The Kennesaw Old-Timer's Club

As I walk into KB's, I notice Ol' Curtis shaming yet another unsuspecting young lion who thought he could come in from out of town and prove his table skills. The jukebox is spitting out beats not usually played this time of day, and Red's compadres are strutting around, twirling their sticks like they are auditioning for The Color of Money II. Curtis notices me coming in and gives me a sly wink and a grin as he hobbles around the table. I shook my head and snickered. I go to the bar to chat with Tommy while he fixes my usual water with a splash of lime and cranberry.

"Apple-bottom jeans, boots with the f-urrrr..."


"Who played that song!? I'm swingin' on somebody if I hear that shit again," came a voice from the back corner. I knew from experience that it had probably been played for the fifth time today from one of the outsiders. Tommy slides my drink to me and shakes his head like he was trying his best to avoid any sarcasm about the daily drama. We stop for a moment to watch the entertainment on the smoke-stained felt. I barely take the first sip of my water and Red is already racking the balls. "It takes Curtis ten minutes to walk around a 9-foot table and only two minutes to clear it? How does that happen?" a barfly asks. Oh well, watching the Tom Cruise cue-twirling stop, the knees lock, and the demeanors drop was entertainment enough.

Curtis is a member of the Old-Timer's Club (as I like to call it). The old Kennesaw natives have their own table next to the bar. Tommy keeps their personal cups filled with coffee, tea, and lemonade. Most of the time, I come here during the day to shoot alone. I've always made a point to find a table in close proximity to the old-timers so I can listen to the story-telling. All of the people-watching I do can easily be taken in at a distance, and the conversations on the other side of the bar I couldn't care less about. I love to hear the stories of this Civil War town during post-World War II and the Civil Rights Era. I take in every word when they talk about memorable 9-ball games they played against Johnny the "Scorpion" Archer, a legendary pool champion and hall-of-famer who cut his teeth on that very table. Most of the old-timers never venture to the other side of the pool hall, but Curtis loved spending time with the "youngsters".

I met Ol' Curtis one Sunday afternoon about 2 years ago. I've known of him for much longer than that. I'll never forget the first game of pool I played with him. I had been coming in here for the last few years to cope with the never-ending heartache and depression I had dealt with over the better part of a decade. I've played pool since I was a kid, but only recently discovered the therapeutic value of the game, at least when played alone. One of those days, Curtis asked if he could join me. I could tell right away that something was different about him. He didn't act like the others. He always wore the same warm, squinty-eyed smile, even when the money rollers attempted to harass him. 

It was that game when I began the process of thinking with a different outlook. I listened in amazement as I wondered if anybody else in the room had ever truly took the time to hear this man speak. As we casually played, he revealed story after story, each one giving another small detail about his life. He began a war story and I asked, "Are you a veteran?" 

"World War II", he replied.

"Wow, how old are you?"

"Ninety-three," he said.

Ninety-three? I couldn't believe my ears. He looks every bit of seventy. His white hair was well-combed to the side. His cheeks were rosy. He was a little slow, sure, but he was beating kids nearly a fifth his age. I asked him, "Why don't you show up to play when all the other old-timers do on Sunday?"
"Because I don't leave church until the sanctuary is clean," was his response. My eyes shifted from left to right as I struggled to understand what he said. 

"You go to church?" 

"Yes, sir. I clean it and mow the grass, too. Been doin' that since my wife died three years ago...married her when I was twenty-three."

I could feel my chest starting to tremble inside. I can't even begin to imagine what it's like to lose a wife after being married for that long. The old jukebox was faithfully on cue with a house favorite that plays about this time every week. I stopped the conversation, finished the game--and won. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I listened to Cash sing Sunday Mornin' Coming Down. He let out a chuckle and invited me to the old-timers table. 

I don't think I could have felt more excitement if I had won an Oscar. I was a member of the Kennesaw Old-Timer's Club. Of course, the initiation had only begun, but my game improved immensely while I spent more time at the "real" table. I learned to play One Pocket, the chess game of billiards, and Straight Pool, the game Paul Newman played in The Hustler. 

"Where do you live?" Gene asked. 

"Cedartown," I replied.

"So, do you know Wayne?"

"Sure do. He taught me how to play real pool."

He asked, "What's real pool?"

"Snooker," I said. He cut his eyes and grinned. He realized that I really did know Wayne, because Cedartown does have a snooker table. I knew that I had answered wisely, but I couldn't help replaying the conversation I had with Curtis in the back of my mind.

 It's been two years since I've played a game of pool. Curtis had restored a little bit of hope and set the stage for something different to happen. I've been tempted to go back to KB's to see the old man. My heart sinks when I think about whether he will still be there or not. He hasn't been the only significant influence in my life over the past few years, but he definitely sparked a kairos moment that has brought me to where I am now. Curtis taught me more than how to be a better pool player. He taught me how to be a sniper. With pin-point accuracy he took his shot and hit me before I knew what happened, when I least suspected it, and without being noticed. Many of my church-going friends will frown upon the subject matter posted here, but I don't care. This ain't no gentleman's war.

In conclusion, here's a word of advice that you might need in the future:
Never try to hustle an old man from Kennesaw.


(Thanks, Curtis)