There is not much to do in Testino, Alabama. It is a small industrial town forty miles from Birmingham. They have no movie theaters, no bowling alley, no golf course. Driving through Testino, you're more likely to see a cow field than a shopping mall. But if you take a left at the supermarket and go straight through the town's only traffic light you'll find the Riverside Cafe. It's an old brick building with a broken white door and a burnt out neon sign hanging above the cracked sidewalk. You'll notice the cafe because the parking lot is always full of cars and old pick-up trucks. I'm there as well on some Friday nights, or whenever I pass through.
The Riverside Cafe is a place where you could fall asleep in a lazy boy or sit at the bar where Sylvia, always with a smile, will grill you an inch-thick hamburger you'll always remember. She's working her way through the local community college. I asked her why her skirts have gotten shorter. "I get better tips," she'd tell me. Anyone who knows Sylvia tips her well no matter how pretty she looks. She is probably the sweetest person you'll ever meet. Jimmy, the owner, is the only one I know who has ever uttered a harsh word in Sylvia's direction. It was about three years ago they had a small shouting match over something no one can remember. The next morning the two made up and have been best friends ever since.
I make my way to Riverfront whenever I can. Robert, a good friend of mine, comes with me to relax and play pool. That's what the people of Testino do; they shoot pool. The front four tables are on your left as you walk in the cafe. There are a couple of cigarette burns and loose spots on the carpets, but all the rails are firm and roll straight most of the time. Cue sticks sit side by side on the wall like guns in a gun cabinet. Unlike the tables which Jimmy had straightened last year, the cue sticks are in miserable shape. You can test a cue's straightness by rolling it on the table. If it wobbles, it's warped and won't hit correctly. Only the regulars know this trick and most of them have their own cues anyway, so they never complain.
On the front table every night are Janice and Tommy Marshall. They always come in after supper, fighting about something. Last night Janice yelled at Tommy for four hours straight because she caught him sneaking a peak at the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue in the checkout line at the grocery store. Tommy didn't even offer an explanation. "I've learned a long time ago to just nod and say yes dear, you're right dear," he would say. Everyone who knows the Marshalls understands that they like to fight. It keeps their marriage together. Robert and I love to watch them play pool because the worst thing in the world that could happen to one of them is to loose to the other. Uncle Floyd is always shooting on the third table. If someone is on it, he'll wait. He refuses to wait at the bar. He'll stand by the table and glare at them funny until they leave, even if the table is the only one being used at the time. No one knows if Uncle Floyd is actually anyone's uncle; it is just what everyone calls him. But don't get him drunk because he'll ramble on about World War II and his annoyance of the fact that a typewriter's lower case a is different from the written lower case a. Sally likes to tease Uncle Floyd about his love for the sound of his own voice. "When he starts rambling, change a dollar, 'cause you'll want to put something on the jukebox," she says. I once carried on a conversation with Sally for three and a half hours about the then upcoming presidential election. For a local farmgirl, she is extremely intelligent and beautiful. Her blond hair and navy blue eyes have won her every beauty contest Testino has held for the past six years. Her expressiveness often gets her into trouble though. She finished second in her class last year because she was suspended by Mr. Hungerfall, the high school principal. It seems Sally did her art assignment on the bathroom wall. "I thought a mural would look nice in here," she explained to the teacher on their way to the office.
The back six pool tables at the Riverside Cafe are not as nice as the front four. The carpet's original dark green color has faded into a light grey, and the pockets fall out if they have more than six balls in them. People shoot on these in order to watch the television that sits on a little table beside the hand chalk dispenser. There are a couple of brown lazy boy chairs set against the back wall. Willy often occupies one or the other. His two hundred and sixty pound frame has substantially loosened the once tight leather, making them more comfortable. His two-pack a day smoking habit has placed quite a few holes in the chairs, as well as in his usual pair of overalls. The only time Willy will get out of his chair is that unexpected moment when he notices his shirt is on fire. Eddie is always in the back, too, trying to hustle a dollar or two from some unsuspecting person. He's always trying to play me for money, but I know better. Eddie is hands down the best pool player in the cafe. I once saw him run five tables in a row without any hesitation. He'll pull shots out of his hat that you won't believe, then smile and claim that he is just as surprised as you. "All right, Sylvia, set 'em up and keep 'em coming," Mr. Baker would say in his deep, scratchy voice as he would trot into the cafe after work. It was always the same scene. Mr. Baker would take off his dark brown business jacket, after dropping his briefcase from his right hand and his cue case from his left, and challenge Eddie to a game of eight ball. Eddie would smile and accept knowing full well that Mr. Baker was a rich may who didn't mind loosing a dollar or two, or a hundred or two, which was usually the case by the end of the night.
