True Road Adventures

I'm gonna post some true adventure road stories for them's that's interested in such.

I was in New Orleans about 10 years ago. On Bourbon St they used to have an off-track betting parlor. It was in a bad section of Bourbon St, it's not there anymore. Desperate to bet horses, I went there anyway. Once inside I realized that it was a real low class operation. Homeless types, bag ladies and various brokes filled the joint. It was the only place I have ever been in whereby you could bet as little as $1 to win. As luck would have it, I got off tremendous winner. By the 4th race I was $4k ahead. I started to get nervous because I suddenly realized just how much 4k would have to mean to people who had less than 5$ in their pockets. I didn't dare go outside alone because the street was dark and dead empty. I called my partner, Wayne Hopkins to come and get me, and bring help. In the meantime a security guard appeared magically after the phone call and confronted me. I figured the guard was gonna say like, "Don't worry sir, We know you got all that money. We protect high-rollers here. I got the gun and I will walk you out."Instead he tells me this, "Listen sir, you are going to have to pull your pants up or leave, we have received complaints from the ladies here." Huh? While I am somewhat famous for originating low-riding jeans and often baring a little crack, the fact that I was singled out for humiliation in this dump, and by a hideous collection of hags was unbelievable. I looked around all over the place and could not find any women who I thought could possibly be offended by anything. Wayne finally showed, and I zoomed, red-faced out of the joint -- never to return.

Article by Pat Putnam in Sports Illustrated, Nov 10 1975, Regarding the Burlington, IA tournament. Quote the great Mike Sigel, "...Without a strong tournament tour, we'll simply never be accepted as anything but pool hustlers."... Fair enough. In fact, just about the only dissenting view, and a mild one at that, came from Freddy the Beard. Early in the week he had stepped into the lobby from the Hotel Burlington elevator, his custom pool cue broken down and fitted snugly into its black leather case. An old railroad type, in engineer's cap and bib overalls, spotted him. The aged gent eyed the case and said, "How's the pheasant hunting going?' Freddy the Beard laughed, "Pops," he said, "this isn't for shooting pheasant. This is for shooting pigeons."

Anonymous said:
Did you ever play Earl Heisler?
The Beard said:
Earl Heisler was one of the few humans I never got down with. I wasnt too anxious to play him anyway. The wet, humid conditions he thrived on in New Orleans was a deterrent to my game. I liked dry tables.

Worst Tables I Ever Played On:(from my interview with Steve Booth of Onepocket.org).

...Yeah, and the equipment was hideous. There was no pocket at a couple of the corners, there was just a hole. They had those high floor model ashtrays, and they'd put them under the pocket and the ball would go plunk and roll around in there. The cloth was patched up with two-inch wide tape; it was an adventure to play on it. That's where I beat my first guy from Bensingers. I used to have to sneak in there (Bensingers) because I was underage. They had this real high counter by the door. So I used to duck by the old guy who worked the counter -- who was about a hundred years old, and sneak off into the back. When I was in the back, about fifty feet away, I'd say 'Turn the lights on,' he didn't know who the hell it was. The balls were already there, and he'd turn the light on and I got in action.When I first started going up there I never won; I'd just try to last. I would try a new guy each time, and each guy would beat me. I kept thinking, man, they've got to run out of guys that can beat me pretty soon, but they never did. So finally I got a couple of them to take a ride out to my joint, Nap's poolroom on 26th street in Chicago. I said, "I'll play you over there." Fortunately, I had such an advantage there it was ridiculous. I played Mexican Johnny Vasquez first. There were tracks for the banks; you just shoot the ball into that track and it would go right down the tape into the pocket. I beat him and he quit. We were only playing for three or four dollars a game. So Johnny quit. Then I played this other hustler, Gus the Greek, and I broke him. He stayed for the whole show. He had taken the bus down and wanted me to give him a quarter to take the bus back to Bensingers, but I let him walk, the son-of-a-b*tch -- that's what they did to me. I'd have to walk from downtown because I didn't have sense enough to ask for bus fare; I was too proud. They'd break me and I'd lose every quarter; I'd make sure I had nothing when I left.

More Worst Tables I Ever Played On:
In the 60s there was an open-air poolroom on South Beach in Miami. It was called, Moe's. It was once an old garage, and it was the only open-air poolroom I ever encountered. To open the joint in the morning, Moe would lift the garage door and leave it wide open. He had about 4 tables and it was right on the street facing the beach. The tables and balls were beyond horrible. The tables were taped and slashed and the balls had big chunks missing from them. Open air and on the ocean, you can imagine the humidity factor. Since I was a broke beach bum at the time, I hung out and hustled there daily. A big game was 25 cents. Here's the kicker, the house man was a champion pool player who could run 100s on these atrocities. His name was "Kokomo" Joe Ross, but he was actually from New York. He broke every human that tried to come through there and play him, including the great Cincinnati Clem Metz. It took me a couple of months to find a backer to move me to Miami proper, and stake me to play in the big action room, Kramer's Cue and Cushion on 79th and Biscayne where Minnesota Fats hung out. (Whereupon I made a big score playing Fayetteville Charley 8 to 7 bank pool) Beach life wasn't all that bad either. I ended up dating Murph the Surf's ex-girlfriend just before he went off the jail.