Dad could sure play pool. One year he won the locals and the regionals. He probably would have even won the state contest if he’d had him a way up to Springfield. He thought he might be able to get a ride with someone but that fell through at the last minute. So he just sat around the house smokin’ cigarettes the day of the tournament. He drank afew beers and mumbled somethin’ about next year havin’ him a car that worked, by god. We’d been without one for years . . . since that one night he barely got the station wagon home. It just gave out in front of the house. Dad worked on it for weeks . . . cleanin’ spark plugs . . . messin’ with wires and filters. Finally he gave up. He’d heard the rumor goin’ round the tavern. He came home drunk on his ass, sayin’, “some bastard sugared my gas tank . . . I’m gonna have to kill somebody.”
But the next day he just got up and drug his old beat up rusted red bicycle outta the basement. He aired up the tires and hopped on it and didn’t mention the car again. He went about his business: goin’ to work, goin’ to get groceries, and goin’ to the reservoir with his fishin’ poles stickin’ outta the back basket. Didn’t slow him down a bit . . . not havin’ a car . . . at least not till now . . . till he needed to go 50 miles and become a state champion. He took another gulp of beer and growled, “Yeah, we’ll git us one . . . we’ll git us a car . . . next year.” Then he grabbed his pool cue and went out and hopped on his bicycle and rode down to take on the local boys.