pocket for me to rack, and as he got to where I was standing, he leaned over and whispered softly into my ear: "That's why everybody keeps asking me to go to those damn tournaments..." and wandered slowly back to his chair. Even on the brink of his physical demise Joe kept a wry sense of humor, always laced with a profound but subtle truth of one sort or another. Joe left us in the early afternoon of November 21st, 2006. I watched Joe battle that cancer for 15 months, and he never bitched about it - not once. We could all take a lesson from that. As a matter of fact, Joe had the cancer for over a year before a lot of people even knew about it. He would just do his thing, walking around the table and pocketing pool balls. Then, just after whipping your ass (hey, you can't win if you can't get to the table...) he would shake your hand with a small smile and genuine look of appreciation for your attempt at giving him some competition. After all, would any of us play this game if there was never anyone to compete against? We all still joke around at Southgate about Joe, and tell stories about some of the unbelievable shots he made; his character, his quiet way, and his uncanny ability to bust out a witty comment after not hearing him say a thing all night. Good times and good laughs. On the one hand, I'm happy that Joe isn't suffering anymore; but sometimes it just makes the pool hall that much more empty now that he's not around; especially late at night, when him and I were the only ones left and we used to shoot our marathon matches under one lit table, when the rest of the place was pitch black. Why am I writing all this? I'm not sure. More than anything, I want the world to know he was here; that he lived, and lived well. I guess I just miss my friend. Copyright 2007 Kyril Popoff {moscomment} |
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