It’s Not Me; It’s Pool

Bells Frisbie

Dear Pool Platoon (aka Billiards Brigade, aka Cue Crusade, aka Snooker Squad) and Geoff,

I’d like to address last night’s game. I’m aware that things got out of hand, but I’d like to assure you that it was in no way my fault. Last night was supposed to be a thematic masterpiece, revolutionizing the game and filled with activities parodying each nuance of the great game. I dreamed of being as influential as the great François Mingaud, revolutionizer of the game, inventor of the leather cue-stick tip. I suppose I was snookered into thinking that nothing could go wrong. 

For the first of my offenses (of which you all have so depthily and gratuitously listed out), it is in no way my fault that none of you appreciated my witticism on pool’s expansive and dazzling jargon: the drowning of the floor in two inches of Minute Maid lemonade, which was a clever play on the gameplay phrase “on the lemonade.” No, the blame lies entirely on the playful nature of billiards vernacular, and perhaps also on Derek, who decided to steal the show by faking a spectacular fall on my breakfast-refreshment coated floor. It’s not all about you, Derek. And here’s a newsflash: pink lemonade is made with raspberries, not blood. Get it right. 

Despite everyone’s determination to focus on the attention-seeking antics of our citrus slipping chum, I was further determined to get to the second section of the night. I was going to take the game to the next level. Like the ancient nobility transitioned from the clunky maces to precise cue sticks, I was ready to take the next step. Which is why I decided we should play with knives. Some of you said that this behavior of equipping a group of one’s closest pals (aka the Billiards Brigade, aka Cue Crusade, aka Snooker Squad) and Geoff with their own personal machetes to play a game of billiards is outlandish and disturbing. But I say that this is how it has always been in pool: people with bright new ideas transforming the game into something better, stronger, more superior, while cowards like yourselves (and Geoff) cower at the idea of change. 

You all wrote of this point in the game as “where it should’ve ended, for the love of God, that was enough.” You say “what kind of psycho are you that you thought it was a good idea to go further than that,” and “you already took it too far, Gerard, way too far.” You described this point as where “we could've just finished the game quietly and slightly disturbed and then gone home, why didn’t you just let us let us go home, Gerard” (of course, with the possible exception of Derek, who, after complaining of feeling rather tired, lay inert upon the couch). Well guess what? I’m the kind of psycho who never takes things far enough, because that’s what pool is all about. Have you seen how long those freaking cue sticks are? Completely unnecessary but utterly inspired. Just like yours truly.

Before we continue pardoning myself from these supposed “offenses,”  it is important to clarify that in my tooth-and-nail feud with the horror who goes by Geoff, I am totally unaccountable. First of all: he started it. Second of all, this is how rivalries go. He ruins my shot, I retaliate. He skips my game night last week, I retaliate. He apologizes and brings me homemade oatmeal cookies, telling me he’s really sorry, it was a family emergency, I retaliate. I’ve been told to forgive and forget. But like Russian pool tables, equipped with minute pockets barely larger than a billiard ball itself, I’m totally unforgivable. And I don’t forget. Anyways, these things are the history of billiards—just look at Willie Mosconi and Minnesota Fats; Steve Mizerak and Mike Sigel; Shane Van Boening and Dennis Orcollo—all dazzling players and terrible rivals. 

Furthermore, Geoff, if you suffer from severe galeophobia, you should’ve warned the platoon (aka the brigade, aka the crusade, aka the squad) before attending game night, as all civil people do. How was I expected to know that my masterplan of revenge, distracting you from your shot (as you did to me so long ago), i.e. sharking you, but with the delicious, literal twist of performing the diversion via the sudden release of a highly detailed life-size model of a giant goblin shark from a compartment in the ceiling would not, in fact, cause you to laugh in delight at my cleverness and pure genius but instead, scream, and lose grip of your cue stick-machete, subsequently lacerating your hand and for the second time that day, causing blood to get all over my nice clean furniture. Really Geoff, how was I supposed to know?

And I promise, I was just as surprised as you all when I heard the police sirens at the door. Total shocker for me too, folks. You might say: Gerard, wasn’t it your fault because of the illegal oodles of drugs you accidentally purchased when trying to place an order for the lemonade because you didn’t do your research and learn that lemonade is the street name for Vicodin? But you would be wrong. As we all know, the first iteration of pool, the Roman game “Paganica” was highly popular with the soldiers, so it was really just a given that law enforcement got involved. And you might say that being found an entire platoon (aka brigade, aka crusade, aka squad) all with illegal weapons in hand (except for Geoff, who dropped his machete because he’s such a crybaby, and Derek, who was thought dead) looks pretty bad. You say that most “sane” people would scream, cry, try to think of an alibi. But I’m no handcuff artist: I have faith in myself, and play even when there’s risks. 

And by have faith in myself I mean find the nearest window and by play I mean skedaddle out of there as fast as my outlawed feet can take me. 

Anyways, as you can probably guess by now, they caught me. It might’ve been my connections in the lemonade dealing business, or maybe in the illegal knife business, or maybe they found my chalky fingerprints on the table and cuesticks. 

All in all, I think the person truly at fault is Michael Phelan. None of us would be in this situation if he hadn’t made the game popular in the U.S., the marvelous bastard. 

Thank you for taking the time to read my side. I’m sure you can all see how I’m unaccountable for everything that transpired last night. I’ll see you all at the trial next month and then for gamenight the next week, give or take how much jail time they sentence me for. 

All the best, 

Gerard Gerhard. 

P.S. When you wake up from your coma, Derek, please give my best to Janet. And tell her I’m sorry for dropping the nice snack dish last time we played at your house. That one was totally my bad. 

Bells Frisbie is a sophomore biding her time at Interlochen Arts Academy in Northern Michigan. She specializes in poetry, comedy, and short fiction. She likes bubbly water, small ferocious dogs, and the sound chalk makes when it breaks in two.