Every year Riverside Cafe holds a nine ball tournament sometime around the first week in March, or whenever the participants are off work. It consists mainly of Testino residents and friends from neighboring towns. There is no money involved, just a trophy with no inscription. But there is always pride at stake with each match. Everyone wants to win. Bragging rights are on the line even though the winner never boasts out loud. There is just an unspoken understanding that whoever takes home the trophy is the best billiards player at that time and cannot be dethroned until next year. There is also an understanding among the players that everyone comes to win, not just to play, but to win. Each match is played with the utmost seriousness. People always seem to play their best game during the tournament. Each time both players take a turn at the table, it is called an inning. Most games shot during the tournament are two or three innings unless someone runs the table or pockets the nine ball on the break. Nine ball differs from most games in that you must play each ball in succession from one to nine. Even if you make eight balls in a row, if your opponent sinks the nine, he wins. It is a game of defense, strategy, and skill. A little luck never hurts either. The greatest feeling in the world is to have the other guy miss the nine ball and leave it right in front of the pocket for you to make. There is one sensation that tops it, however. It is to the pool player what the runner's high is to the jogger and the pump is to the weightlifter. The ability to clear a table is the one thing that all shooters long for. Stepping up to the table you see nine balls scattered from rail to rail in an always different pattern. It is up to the individual to decide the best way of making these balls in order, and since all players have different styles, they run tables in much different ways as well. Some people use speed and power while others manipulate the cue ball with spin. The goal is always the same, however, to keep your opponent in his chair for as long as possible.
I hold great admiration for the select few who have mastered the game of pool to the point where they can run table after table. It requires skill, accuracy, and coordination as well as patience and determination. To the amateur, great players make it appear simple. One of these players is Jack Wymann. Jack comes to Riverfront every year for the nine ball tournament. He grew up in Sarotaville, ten minutes from Testino. Jimmy taught the game to him because he was out of diapers. Jack, now nearing his sixties, played pool on the professional tour for three years. He did fairly well. He quit due to back problems and has never gone back. Everyone loves to see Jack when he drives up in his long black Cadillac every year. Everyone but Eddie. Eddie and Jack have played nine ball games that have gone down in Testino history. But Jack has come out on top the last two years. Eddie will never admit that he dislikes Jack, and no one believes he does. It's just that Jack comes in every year just to play in the tournament, becomes the center of attention, then leaves. This upsets Eddie. He hates to loose to strangers and that is just what he considers Jack. When they're not playing each other, they act like best friends, laughing and joking. But when they play, the carefree atmosphere goes away and both men become serious. Very serious. One game they played last year lasted for an hour and a half, compared to their usual one or two inning games. Jack and Eddie took turns making unbelievable defensive shots that left the other unable to make a ball. It was an inspirational sight, and something everyone loves to discuss.
When Jimmy heard Jack would be in town on Thursday, he scheduled the tournament for Friday night. On Friday morning I drove down to Testino. Mornings at the Cafe are very peaceful and quiet. There is usually a baseball game or talk show on the television. It is the only time of day you'll find the ashtrays empty and the beer kegs full. Sylvia has already cleaned and polished everything that needed it. Jimmy is in the backroom sifting through papers and punching buttons on his calculator. Some people will stroll in around noon in order to eat lunch, but there is little business. Glasses are neatly stocked behind the bar. Bottles of every kind of liquor sit side by side on a shelf; all the ladies turn outward.
The old Miller Light sign above the bar had a bulb burn out and Sylvia, only five-nine, couldn't reach it. I graciously offered my assistance and was thanked repeatedly for my trouble. Jimmy sent his nephew, Ronny, out to clean the parking lot. Ronny does small chores around the cafe for his uncle and gets paid pretty well. A small controversy emerged when some people thought Ronny was too young to be hanging around a place that served alcohol. But after consideration, everyone agreed that it was all right. The Riverside Cafe was not only a bar; it acted as the town's place of congregation.
People started coming in for the tournament around six o'clock. If you get there early you can get a parking space and don't have to park in Miss Coletree's yard. She's a sweet old lady who lends her front yard to cars every year. Jimmy offered her money for her trouble one year but she would not think of taking it. The only thing about parking in Miss Coletree's yard is her German Shepherd, Fonzo. He won't bite you but the sight of him will surely put a little pace in your step. Sally pulled up in her yellow Honda. Paul and Diana were there, too, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. Everyone was there by seven, except Jack. All the people playing were to put there names on a small piece of paper and drop them in a basket. The names were drawn to decide the pairings for the first round of matches. Only the four front tables were used, so eight people played at a time. They played single elimination, best of three games.
