**
Paul Arness, Jr. was a friendly young man, handsome and attractive to women. A mop of dark hair, unruly at the crown, framed a pleasant face with large brown eyes.
He flicked in his hundredth ball of the afternoon. Dots of perspiration beaded on his brow, furrowed in intense concentration. His tall, lank frame bent far across the table but in balance for the upcoming stroke, his hands coming forward to allow his set to be perfect despite his sprawling legs wedged against the table's frame.
The back room at the pool hall was still and hushed in the midsummer heat. The door was open but a crack's width to let "fresh" air in from the main hall. The owner kindly patronized Arness and his game as he always did, letting him enjoy a free billiards salle priveé to prepare for his match against The Kid himself, one William J. Mosconi. The townsfolk likewise ignored the back room and even the poolroom in general this week to let Arness prepare for his duel in peace.
Paul kept stroking, kept shooting, interrupted by nothing, not even conscious thought, until carried on a rare breeze a voice whispered and he could all but hear his mentor, long since moved on, call to him on a similar afternoon long ago. How many years was it gone by now?
**
"Easy, my boy, take it easy. We want to let the cue do the work on each shot and we want to gentle her in with our hands as well. That's it now-remember what Sir Issac told me long ago, yes..."/p>
The soothing voice of the old man was inconsistent with his workman's calloused hands and otherwise gruff manner. "Sir Issac" was the moniker of his mentor at pool's first cousin, cushion billiards, which game demanded a ton of stroke to move the oversize balls around the giant table.
Issac Ryan, an Irish expatriate who made his way to the States in the mid-19th Century, was dimly related to his namesake, Sir Issac Newton, who had a lot to say about physics if not in fact billiards.
"Sir Issac said Sir Issac said," began the old man, chuckling to himself as he always did when invoking both the Issacs in one phrase. "Sir Issac said if you set any object in motion it--"
"--It will move if not pushed off course by something else... forever," recited the young Arness in an almost trancelike tone. A "forever stroke" would be a great thing in pool, mused Paul.
Once the pure stroke began its descending motion from the top of the backswing toward the ball, if the cue ball was speared through without the shooter feeling its impact with the cue tip-a clean strike and through-then the cue stick would fly forward forever and a day if one's fingers didn't press it to the side. Straight stroke, straight ball roll, straight to where you aimed, and all the balls fall in the pockets.
Letting the cue come forward using a light clasp on the stick worked wonders and the forever motion seemed just out of Paul's reach, as it would for some years still. Paul got a first taste of pool at age 12, kept with it as often as he could manage under the blessing of his father (and half-blessing of his mother) and then, wonder of wonders, the old man who was not lecturing him once again had decided to gravitate to Paul's hometown for a long spell, until another orbiting body caught him under its pull and he floated away once again for other parts, other billiards parlors, other games and wagers.
Paul's local hall had some good tables scattered among some decrepit ones, and true camaraderie among the men and younger set who haunted its dank, cavernous interior, but the old man stayed in place even as long as he did to keep an eye (his best eye, the other was developing its cataract at a far faster pace) on Paul.
Paul had much talent the day the old man set eyes on him, he could see that and more, a drive, the will to win. Maybe even to be the best.
"And law number two, Paul?" intoned the old man.
"The lighter the cue the lighter the stroke I need, sir."
"And number three?"
"Each action has a--a reaction. Equal and opposite."
"So what about it?" the man chirped in a clipped tone, expecting the pool equation to have been long before memorized.
"So my backstroke is about as long as my follow through is now," replied Paul.
"Is it? Sir Issac's 3rd from Sir Issac means you stand up to the ceiling as you break as hard as you can on that head ball for more power, as you know, Paul."
Paul remained silent in response. Another ball dropped. And another, and a ninth and a tenth from the rack. But the old man had not been watching the balls roll but Paul's magnificent, pure stroke.
"Yes, yes, I suppose your follow through is even. I suppose mine has long been too. I hadn't seen that before. Which means the job is almost done," the old man continued, his voice trailing away.
Another ball fell and another. Now two fell together on one very fine stroke and the cue ball, its momentum all but spent lazed into position for the next shot. "Rack three!" exclaimed Paul, not hearing the man as he released his responsibility for the lad to the pool muse, to the tradition of mentor and mentee, to the time honored rubric of one man setting a mark for the next.
**
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The Killer And The Mosc, Part I: 13-Rack RideThe Killer And The Mosc Part II: Roll Two Million Balls
Part III: Pickle Juice Paul
Part IV: Arness Gets A Taste
Part V: Ralph Greenleaf Kicks Willie Mosconi's Tail
Part VI: Mosconi's Madness, The Fire Down Below
Part VII: The Old Man's Three Rules Of Great Pool
Part VIII: The Men In Town To Clash
Part IX: Stand And Fight
Part X: Showdown On Cloth
Part XI: Cue Ball Killing It
Part XII: Willie's Best Bank Shot
