BILLIARDS UNDER DIFFICULTIES

Shannon News, 30 August 1927, Page 4

BILLIARDS UNDER DIFFICULTIES

TOM REECE’S PICTURESQUE TALE Recounting his reminiscences as a billiard player in “London Sporting Life,” Tom Reece tells a most entertaining - story of one of his visits to New Zealand. The world-famed exponent of the pendulum cannon describes in racy fashion how he played on “the world’s worst table” at Paekakariki (near Wellington) and was overwhelmingly defeated by the local butcher. I have visited New Zealand three times (says Reece), playing through both islands, from Auckland to the Bluff, which latter place is the jumping off stage for the -South Pole, and possesses as its almost unique attraction the last lamp post in the world. It’s a great new country, and I love it; but, being new, it has its limitations. What do they know of New Zealand who only Welington or Auckland know 1 ! You need to go up country and visit the little outlandish towns, .with names as long as their main streets, and as unpronounceable as a Polish swear word in the mouth ,of a Lithuanian Jew with a lisp, before you get the real savour of the sheep country. Sixteen Hours’ Journey. . I got an offer of £25 to play one " little exhibition game at Paekakariki. That’s how the atlas spells it, because | I’ve looked.it up since, but it was pronounced Pie-cock-o’-Reekie as neai as I can remember, and it was distant from Auckland .16 solid hours in the train. I arrived at _ Pie-cock-o ’-Reekie by the' morning train, but I was not due to play till three in the afternoon. After a variety of adventures in the little township, I eventually located the village tobacconist, who had guaranteed the match. He was the s.ole inhabitant of the village I had encountered up to that stage. After an unexpectedly good meal at the hotel, I made my way a little before three to the billiard room, accompanied by my guide, philosopher, and friend, the tobacconist. Cue Like a Corkscrew.

By three o’clock my .opponent had still not arrived, and the covering cloth was still on the table. I began to grow uneasy, but after another 10 minutes there was a sudden rustle of welcome among the spectators, and a feyv curt greetings to a giant of a man in*a butcher’s apron, with a great steel hanging at his side, who strode into the room, nodded all round, and then walked straight across to a battered cue. case hanging on the wall. Prom this case he procecded ( to extract a cue more like a corkscrew than anything I have ever seen used on a billiard table. At a sign from the tobacconist tw.o of the audience tore the dust sheet from its moorings, and revealed —The worst table in the world! I never saw, and I hope I never* may &ee again, so wild a caricature of a real table. There was hardly an inch of its surface that was not marked by a strip of green court plaster, to hide some ancient rent in the original green baize. Burns alternated with grease spots, and I concluded that it had seen much play by candle-light, and that the players had tapped their pipes out here and there when they felt inclined. And even t,o the naked eye the surface of that table presented a positively undulating appearance. I was still gaping at this horrid revelation when I realised that my opponent, the butcher, was ungirdling himself for the fray. He rolled his apron up ..and tucked it under his braces. He unbuckled his great steel and flung it with a clatter into a far corner of the room, j

Chalked Table-edge.

And finally he dived into a trousers pocket and pulled out a huge lump of white chalk —I should think it was quarried from a neighbouring cliff — and proceeded to chalk his cue and his hands, and even the wooden edge of the table itself. Then he grinned and the tobacconist master of the ceremonies announced triumphantly that the match would begin. I was announced to give this local champion 600 start in IOOtJ up, and 1 am bound to own that I got the worst beating I ever had in my life. I hate to make excuses, but the fact remains that, unless you knew the lie of the land, you couldn't even trundle a ball up the length of the table with any certainty of hitting the object ball, let alone scoring off it. I had only scored 40 when my opponent ran to game. He could score from any position, and he brought off shots which would have baffled John Roberts. He knew every court plaster mound, and every greasemarked groove, on the table, and the balls were bewitched under the tremendous blows of his corkscrew cue. Directly he had finished he gave me a mighty handshake, put his cue back in . the case again, buckled his steel to * his side, nodded to the boys, and went back to the slaughtering! One by one the rest of the crowd wished me a friendly and cheerful good-bye. None of them seemed to be in the least disappointed in my exhibition. I was left alone with the tobacconist, and he immediately counted out a roll of notes, and then pushed £25 across the table to me. A World-Beater. “Thank you very much, Mr. Reece," said he, “The boys have enjoyed it a whole lot. It's been well worth the Avhip round for the money. Old Bill there" —I suppose he meant my friend with the steel—“always does just the same with all the gentlemen who come up here to give exhibitions. He’s a grand player.’’ And I agreed. Put “Old Bill’’ of Pie-cock-o ’-Reekie on his own table and I don’t believe there’s a player in the world w'ho could live with him. Thoughtfully, with my cue case in one hand, my suitcase in another, and £25 in my pocket, I walked back along the two miles of dusty road and "waited in the empty cigar-box station until the return train should take me back to Auckland, 16 hours away from the . . worst table in the world,