The names were drawn and the games were set. Jimmy started to make an announcement to start play when the front door opened and Jack entered the cafe. "You're late again you good-for- nothing pool player," Jimmy said with a smile. "You'd think after nine years of being late you guys would expect it by now," said Jack. He walked toward the bar receiving either a hand shake or a pat on the back from those around him. All greeted Jack whether they knew him personally or not. Eddie, in a confident stride, walked through the crowd of well-wishers to Jack. "Why don't me and you go ahead and play and do away with all these formalities," Eddie whispered. Jack, lighting a cigarette, turned to Eddie and smiled. The two lifelong friends sat at the bar and talked until Jimmy announced for all participants to step up to their assigned tables. Mr. Baker and Eddie both won their matches in two straight games. "This is my last year, I'm unstoppable, I'm the greatest," Mr. Baker yelled at the top of his lungs after running the six, seven, eight, then nine balls. His overconfidence and inflated ego usually keeps him from beating the best players. Jack lost a game to Webber, the town auto mechanic, but promptly won the next two giving him the match.
After two and a half hours the field dwindled from twenty to four. Mr. Baker, Eddie, Jimmy, and Jack were all still in contention. Jimmy was shooting the best pool I've ever seen him play. He ran two tables on his way to the semi-finals. Eddie easily defeated a frustrated, angry Mr. Baker. He sat back and waited to play the winner of Jack and Jimmy's match. The first game went to Jack, who sunk the nine ball on the break. In the second game, he made up to the seven ball, then missed. It was an uncharacteristic miss for Jack, and it left the table wide open for Jimmy. Calmly setting down his glass of tea, Jimmy approached the table and cleared it easily. He then broke to start the third and final game. The one and two went easily. There was a problem with the three ball as it sat unhitable behind the seven. Jimmy was unable to hit it, giving Jack ball- in-hand. This meant he could place the cue ball anywhere on the table. Jack, without any hesitation, promptly cleared the table. The final was set and no one was surprised. Jack would play Eddie in the championship match.
The crowd at Riverside became quiet as a quarter was tossed on the table. "Heads," called Eddie. "It's tails; your break Jack," Jimmy said as he racked the first game. Nine balls and a hundred eyes were on the table as Jack approached, cue stick in hand. With a thunderous stroke he sent the balls flying around the table sinking two, the eight and four. Jack then made the one in the side, spinning it backwards for the two ball. When Jack was finished no balls were left on the table, and he had won the first game. He broke the second rack sending the three ball in the corner pocket. "Nine in the side," Jack called with a stern, confident look. A look of wonderment fell on each face in the cafe. The nine was sitting right by the side pocket, but the one was at the other side of the table. Jack leaned over, gripped the cue at the base of the shaft, and stroked it toward the cue ball. "What's he trying?" Sylvia asked me. I was unable to tell her because I didn't see any way of making such a shot. If you hit your object ball into the nine and make it, you win. But Jack couldn't hit the one because it was planted against the rail behind the six ball. He hit the underside of the cue ball with enough force to chip it up in the air, over the six ball, and land it on the table striking the one and sending it right for the side pocket where the nine was waiting. The one taped the nine in, giving Jack the game and a two to nothing lead. All Eddie could do was sit in his chair and look over at Jack. "Good shot," he said. "Eddie, I'm just as surprised as you," Jack replied. Once the applause had stopped and the third game was racked, Jack chalked his cue and broke. Nothing fell-- all nine balls sat tantalizingly on the table. It was Eddie's turn. He rose slowly out of his chair and cleared the table in less than a minute. Without saying a word he broke the following rack and made nine in a row. The two best players in town were even at two games apiece with one to play. Everyone scuffled around in order to find the best possible view. I looked on from the edge of my seat as Jimmy racked the last rack. Eddie broke, pocketing the one and four balls. With superb shooting Eddie found himself with just the nine left. It sat six feet away from the cue ball on the other side of the table against the rail. "How are your bank shots Eddie," Jack said. "We'll find out," he replied. Eddie calmly stroked the ball toward the nine, hitting it, and sending it back towards the opposite corner. The minute it left the bank it looked good. It rolled at a medium pace toward the center of the pocket, then slowed, and stopped. Eddie, in disbelief, closed his eyes and turned away. Jack made it official by tapping the nine in. Applause went out for Jack who gave a wave, then turned to Eddie. "The beer is on me," he said.
After the trophy was presented, Jimmy bought a round for the house. People kept on talking about the last match. I'm sure they will be for a while. Eddie sat off in the corner sipping a drink. Jack had already left, he had a business trip in the morning and needed some sleep. Mr. Baker eyed Eddie off in the corner and went over to him. "All right man, you want to make it ten bucks a game or twenty." Eddie looked up at Mr. Baker's smiling face and said, "Twenty, but I'll go easy on you." The two went off to the back room. Willy, who was actually awake for the tournament, was again fast asleep in his lazy boy. People started to go home for the night. The Marshalls left, together this time, after Sally. I stayed around for a while and played pool with Jimmy until he closed the cafe for the night. I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. "See you next weekend," I said.