Twas was the day after Thanksgiving and all through the house not a creature was stirring – they were all out with the mouse – shopping, and dining, and playing soccer, oh my. Then one old man, one grown man, one young lad, and a mostly old crone appeared in the house and clattered down to the finished basement for a game of pool – a nasty one named “Cut-Throat.” It was meant only for three so the grown man played coach to us other brave pool sharks.
The old man and the lad had played pool as recently as the day before. They were polished and practiced and ready for more. But the old crone, well, she hadn’t hefted a cue stick in well over ten years and her scratches and misses spelled doom for sure. As hard as she tried her efforts proved nil and even the coaching of the grown man helped only a bit. No pool shark she.
Meanwhile the lad and the old man kept hitting away, dropping balls here and there with nary a quiver and only a few scratches that helped the old crone stay alive. The object you see, of the game they were playing was to sink your opponents balls and keep yours afloat – or at least on the table top. A scratch meant you got to resurrect one of yours from the deep of the pocket – another chance to keep playing.
All seemed doomed for the old crone with two of her balls remaining and the lad taking bead on a nearly sure drop. The old crone called to God with this silent prayer, ‘Come on God, we aren’t going to let these guys beat us, are we?” It wasn’t a serious prayer, more like a plea, but what happened next you won’t believe.
The lad missed the shot and it was the old crone’s turn with seven balls left on the pool table. Crack, one in the corner pocket. Crack one in the other corner pocket. Crack, one in the corner and one in the side pockets both at once. There was high-fiving and OMG’s as the crone simply smiled. Three balls left – two of them hers. If she could sink her opponent’s ball she’d won the game. Considering her previous three shots it seemed highly unlikely she’d succeed yet again.
The men were all coaching her – hit this, no hit that, hit high, no hit low, hit here, hit there. None of those hints seemed just right, so she listened to that Spirit of God within. “Hit this one a touch on the lower left side and one great big winner you will be.” Ready, aim, shoot – CRACK – two balls headed each for its own pocket – drop, drop, SUCCESS. Sitting alone and jubilant in the middle of the table was the winner’s ball – you guessed it, it belonged to the crone. “Thank you, God,” she said in her head – didn’t want those guys to know the divine help she’d had! But her heart chuckled a bit as she thought to herself, “the pool shark lives!” WOO HOO!