"Except You Lose."

It was the late Spring of 1963.

I decided to stop by one of my favorite pool halls that day.  To try and take a few $Dollars out of the pockets of the local wannabes.  Those who thought they knew how to play pool.  And were also willing to gamble on that untested belief.

I'd been hooked on the game since I first saw my Dad play.  He'd been Missouri State Billiard champion in 1928 and '29.  So watching him play was like watching a maestro conduct an orchestra.  For making billiard balls submit to your will.  It's really quite a feat.  Taking a lifetime of practice.  That was back when I was 13.  I played every day thereafter, an average of 8 hours.  Even more sometimes.  Until I was the best I'd ever seen.  By the tender age of 17.  

I was on the road, preying on dirty dive pool halls that same year.  And especially on little beer bars named "Dew Drop Inn."  Right next to a river bridge.  I could count on one or more "contributions" to my college fund in each of them.  And since I was in college, it sure did help.  That's because I was addicted.  To new cars and new girls and new adventures.  And all of them cost $Money.        

As I walked through the door that day I saw a guy holding court in the middle of the darkened room.  A guy who I only knew by reputation.  I'd seen his pictures, and read about his lawsuit against MGM.  His name and likeness, he said, were appropriated without his permission.  What a load of crap!  You might enjoy hearing the story.  

You may recall that Jackie Gleason played the part of "Minnesota Fats" in the movie "The Hustler."  He and Paul Newman and Piper Laurie had produced one of the very best movies ever made.  And I'm saying that not just because I was a touring professional "hustler" at the time the movie opened.  But because it was a gripping story, and exceedingly well acted.  In fact, Newman won a Oscar for his performance. 

I've commented many times that I thought I made as much off that movie as Newman did.  Because it brought all the would-be Newmans out of the closet.  And into the local pool rooms.  And willing to bet money that they're better.  When they're not.  And since I'd already peeled the locals for all they had, I welcomed the new blood.  

From what I read the movie made a point to name Gleason's character, "Minnesota Fats"  And that was because a guy named Rudolph Wanderrone was hustling in the Northeast under the moniker "New York Fats."  And that Gleason studied his films to get a feel for being an overweight pool pro who'd mastered the ability to climb inside an opponent's head and live there, rent free.  For that's what I'd heard was Fat's specialty.  

He had the chutzpah to sue MGM, stating that they'd stolen his identity in "Hustler."  They threw $85,000 his way to shut him up.  They settled a nuisance suit, but he rode the result all the way to the bank!  He had the biggest mouth in New York, and he bragged that he'd brought MGM to its knees, all day every day.  The "MSMedia," particularly ABC's "Wide World of Sports," saw him as an entertainer, good for eyeballs.  In fact, they produced a special taped on top of the Hilton Hotel in Manhattan.  With our Fats playing perhaps the very best pool player who ever lived.  

ABC arranged for 17-time Player of the Year Willie Mosconi to take on Fats.*  The match was touted by ABC for weeks.  It was televised on a Saturday night with a live audience.  Mosconi embarrassed Fats by winning every game that night, but it made him quasi-famous.  Famous enough to sell exhibitions to pool halls and college campuses and big pool rooms all across the fruited plain for years thereafter. 

Which brings us to that late Spring day, back in 1963. 

Minnesota Fats was conducting an exhibition of his talents at Twilling's Pool Hall in Marshall, Missouri that day.  So I quietly walked in and took a seat at the back of the room.  Fats was an imposing guy, weighing in at a good 320, I'd say.  And loud!  We're talking not just loud, but New York loud!  And that day he was blubbering around the center table, cue swaying in the air, squealing his patter at Volume 9.  Giving the 100 or so attendees to this party the history of his life.  And how great was his talent.  And how lucky we all were to be able to witness such talent.  And how he'd either beaten or scared off every other pool player on Earth.  

And then he uttered those fateful words:

"I'm so freakin' good, I'm betting $100 there's nobody in this place that's stupid enough to try and beat me in a game of 9-ball.  In fact, here's the Franklin!"  (He smacked the $C-Note on the pool table).  "Anybody?"

And so of course my arm shot up into the air.  At warp speed.

I spent the next 20 minutes or so spanking Mr. Fats.  I ran him off the table, in fact.  I'd heard he wasn't all that good in competition, which I'd just proven.  His specialty was trick shots, which nearly anyone can master with a little practice.  I picked up my $100 bill to the applause of the crowd, and headed for the door.

Fats followed me out and stuck out his hand.  He introduced himself and asked me to follow him to his car.  He opened the trunk of his huge white Cadillac.  It was filled with cardboard boxes.  And each box was crammed full of newspaper clippings of his various appearances.  Thousands of them.  I assumed this was to show me how great he was.  And how important he was.  But I already knew by then how great he wasn't.  But it was the foundation for the offer he was preparing to make.  

"Whatcha' doing this summer," he asked?  "If you're available I'd like to hire you.  I'd like you to come to each of my exibitions this summer, and sit in the audience.  And when I ask if there's anyone dumb enough to play me, like today, you stick up your hand, right?  Just like you did here, right?  And then we play, just like we did here.  Right?  And you do everything exactly like you did today, except you lose.  Ya' got it?"

The proposal banged around inside my head like a BB in a boxcar.  And then, before I could respond, he added, "And I'll give you a $Hundred Bucks for every game we play.  And you lose."    

I thought about this unique proposal for about, oh, ten nanoseconds.  Instead of fighting my way out of grungy bars and pool halls each night, which went along with hustling mouth-breathers in smoky beer bars, I could simply meet up with this loudmouth and pocket a $C-Note.  So I did.  We started at the Grand Olive Billiards in St. Louis that July, and toured all across Missouri, and Illinois, and Arkansas.  And I was hustling all around each event. too.  Picking up spare change from 9-ball games.  Covering my expenses.  Plus, I pocketed a cool $2,500 that summer from Fats.  And $2,500 Bucks could buy a new car at the time.  

So did I know Minnesota Fats?  Yeah, I knew him.  I toured with him!  You might want to look him up on Google.  He was a hoot.  A mouthy, sweaty, smelly, crafty, cagey hustler whose talent never came close to his ability to sell it.  I even helped him write a chapter of his 1965 book, "Minnesota Fats on Pool," for which he gave me another $100.  He came up with the title, not me.  

I only saw him on one other occasion, at the "Sports and Recreation Show" at the Anaheim Convention Center in 1987.  He was still fat and ungainly and sullen.  And he was still doing his schtick.  And doing it well...

Rudolph Wanderone lived in Bell's Nashville House until his death from congestive heart failure at the age of 82, in January, 1996.  He was truly an unforgetable character.  Loved by many, hated by most.  But nobody left without an opinion.  Maybe that's the way it ought to be for each of us...

*   I won the 1961 Nebraska Snooker Championship.  My prize was a pool cue, a trophy, and the right to play Willie Mosconi on live TV at the grand opening of the Olympic Lanes in St. Joseph, Missouri.  I was young and this was my hero.  I lost, but without looking to shabby in the process.  Quite an accomplishment for a 17 year-old kid.