It was during these years that I became intrigued with three-cushion billiards. They were the descendants of Hoppe, Mosconi and Rudolph Wandereone, otherwise known as “Minnesota Fats.” I watched them all, smooth and balletic, their cues moving with grace and fluidity. They were like gladiators coming to do battle, always looking to “make a game.” They included Jersey Red, Johnny Ervolino, Boston Shorty, Irving “The Preacher” Crane and Luther “Wimpy” Lassiter, to name a few. Pool hustlers from all over the country would show up at Ames. The houseman, who was the real houseman in a cameo role, replies flatly: “Mister, this is Ames.” In the classic film “The Hustler,” which was partially filmed there, Paul Newman’s character, “Fast Eddie” Felson, walks up to the houseman and asks if they play straight pool there. You walked up and you were enveloped by the sights and sounds of this unique place. It was upstairs and when you got to the top of the stairs you were right in the middle of the room. Located on 44th Street just off Seventh Avenue, it was open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. In the 1960s and 70s there were pool rooms in New York City that attracted the best players and hustlers from all over the country. But I never graduated from pigeon to player. Army in Germany, and before my game collapsed I ran nine a few times in three cushion billiards. More than fifty years ago I ran forty-eight balls when I was in the U.S. I really don’t remember how many times I returned there, but I’ve been a pool room junkie ever since. There were the hustlers and their “pigeons” - lesser players sometimes referred to as “fish” - and if you simply watched for a while, you immediately knew who was who. Little dramas were being played out at each island of light. In this darkened smoky room the hushed sounds were interrupted only by the clicking noise of the balls hitting each other. These were people you didn’t fool around with. There was a sort of mystery, an underlying sense of danger, for I immediately knew not to challenge anyone there even simply by making eye contact. The Tiffany-type lamps that hung over each table lit only if the table was being paid for, switched on by the houseman at the desk when he punched the clock. The room was an old-fashioned room, dark if no one was playing. Anyway, I was about sixteen, and sure enough when I nervously asked, a beer slid across the bar. The drinking age was eighteen then and a draft card, issued by selective service on your 18th birthday, was the right of passage. It was up a long flight of stairs and I think the reason I went there in the first place was because I heard they would serve you a beer even if you didn’t have a draft card. The first pool room I walked into was in Queens Village, New York, across from the LIRR railroad station on Springfield Boulevard just south of Jamaica Avenue.
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