The Grand is a deceptive place, more spacious on the inside than anyone imagines before entering. Open its doors in North Austin and the room rolls out for you, magically, like it didn’t exist before you crossed its threshold. A long hallway divides the room, and as you walk toward the bar at the end of the space like a billiards Moses, a sea of pool tables parts to both sides. On busy nights, the racket of crashing balls sounds like you’re caught in a Texas thunderstorm. The playlist jumps from Merle Haggard to Al Green to Motörhead indiscriminately. The crowd is as eclectic, from hippies to frat boys, manual laborers to tattooed cowboys, Ph.D.s to pierced-out punks. At The Grand I’ve played—and lost—against all walks of life.
I love this pool hall most at daytime. Scott, the reed-thin bartender in the Black Flag T-shirt one wash away from falling apart, is checking inventory. Some regulars sit at the bar, watching the horror film The Thing—The Grand’s own DVD collection is curated zealously by Scott. My buddy Bill, who first brought me here, is sitting on a stool, working from his laptop. On one of the blue 9-foot tables, Ed, a retiree the size of a mountain, shoots nine-ball with a friend. There’s a group of construction workers on break, neon vests flapping as they shoot; and then me, practicing alone. I’m here most Monday afternoons, when it’s free for league players, like me, and service industry workers.
The hardest thing to learn in pool is to be still. Quiet. You strive for consistency. The pre-shoot routine comes first—it should be the same each time you approach the balls. The bridge hand, where the tip of the cue rests, is steady but comfortable on the table. The only thing that moves is the hinge on your elbow that slides the stick back and forth. Your face is low, chin almost to the shaft, looking past the cue ball, beyond the object ball, and into your target pocket—like soldiers are trained to look down the barrel of a rifle. You visualize everything going right: the tip of the cue hitting the white ball, following through like you’re trying to pierce it; cue ball stopping at point of contact with the object ball, transferring all that kinetic energy into it; then the object ball rolling true into the heart of the corner pocket. Simple. It should work every time. But, of course, it doesn’t. Pool is a game of variables. One thing changes—you’re a half-tip off, there’s lint on the felt, your elbow jerks right—and the whole sequence is thrown. Pool is like life…