Minnesota Fats And Me, Together Again

They say you know it when it happens, don�t they? They are right. I fell in love last night. I love, I fucking love, playing pool. Especially good down and dirty bar pool. The competitive kind, if you must know. It makes me happy, wildly happy, and happier than just about anything else does these days. This isn�t my first time. I didn�t know it could suck me back like this, like some huge drain was just unclogged. That�s right, just pour in the cheesewater and dislodge the snarled, sloppy mess of my expectations, and disgust with the frequency with which I was joining the nightly bar stool sample, and job hatred, and the other and the other and it�s no wonder. I�m hoping feebly that the same 16-balled monster doesn�t chew me up and spit me out the way it�s happened before. I turn maniacal, become obsessive. My pupils dilate and become little black eight balls spinning madly, my left hand becomes dry and chapped from the constant chalking, my back aches. But it�s no use. I just can�t fight it. The audible click of energy exchanged for motion, the cocky jut of a hip. And things become so clear: Your goal is immediately defined for you at each shot; your course is nonnegotiable as vectors, angles, and speed arbitrate success; gratification is immediate. And if you�re good, it�s free all night long. See? They're right again. You can't buy love.