There are certain perfect particular sounds. A tennis ball, a golf ball hit just right. A fly ball in a leather glove. Lingering thud of a knockout. I get dizzy at the sound of a perfect pool break, a crisp bank shot followed by three or four muffled slides and consecutive clicks. The caressing twist twist of chalk on the cue. Pool is erotic any way you look at it. Usually in a dim pulsating jukebox light.
Cricket in Santiago. Red parasols, green grass, white Andes. Red-and-white-striped canvas chairs at the Prince of Wales Country Club. I signed chits for lemonade, tipped the tuxedoed waiters, applauded John Wells. Perfect crack of the cricket bat. I wore white, was careful of the grass stains, flirted with boys who wore Grange School gray flannels, blue blazers in summertime. Cucumber sandwiches for tea, plans for Sunday at Viña del Mar.
At the Pony Bar I remembered feeling as alien on the green grass as I did on the bar stool next to the biker. He had hinges tattooed on his wrists, at the bend of his elbow, behind his knees.
“You need a hinge on your neck,” I said.
“You need a screw up your ass.”