Racking up years of friendship

Forget those smoky pool rooms populated by hustlers. Two of Pinellas County's finest players say pool is a gentleman's game.

COLUMN GOSIER E-mail: Click here Archive

By ELIJAH GOSIER

© St. Petersburg Times, published July 4, 2000

When Larry Coles and Dennis Jones told me that the game of pool is a lot like the game of golf, I had to take their word for it.

I was an avid pool player but had never been on a golf course. That was a few years ago. I have since been on a golf course. Several times.

That experience forced me to conclude that Coles and Jones, two men whose intelligence, character -- and opinions -- I have always greatly respected and admired, must be crazy.

Even on my worst night of pool, I've never lost a half-dozen balls in the woods. Or missed a shot by more than eight or nine feet. Or wished Halley's Comet would make a sudden appearance so no one would be looking when I took my next swat.

So, to give them a chance to restore my faith in their sanity, I caught them together a few days ago and asked them to explain themselves.

[Times photo: Dirk Shadd] Dennis Jones, left, and Lawrence Coles are two men who know how to play the game. The two amateur pool players came in 25th out of 800 teams in competition recently.

The direct answer to my question, which they practically gave in unison, was a no-brainer.

"The mental aspect."

I was underwhelmed.

From the time I wore out the knees of all my pants shooting marbles, through the time I've worn out my patience trying to shoot golf, I've known that the mental aspect is the key to all forms of competition. Understanding the fundamentals and knowing when and how to modify and apply them gives you a leg up in anything from baseball to chess. Probably tiddlywinks, too.

Add focus and you become hard to beat. At anything.

There is nothing revelatory in that. But the hourlong stream of memories that the question sparked revealed a lot about the game of pool and about the two men it brought together.

Coles, 57, and Jones, 56, are two of the best players in Pinellas County, which makes them two of the best in the state. Pinellas players consistently acquit themselves well in state competitions. And based on their team's performance in the recent Billiards Congress of America championships in Las Vegas, Coles and Jones are two of the best non-professional players in the nation. Their team finished 25th among nearly 800 teams from throughout the United States and Canada.

If what you know of pool comes from Paul Newman and Tom Cruise, you don't know the game that Coles and Jones play.

They don't skulk in smoky rooms waiting to take the money of some unsuspecting sucker. Smoke-filled pool rooms have given way to well-lit, friendly places, often with a family atmosphere. Skulking? Well, people just don't skulk the way they used to. What self-respecting skulker is even going to try it in a well-lit, friendly place with a family atmosphere?

Pool is staking out different territory for itself and has achieved a level of respectability that has it inching closer to bowling as the country's No. 1 participatory sport. It is even being considered for inclusion in Olympic competition.

Jones and Coles, who became friends over the pool table about 18 years ago, have always viewed the game as it exists in its current incarnation, a blend of art and science contested with courtesy and sportsmanship, not as a primary source of income.

Jones is retired after what he calls "luck" with several businesses and investments. Coles is a butcher at Albertson's.

"Pool is a gentleman's game," Jones says. "Back when I started playing the game, I wouldn't play anybody unless they were gentlemen."

Coles, who broke the color barrier in city leagues and has remained one of the most recognized and respected amateur players in Pinellas County, agrees.

"Just as many people respect me for me as they do for my pool playing," he says.

Although they remember details of specific shots and game situations from years ago, it is a struggle for them to pin down the year they met. Together, they narrow it to 1982 or 1983.

The year doesn't seem important as they talk animatedly about the experiences they shared in the years afterward. At least seven of those years were spent as teammates. In '92 and '93, they took championships. Every year, they were close.

Coles was the league's Most Valuable Player three years in a row; Jones followed with a couple of MVP honors.

They talk about the Game reverently, the way Willie Mays talks about the Game he played. They talk about each other with the same reverence.

Jones remembers, without the year, the "greatest shot I ever saw." The shot he calls the greatest is not one of those glitzy trick shots that pop the eyes out of novices and non-players, where the cue ball bounces off 12 rails, hops on the next table over and pockets six balls before coming to rest on the mouth of a Coke bottle.

The greatest shot he ever saw favored precision over flash, the kind of shot non-players don't appreciate because it looks so easy. The shot was played during a city championship -- with Larry Coles at the table.

"He had about a 3-inch window," Jones demonstrates with thumb and forefinger, still amazed after however many years it has been. It was just enough space for a pool ball to pass through. It was the space that stood between Coles and a championship.

"Larry drew that ball and I mean it was right there," Jones says, living the moment again. "The place went wild."

For at least an hour, the two men reminisced about other inches and other victories. But their conversation was not all physics and geometry. It was people and moments. Good people, great moments.

I guess that is mental after all.

Maybe I just need to get better at golf.

-- Elijah Gosier's column appears periodically in Floridian. He lives in St. Petersburg. Write him c/o the St. Petersburg Times, P.O. Box 1121, St. Petersburg, FL 33731.

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