Painting on Green Canvas

My freshman year of college started off quietly. Most of my friends from high school went away to out-of-state universities. I spent most of my time just wandering across campus. Almost everyone else looked like they knew why they were there. I found a handful of the freshmen had their sights set on their futures and were already working on getting the education they needed for their careers, but the majority looked like they just wanted to expand their social circles. The campus was littered with signs and banners for student clubs or organizations, but none really interested me. The first few weeks, I tried to fit in with some of the cliques that hung out at the café. By the middle of October, I was spending more time by myself in the poolroom of the Student Union, and less time killing time with my classmates. My class schedule gave me a three-hour break from 10:30 am to 1:30 pm every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. That gave me enough time to grab some cheap food and run down to the poolroom to play a few racks by myself. Pretty soon, I became a familiar face to the staff running the poolroom; it got to the point that the girl behind the counter would just smile and give me the back table without my having to say a word to her. Even there, though, I felt a little distant from the other students. Nobody had any idea what the game was about. Most of them just used the room to keep warm and try to meet other people. Typically, the pool tables were used as a place to drop off their coats or book bags.

For me, pool was different. I loved the game. I’ve been playing the game since I was twelve. Back then, I’d sit for hours in a poolroom, watching, learning, studying the possibilities. The real fascination came from watching the cue ball travel the table, sliding off the rails and through clusters of balls, dancing with precise English, to finish in perfect position for the next shot. That’s what always impressed me—it was like watching someone create something from nothing.

One morning in the poolroom at school, I noticed a guy in his late forties playing on the back table. He seemed as out-of-place in this room as I felt. What caught my eye was that even though he looked out-of-place in a room full of college students, he still looked very comfortable as he played. The white ball moved like magic for him—it seemed to float as it traveled across the table, like it obeyed his mental commands. He had such a casual-looking control of the game. No shot seem difficult; balls were pocketed with such ease. Each shot got the same attention, every stroke was a replay of the last, whether it was a simple stop shot in the side pocket from half-table or a thin cut down the long rail while the cue ball rolled through traffic for perfect position on the next shot. His mechanics made it appear almost effortless. He didn’t look like he was even trying.

I stood there mesmerized by his skill. I must have looked like a kid staring into a toy-store window just before Christmas. I could not believe that a player this strong would be playing here. There were no action players or pros. He was surrounded by loud kids who barely even knew how to hold a cue, and with the sounds of a blaring jukebox only a few feet away from his table. With all this going on, he looked as peaceful as if he was on an empty beach, like he was removed from all that was going on around him. I stood close enough to see what he was doing, but careful not to approach him. There was something about him that told you to appreciate his privacy. He reminded me of the old Chinese guys I would see in the park in the early morning doing tai chi. For the last five years, I have hardly been out of a poolroom, but nothing came close to what I was watching.

When he was done playing, he placed the house cue back on the wall and quietly walked thorough the crowded room, virtually unnoticed. He would make adjustments while walking to the counter; if he saw that someone might get in the way, he would avoid them without them ever noticing. As he passed my table, he nodded his head and said, “Good morning.” I hadn’t realized I’d been staring at him, even as he approached. I just stood there, tongue-tied, and watched him continue to walk to the counter, careful not to disturb any of the other tables, pay the girl behind the desk for his table time, say good-bye, and walk out of the room.

For the next fifteen minutes, I tried to copy his style and the shots he played. It was hopeless. Disgusted at how bad I was, I looked up and noticed the clock on the wall; I was twenty minutes late for my philosophy class. I grabbed my stuff, paid the table time, and ran to class.

Lucky for me, it was Professor Trenor’s philosophy class.