Rack on Kid Delicious hits the Spot BY ALEX IRVINE

On any given weekend, Spot Shot Billiards is full of people rolling balls around the tables. June 3 through 6, though, the St. John Street pool hall played host to the finals of the 2003-04 Joss NE (still not sure if this stands for "Northeast" or "New England") 9-ball tournament. Seventy-odd players, including national names like Earl Strickland and Efren Reyes, ventured underground to test their skills in hopes of claiming part of the $25,000 added pot (this means that in addition to regular prize money from entry fees, tournament organizers use the named amount to sweeten the top spots). The Portland event was the Finals of a regional tour, which had played 24 events in eight states and Ontario.

On Thursday, there were more players than spectators — a situation that reversed itself quickly as the tournament went on. A few railbirds watched games they had a particular interest in, but since spectators were roped off from the tables, only half of the games were really visible. Right next to the doorway, a little object lesson in the psychology of pool players unfolded itself. The two players — we’ll call them the Tall Skinny White Guy and the Muscular Latino Guy — spent, I swear to God, more time adjusting the initial rack on each game than sinking the balls.

The TSWG was primarily to blame for this, and I have a theory that he was performing the 9-ball equivalent of calling for time just as the pitcher is winding up. He spent several minutes over each rack, examining the angles, shading his eyes and the balls so he could estimate the distance in microns between the lead ball and the rest, and so on. Now, okay. I’ve shot enough pool to know the importance of a tight rack. But on the rest of the tables, the players laid the balls down, gave ’em a squeeze, and stood back. Here, the TSWG did his routine. Eventually the MLG (whose name was actually Frankie, but since I don’t have the other guy’s name I’m not going to use Frankie’s either) came over to see if he could help, and the two put on an amazing show of cooperation between opponents.

Eventually, Frankie (okay, I lied) broke. And won. And broke again. And won again. The TSWG didn’t even get to shoot, really, until the third or fourth game, when he exemplified a common pool-shooting axiom: There’s a big difference between making shots and playing pool. During the entire course of their match, Frankie only tried one or two bank shots, and as many tough cuts along the rail; this is because his cue-ball control was better than the TSWG’s. That party often found himself down in a game, and down in the race-to-nine match, which made him want to attack when he might more usefully have played a safety. So he made some eye-opening shots, including a blazing kick of the three ball across the table into the side — shot from between two other balls when the cue was trapped in the corner. I’d have to draw you a picture.

But the point is, shot-making doesn’t win professional pool games. Cue control does. And all the gamesmanship in the world won’t substitute for its lack.

Family obligations precluded me making the finals, but there’s a great story there. Earl Strickland, one of the biggest names in pool, fought his way out of the loser’s bracket after an early defeat to Danny "Kid Delicious" Basavich. (No, I’m not making up the "Kid Delicious" part.) Along the way, Strickland took care of tournament regulars Tom D’Alfonso and the Hawaiian-shirted "Rocket" Rodney Morris (who finished fourth and third, respectively), and then there he was, in the final.

There the plot — and the pot — thickened. Strickland found himself facing none other than Basavich, who had stormed through undefeated; and local gas-station owner and car-racing enthusiast Ralph Leo put down $2000 of his own money as an added prize to the winner. First place was now worth $9500, against $5000 for second.

Coming from the loser’s bracket of a double-elimination tournament, Strickland had to beat Basavich twice, while all Basavich had to do was split two sets. The match lasted nearly four hours, no doubt provoking visions among movie-going spectators of the marathon matches between Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason in The Hustler ("I can’t beat you, Fast Eddie") — along with a large amount of grumbling about Maine’s anti-smoking laws. In the first set, the lead seesawed back and forth until Strickland came out on top by 9-8. This is known as a "hill-hill" match, when both players are "on the hill," or needing only one more win to take the match.

So there it was, in effect a best-of-three series between Strickland and Basavich, since Basavich had beaten Strickland earlier in the tourney. The second match of the finals was again a hill-hill nailbiter, and this time Basavich answered with a 9-8 win of his own, taking top spot at the Spot Shot.

Alex Irvine can be reached at airvine@phx.com