The shot requires no spin. It is a short, easy, straight-in shot. A simple stop shot will do nicely. You try to ignore the critical eyes squinting in judgment of your choice. You aim and, mid-stroke, a lightening bolt runs up your leg, enters your spine, and zaps all of the pool neutrons in your brain. Your lower jaw drops to the general vicinity of your socks. The sound of the miscue echoes throughout the room and everybody turns to watch your face fall off. It all happens in about a millionth of a second. The horror is stored in the catacombs of your jellied brain for the rest of your stupid, insignificant life.
You turn toward your chair trying to appear as if the miss was deliberate! A brilliant, sharking tactic only the most seasoned hustlers would understand! Returning to your seat, you trip over a piece of lint, and drop your cue stick. It hits Butch "The Rattlesnake" on the head...just above the scar he got in a beer bottle fight.
Your opponent offers his condolences and, grinning like Jack Palance in the chariot scene from Ben Hur, approaches the table to strip you of any remaining fragments of pride. After running five balls, he is forced to play you safe, but fails. What luck! You have a chance to redeem yourself.
All nine of your balls are in the open, seven of them on the table where they belong. Again you examine the pattern, and play the sequence for the first three shots in your mind, forgetting that your brain was fried earlier. You make your choice for the first shot and try to concentrate on the object ball, which is, at most, only twenty or thirty yards away. As you lock your eyes on the object ball, what's left of your brain keeps playing reruns of the previous miscue. The target pocket keeps shrinking and you suddenly realize you have Parkinson's disease. At least you hope it's Parkinson's disease and not an attack of "jackass-shooting-pool syndrome".
