Written without my glove

On a rainy evening in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala a few months ago, Zoe and I went to shoot pool at a dimly lit place a few blocks off the main square. The small hall was only mildly attended that evening, but the table next to ours was occupied. It was at least half an hour before I realized that the other table had just three balls. And no pockets.

Billiards is a odd game. Well, it's an odd game to a former pool player. In an evening of pool, you have a series of climaxes. The balls are racked, broken, pocketed and then you start again. The conclusion of each game offers an opportunity to quit. Yet with billiards, there is no natural stopping point. The balls are still there, tempting you to try again.

For those who don't know, the point of billiards is to hit one ball so it hits the other two. And then do it again. And again. This is harder than it sounds--and I'm not just talking about the again part. I first tried about a week ago, on my first night in Medellin. (Adriaan, my boss, housemate and drinking buddy, who to "prepare for my arrival" bought me a billiards glove, enjoys billiards just as much as you would expect of someone who buys people unsolicited billiards gloves.) I made three in a row--then one more in the next hour. It's not just odd, it's fucking hard.

[Oh yeah, happy birthday me!]