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Authors: Robert James Waller
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began to see that I actually could win. I smelled and tasted the possibility. Teetering there on the brink of manhood, I
got down hard and tight and mean. One or two long runs, and I had it. It was over. I couldn’t believe it. Sammy looked tired,
but I cared only that I had won.
I remember sprinting for home, bursting in and yelling, “I beat Sammy, I beat Sammy.” My dad seemed surprised, went downtown
to check out the facts, came home and didn’t say much, except to congratulate me in a quiet way.
I didn’t play much after that. Somehow, it wasn’t the same. Mostly, I just strutted around with “Champ” written in invisible
letters on my chest. I talked incessantly at home about the victory, and my father kept agreeing that, yes, it was quite a
triumph.
A few weeks later, I strolled into Braga’s. Dad was lounging against the counter talking with Gerald on a quiet Tuesday night.
He grinned at me, “Son, want to play a little billiards?” Now, my dad was not a billiards player, just pool. Oh, he knew the
rules and so forth, but he never played much. Cocky, I grinned back, “Sure.”
Only Braga was there to see it. We chalked up, cleared the wires, and started. It was no contest.
My dad was a peculiar guy, good at anything requiring hand-eye coordination. He had worked something out with Gerald about
practice time and had been bending over that green cloth for scores of hours, unbeknown to me. There was no letting up this
time, as he sometimes did when he was beating me at pool in my learning days. He really went after it.
I was both rusty and rattled. He just kept grinning. Gerald watched, jingling coins in his change apron. I got mad and played
worse. Dad played better. He scalded me. I refused his offer of a ride home and came sulking in a few hours later.
Other things took over my life. Basketball, falling in love, working. I never played much, if any, pool or billiards again.
I came home from college once, went into visit Gerald, walked around, and saw my old cue out in the public racks. It was battered
from being slammed down on the pool tables when the “slop” players missed easy shots. I looked at it. It looked back dolefully,
a mistress cast away for prettier things. Like the lovers that we were in an earlier time, we gazed softly at one another
for a moment, sharing the memories rich and warm before I turned and walked away.
The lessons come slowly. Sammy died twenty years or so after that night of thunder and victory in Braga’s place. Then Gerald
went. Then my dad. The four of us were involved in a complicated dance, unchoreo-graphed and intricate, unrehearsed and precise.
They taught me rhythms I have only recently begun to sense, melodies that escaped me until now—that Zen and precision are
not at odds, that small universes exist if you acquire the discipline and skill to enter them, and that grace, passion, and
an elegance of spirit are all that really matter, whether you’re shooting billiards, making love, playing the guitar, winning,
or losing.
You see, Gerald Braga didn’t run a pool hall in a small Iowa town. He was the keeper of an academy. Sammy Patterson and my
dad were among the faculty, and I, God love them all, had the good fortune to study there in the times when I was small, and
tender, and wondering what it was like to be a man.
The Boy from
the Burma Hump
______________________________________
I n his apartment in Calcutta, there was a grand piano. He wore khaki then, walked the bazaars and tapped away at the piano
or played lawn tennis during his leaves from upcountry. After a week or two, he was ready when the call came for the return
to Dinjan.
He carried only a small suitcase for the journey, his “laundry” as he called it, and looked forward to getting back to the
jungle and the mountains, away from the sterile and crumbling world of the British raj. His flight left Calcutta, climbing
northeast over the
got down hard and tight and mean. One or two long runs, and I had it. It was over. I couldn’t believe it. Sammy looked tired,
but I cared only that I had won.
I remember sprinting for home, bursting in and yelling, “I beat Sammy, I beat Sammy.” My dad seemed surprised, went downtown
to check out the facts, came home and didn’t say much, except to congratulate me in a quiet way.
I didn’t play much after that. Somehow, it wasn’t the same. Mostly, I just strutted around with “Champ” written in invisible
letters on my chest. I talked incessantly at home about the victory, and my father kept agreeing that, yes, it was quite a
triumph.
A few weeks later, I strolled into Braga’s. Dad was lounging against the counter talking with Gerald on a quiet Tuesday night.
He grinned at me, “Son, want to play a little billiards?” Now, my dad was not a billiards player, just pool. Oh, he knew the
rules and so forth, but he never played much. Cocky, I grinned back, “Sure.”
Only Braga was there to see it. We chalked up, cleared the wires, and started. It was no contest.
My dad was a peculiar guy, good at anything requiring hand-eye coordination. He had worked something out with Gerald about
practice time and had been bending over that green cloth for scores of hours, unbeknown to me. There was no letting up this
time, as he sometimes did when he was beating me at pool in my learning days. He really went after it.
I was both rusty and rattled. He just kept grinning. Gerald watched, jingling coins in his change apron. I got mad and played
worse. Dad played better. He scalded me. I refused his offer of a ride home and came sulking in a few hours later.
Other things took over my life. Basketball, falling in love, working. I never played much, if any, pool or billiards again.
I came home from college once, went into visit Gerald, walked around, and saw my old cue out in the public racks. It was battered
from being slammed down on the pool tables when the “slop” players missed easy shots. I looked at it. It looked back dolefully,
a mistress cast away for prettier things. Like the lovers that we were in an earlier time, we gazed softly at one another
for a moment, sharing the memories rich and warm before I turned and walked away.
The lessons come slowly. Sammy died twenty years or so after that night of thunder and victory in Braga’s place. Then Gerald
went. Then my dad. The four of us were involved in a complicated dance, unchoreo-graphed and intricate, unrehearsed and precise.
They taught me rhythms I have only recently begun to sense, melodies that escaped me until now—that Zen and precision are
not at odds, that small universes exist if you acquire the discipline and skill to enter them, and that grace, passion, and
an elegance of spirit are all that really matter, whether you’re shooting billiards, making love, playing the guitar, winning,
or losing.
You see, Gerald Braga didn’t run a pool hall in a small Iowa town. He was the keeper of an academy. Sammy Patterson and my
dad were among the faculty, and I, God love them all, had the good fortune to study there in the times when I was small, and
tender, and wondering what it was like to be a man.
The Boy from
the Burma Hump
______________________________________
I n his apartment in Calcutta, there was a grand piano. He wore khaki then, walked the bazaars and tapped away at the piano
or played lawn tennis during his leaves from upcountry. After a week or two, he was ready when the call came for the return
to Dinjan.
He carried only a small suitcase for the journey, his “laundry” as he called it, and looked forward to getting back to the
jungle and the mountains, away from the sterile and crumbling world of the British raj. His flight left Calcutta, climbing
northeast over the
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