By Gordon McMann – Campbell River, B.C.
The pool hall was considered to be a den of iniquity when I grew up. Looking back on it now, many decades later, that seems a bit unfair. Most of the players were our neighbours and good people.
I was 16 at the time, going to high school in Chauvin, Alta., and looking after Mrs. Rae’s farm for room and board.
Anyone under 18 was expressly forbidden, both by law and Pete, the pool hall manager, from playing pool. That was unless Pete was sure the RCMP weren’t on their way to Chauvin to check on things. He seemed to have a pretty good idea when they were coming. And he also had a back door that could be used in emergencies if need be.
A sign hanging over the lights above the tables said: “No Profane Language.” I will admit that on Saturday nights, the pool hall air was pretty smoky and the language was a bit unrefined. During the week and during the day, however, it was quiet and language was subdued. Other than the clicking of the balls, not much was heard.
If they were playing pea pool for nickels and dimes, then interest quickened and it generally got a bit more boisterous as nickels and dimes were won or lost. Gambling for money in the pool hall was illegal, of course. A large sign said: “Gambling not allowed” but it was ignored as a general thing.
I was not a consistent player; good some days, bad other days, and average the rest of the time.
Watching the local farmers play
One day dad was in town and I was going home with him for the weekend. I went into the pool hall to kill some time while I was waiting for him. Four or five local farmers were playing pea pool and I was minding my business, sitting and watching them play.
I knew all of them and they were good pool players. One of them asked me if I wanted to play. Knowing I wasn’t good enough to play their game, I said no. Besides, I told them, I only had a couple dollars and I didn’t play for money.
They smelled some easy money I guess, because they all started to urge me to play. It was only for nickels, they said. You could only lose 10 cents a game and my money would last a long time, they said. You’ll be sure to pot a ball once in awhile just by the law of averages and probably break even, they said.
I finally gave in and agreed to play for a while, but I made sure they knew I couldn’t play for very long, as my dad would be ready to go shortly and I would have to leave.
It turned out to be one of my good days, and I was extremely lucky. If I shot a ball, and it didn’t go in, another ball was just as likely to carom off it and drop.
All were sorry they invited me
When I first made a shot that paid me money, everyone congratulated me and encouraged me to continue. As I continued to collect the nickels and dimes, the congratulations were fewer and fewer.
When I potted my pea ball and the eight ball in the games that paid 10 or 15 cents a ball, they were rather quiet. I had the feeling they were sorry they had asked me to play.
Then dad walked in and I was sorry they’d asked me to play. Without saying a word, he just sat down and watched my last game. I won in spite of my nervousness.
He said, “We had better get going,” and one of the men said, “Yes, get him out of here. He’s got about ten dollars of our money!”
He may have exaggerated a bit, but I had won quite a bit and $10 was a lot of money in those days.
Dad never said a word about the pool playing until we were out of town and on our way home with the horse team and wagon. Then he said,”I never want to catch you in the pool hall playing for money again.” That was all he said.
I was obedient. I made sure he never caught me again!
