For my first foray into the unknown, it seemed appropriate to head west-directional shorthand for adventure. And so I found myself driving out to Schaumburg to meet R.J. Wilkinson, my pool instructor. Thanks to my inevitable Schaumburg-exit panic, I’m 15 minutes late when I walk into the cavernous, nearly empty pool hall that will serve as our classroom. I see R.J. leaning over a pool table, hitting a clean bank shot into a side pocket. His words, not yet mine. A former policeman, R.J. has the no-nonsense attitude familiar to anyone who’s ever been pulled over for speeding. He seems to be a lovely person, and he’s a fantastic teacher (and I’m not just saying that because he knows my license plate number), but let’s just say he means business.
As befits his background in law enforcement, he also enjoys using firearm analogies as an instructional tool. “Imagine you’re shooting a gun across this room,” he suggests. “Line up your pool cue as if it’s the trajectory of the bullet.”
I have a hard time imagining this, and R.J., who is nothing if not adaptable, soon gives up on the gun stuff and tries a more direct approach. “OK, look, just make sure the cue is lined up with the ball. No, no, not like that. It should be straight. Like, not crooked.”
R.J. tells me that the instructor is there to instruct, not to play pool. “If a teacher is shooting, he’s probably not a very good teacher,” he advises.
I appreciate this on the one hand, because it means I’ll learn more (in theory, anyway) by doing. On the other, I’m anxious to watch someone who knows what he’s doing. Also, it would be nice to have a break once in a while because, as I discover within the first 10 minutes, pool is physically taxing, at least if you’re bad at it, and my knees and triceps are quickly exhausted from all the bending and stretching. Who says this is a leisure activity?
R.J., who spent his teenage years in his father’s Chicago pool hall, is a certified instructor with the College of Pool and Billiards in Rockford. He never betrays any impatience, even when he runs me through a couple of quick tests at the outset-“just to see where you are,” he says reassuringly.
“Can you hit the 11 ball into that pocket?” he asks, pointing. I can. “OK, great. Now can you draw the cue ball back?” I have no idea what he means, so I just hit the ball into the pocket again. “Mmm-hmm,” R.J. says.
We start at the beginning. He shows me how to chalk the cue tip and demonstrates the correct way to hold the cue: Place one hand-usually the dominant, i.e. writing hand-over the back end of the stick and hold it lightly; then place the other hand on the table and make a “bridge” for the cue to slide across.
He says I don’t have to hit the ball hard; in fact, it’s much better, in terms of accuracy, if I take it easy. I’m also lifting my head too quickly after I hit the ball, which means the end of the cue comes up, away from the ball. As a result, my shots are all over the place.
It’s a far more exacting activity than I’d thought. I’m staggered by the control and precision required. But after nearly two hours of instruction, I’m actually getting the hang of it, carefully lining up my shots, keeping the cue still as I lean over to make a bridge with my right hand.
Late in the afternoon, R.J. has a surprise for me. “Line up your shot,” he says. “Pull your cue back into your pause position. Now, lift the cue carefully and look over there, at the wall.”
I glance at him from my contorted position, thinking he must be joking. “Seriously,” he says, “just pick up the cue, and look at that wall over there.” I do what the man says. “Now, carefully bring the cue back around in front of you, but keep your eyes on the wall.” Right. “Now take the shot.” Is he kidding? “Go ahead,” he laughs.
So I take the shot. Nothing but pocket.
