“Crack!” “Swish.” The cue ball solidly hit the nine ball, sending it careening toward the corner pocket. The ball aligned with the green felt, softly swishing by like grass in a breeze, dropping into the pocket with a quiet swish. The table was slowly being cleared, systematically and precisely by me and my opponent. Both of us only had 2 billiard balls left to clear before the eight ball could be pocketed for the win. “Woosh..” Now make that one for my opponent.

Not only was this game coming to a close finish, but it was game five of five, the final game for the tournament. The first to clear the table would take home the victory and the prized trophy, the golden eight-ball. He missed his next shot by a fraction of an inch, “There we go, nice try,” making it my shot. My ideal shot was blocked by his final ball, the seven ball, so I went for a bank shot. The ball rolled true and dropped right in the pocket. My opponent muttered something softly under his breath, The game was now tied with my shot again.

My final ball was trapped behind the eight-ball, nearly impossible to get to, but with a perfectly placed shot, the spin on the cue ball was just enough to softly drop it in, finally allowing me to shoot the eight-ball in for the win. With a slight dilemma facing me, my opposition smiled slightly, knowing there was no possibility of me making this shot. What can I possibly do to win this? My opponent-feeling smug- watched as I stood in silent anguish as the win slipped from my grasp. I finally decided, after careful consideration, to put heavy topspin, and to follow the eightball to the opposite corner and rebound it in. All of this would also have to be done with his ball just inches away from the pocket. If I hit his ball in, he would win with an easy final shot.

With the entire game on the line, I went for it. Anguish coursed through me as I went for it, My opponent seeming to lean forward in anticipation of the easy win. Eight-ball and the cue ball, across the board, made contact and, against all odds, had snuck directly behind the opponent's 7-ball, dropping into the pocket, almost as if in slow motion. The tournament was mine. I had won.