What is a player? Late night rambling...
Laura Friedman

When did I become a player? How did this harmless hobby lead me into the brotherhood of bums and gamblers and assorted weirdoes that I've spent so much damn time with over the years? It happens so quickly, one day you play pool, the next you're a pool player. And once you're a player, you'll never be anything but.

I can walk into any poolroom in any state and as quick as my eyes adjust to the light the others of our kind become as clear as lanterns lit from inside. If you're a player you know what I mean. And every mother's son of them has the same story: frozen to the rail, snookered behind the eight ball, drifting into the side. He shit out on me, quit on me, stiffed me, sharked me, busted me, robbed me. He was playing above his head, on the stall, laying a spread. God, every match I play is instant dejavu. It's hill hill for the millionth time. One to two, look at you, three to four, need one more. Stuck again, ahead again. Busted again. Shit, there's only ten c-notes in each poolroom, and they've been passed around since 1969. It's your turn to win, it's your turn to lose. Have I played you before? You look kinda familiar. Hell, I just can't remember anymore.

Quit!? Damn, you might as well ask me to change the color of my skin. And if I never hit another ball it wouldn't make a damned bit of difference -- I'd still be a player. On those dark cold nights I'll still wander blindly into some poolroom or other looking for a cup-a-joe, a little conversation. Remember so and so? Shit, that boy played jaaaammm-up!
Another late night at the poolroom. I creep home on the deserted highway, wondering how many other people in Los Angeles ever see the 101 empty of anything but lonely semis.

Laura

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