She used to be sardonic about pool, but now she’s a pretty decent shot — and a sucker for a guy who shoots well
By Leanna Moreton
I’m learning with Ewa.
Ewa Marya’s her name. She’s Swedish with, legs that climb things supermodel Nodja Auermann can only dream about. Her frosted hair is teased into a ‘70s groove and her shiny makeup is very ‘80s. She’s leaning suggestively on her pool cue in a sequined dress that must have sucked in to make fit.
She’s a player. I’m not yet, but I’ve been told I’m a good shot.
I used to be sardonic about pool. I’ve always wanted to know how to play, but I never had the inclination to hang out in pool halls inhaling the same air as the acid-washed crowd of bad. Besiders, I knew what sort of women played pool.
I even admit to directing a loud huff or two at men who flirted and amused me with wit and flattery that ended with “I’ll be back. My penny’s up.”
If Rome fell in one day, a game of pool could fall in seconds. I observed this in delight and horror while watching men yelling with raised fists, “That’s my quarter,” over “No, my nickel and dime were definitely next.”
It was one such night last Hallowe’en weekend. I was at the bar when a near fight broke loose. Somebody had sewered on the eight ball. Hands dug quickly into pockets to see who could wrestle up the buck and a quarter for the next game first.
I spoke up: “Hey, that’s my penny.” Nonchalantly, I racked up the balls and checked around for a good cue.
Finding a cue is a bit like choosing the ripest melon in the grocery store. Everyone has a method. Some roll it on the table, others point it up into the air and stare at it, still others don’t care if it’s straight or bent.
Excalibur let me down in my first game that night. I didn’t sink any of the balls I called. I vowed not to use the rake for all of my shot in future games. Lame.
Almost a year later, I admit having played pool almost everyday. In fact, I prefer going to bars alone just so I can play pool all night and avoid saying, “I’ll be back. My penny’s up.”
It’s very gratifying to walk up to a table and hear murmurs of “She’s a nice shot.” I feel respected, especially since few women play.
Make no mistake about it, some men do not like to be beaten by a woman. I can see the dismissal on their faces when I load my money into the side of the table, but after a few shots they learn and pay close attention. Still, some extreme egos won’t shake my hand after I’ve won.
Pool is like sex. There should be respect, but give someone a stick, nine balls and six pockets and suddenly they’re shooting from below the belt.
Pool does turn me on. There’s something very sexy about a man who shoots well. If you get my drift.
One night at the bar my penny comes up. It’s his table — he looks like an ex-boyfriend (this is not a good thing). I’ve seen him play before and he can’t shoot worth beans. Neither could the ex. I rack up the balls, all nine of them. He breaks — crack — the balls spread out, one solid goes down. He clears three more solids. I’m impressed. He whispers his prowess. His newfound secret: keep both eyes open. I’m putty.
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