As a serious pool player, I routinely practiced the drill
called playing the ghost, but I only met the ghost
once. I was in a little pool room just outside Vegas.
While I was putting my cues together by the table furthest from
the door, I mumbled something about practicing against the
ghost and heard a thick, wheezy voice say, "Rack 'em up,
Lassiter."
I looked around. I was the only player in the room.
I smelled burnt sausages and sweat.
Not sure what else to do, I said, "My name isn't—"
"I know you ain't Luther Lassiter!" the voice said. "Ole
'Wimpy' was the greatest nine-ball player ever! You, on the
other hand, look like you just now figured out how many pieces a
two-piece cue has. I'll still call you Wimpy, though, 'cause
you're a wimp."
The balls numbered from one to nine flew out of the plastic
tray and racked themselves into a perfect nine-ball diamond. The
tray, still holding the other balls, floated to a spot underneath
the table.
"C'mon!" the voice said. "You get the break."
The cue ball rolled right to me.
I looked at the owner, who was still at the front desk.
He was quite pointedly staring anywhere but at me.
Playing the ghost is a drill: rack nine balls, break,
put the cue ball wherever you want, then try to pocket the balls
in numerical order. If you miss any shot, you lose the game,
because you're playing a hypothetical phantom who never misses.
It's always tough to beat the ghost. That day, I suspected
it would be tougher.
I broke, ran the first six balls, then missed a tough bank.
"Well don't feel too bad," the voice said. "Even a
retarded amoeba might only make that shot eight times out of ten."
"There's no need for insults," I said.
"Sure there is." The cue ball blasted off on its own
power, sinking the seven, eight, and nine—in order—in one shot.
"Till you can do that, you deserve insults." The balls flew
out of the ball return and formed a diamond again.
"Break."
The owner still wouldn't look at me.
I'd played world champions in tournament matches and even
beaten them once or twice. You don't get to that point if
you can't handle a rude, no-class opponent or two, so I chalked,
focused, broke, and sank all the balls in order without missing.
"You think I'm intimidated by one run-out?" the voice said.
"You're so dumb I could beat you in tic-tac-toe after spotting you
the first three moves!" The balls re-racked.
I didn't let up, so the ghost tried sharking me.
It made chewing noises and farting noises. It asked if that
was my daughter it had seen last night with that biker gang.
The sausage stench grew thick enough to wilt iron. Just as I was
about to shoot the nine, the voice said, "Angelina Jolie! I
didn't know you were a nudist!"
Sure enough, I missed. The ghost laughed like a villain
in a bad movie. Then the cue ball launched itself up the table,
caromed off five rails, and sank the nine.
The balls re-racked.
I could have quit. But I didn't. I dug deep into
myself and pulled out a level of play that I've never reached
before or since. Luther Lassiter used to say he'd watch a
man play for an hour and if the man missed more than one shot, he
knew he could beat that man. Lassiter would have left me
alone that day.
The ghost yawned. "I don't care how many racks you run.
When you mess up—and you will—I'm gonna run a billion racks.
I am the ghost, and I . . . never . . . miss."
Something about those last three words hit me hard. The
cue in my hand felt alien and unbalanced. I imagined playing
perfect pool for a week and the ghost just waiting to show me what
perfection really meant.
I finally missed. The ghost laughed and ran the remaining
balls, making every shot an eight-rail bank. "Ready to take
up checkers yet, loser?"
I felt lower than the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I
turned to the space the voice seemed to come from. "Why do you
even bother pocketing the balls?
You know they'll go in."
"I'm the ghost," the voice said. "When you miss, I run out.
Till then I just wait my turn. That's what I do."
I thought about that for a good, long time. Then I said,
"Rack 'em."
"The boy never learns," the ghost said.
"Oh, I learn." I broke, ran the first eight balls, and
left myself an easy shot on the nine. Then I unscrewed my cues.
"Hey," the ghost said.
I headed for the front desk.
"Hey! Your turn isn't over! Make the shot, or miss
so I can make it!"
I told the owner, "I think I've played enough," and gave him
some money.
The owner said, "This one's on me." And he looked right at the
table far in the back, where the voice was still shouting.
When I got to the door, it was screaming.
***
If you ever find yourself in a nice little pool room outside
Vegas, you might wonder why the table in the back has been fenced
off, and why it has a cue ball and a nine-ball on it, lined
up for a shot in the corner. You might also wonder why you
hear whimpering and sobbing, and why you smell sausages.
My advice is, play there if you want—the owner runs a good
room—but ignore the table in the back.
There's nothing to see there.
Nothing at all.
