The Natural

"Come on, Jack, whatsa matter --ya 'fraid t' play me?" Asch is talking to Colavita.

"You been playin' all day and I haven't even warmed up," Colavita says.

Asch finishes his game of straight pool as the exchange continues. Colavita shuffles across the plush carpeting of the Crystal Room in the Sheraton-Chicago Hotel, the practice room for contestants in the world's biggest pool tournament, the U. S. Open, sponsored by the Billiard Congress of America. Colavita "warms up" by running out 15 balls.

Just as he's getting set to beat Asch a second time, an official-looking man walks up. "Let's go, boys, this table's for display. If you keep coming over here, I'm going to have to ask your fathers not to bring you next year."

Twelve-year-old Colavita, undefeated at that particular illegal table, just mumbles, "Yes, sir," as he's been taught. His father, he knows, is in the next room playing his most important game of the year. The word is: Have a good time, son, but don't make waves.

Across from the forbidden table are three other tables for contestants to practice on. At one of them a pudgy blond man casually knocks balls around. He is only in his 20s, but his hairline is already inching backward. He moves around the table with a slow disjunct gait, as if his spine were a Slinky. You stand and watch 100, maybe 200 balls go down without a hitch. You begin to wonder what's going on. He doesn't seem particularly concerned where the balls go, doesn't seem to take much time or effort putting them there. But they all go in. The other players, who work so hard at it, don't get nearly as many.

As it happens, the man at the table is Steve Mizerak, the best straight-pool player in the world. Like Willie Hoppe or Irving Crane--and like young Jack Colavita--Mizerak was taught the game as soon as he was tall enough to reach the table. Unlike your normal prodigies, Mizerak more or less ignores the game, playing only a few times a month except just before this tournament. From qualifying matches all around the country have come 32 men who will play in the Seventh Annual U. S. Open. Thirty-one of them have skill. Mizerak has only his gift.

There are also 16 contestants who have qualified for the women's-division matches, which are held just before the men's each day. While the men must have 150 points to win a game, the women need only 75. First prize for the male winner is $5000; the female champion gets only $1500. But the apparent discrimination is justified: In 1971, the high run for the ladies was 19. For the men, it was 108, Safeties (defensive maneuvers intended to leave the opponent without a reasonable shot) make up a great deal of a women's game and play is always excruciatingly slow, never daring. The plain fact is that the women contestants just don't have the egocentric flair that makes so many of the men interesting to watch.

Donna Ries, a student of clinical psychology from Kansas City, Missouri, and a promising player in this year's women's division, thinks that the men outshine the women because men bet more heavily and are generally more competitive. As far as Mizerak is concerned, women will never be excellent pool players, because they lack what he calls the "inner strength" necessary to withstand the high pressures involved in serious pool playing. Aside from that, he really doesn't have an explanation.

Dorothy Wise, a handsome gray-haired lady from San Francisco, was champion from 1967, when the B.C.A. first sponsored a women's tournament, until 1972, when she was defeated first by Geraldine Titcomb, a 1971 runner-up, and then by Madelyn Whitlow, wife of Alton Whitlow, a contestant in the men's competition. All the players were upset, however, by Jean ("The Kid") Balukas, a shy--nearly comatose is closer to the truth; she spoke hardly a word during the entire tournament, her father doing most of the talking for her--13-year-old. Ms. Balukas started playing when she was four years old (that seems to be the age when you can see over the edge of the rail) and won two games in the U. S. Open when she was nine. She is too young at this point for anyone to know what will develop, but there are some interesting implications for her future: Oddly enough, her favorite game is baseball and it's rumored that she plays pool only to please her father. Is it possible that she will move on to revolutionize women's pool? She doesn't think so. As far as she's concerned, the reason women don't play well is their inability to play position properly. Perhaps she's right: In studies done in 1958 and 1965, evidence strongly suggested that females perform more poorly than males on spatial tasks and are less likely to analyze geometric designs in terms of their component parts.

The official competition takes place in the Grand Ballroom, a mock-elegant place with too many hundreds of pounds of gaudy chandeliers and the wrong style of pillars. The fresh green felt on the tables glares under the cold blue light from the fluorescent tubing hung for the tournament. The carpeting on the dance floor is done in broad earth colors vaguely suggesting something Oriental. As if this weren't enough, three sides of the room are hung from floor to ceiling with blood-red, velvety curtains.

But some coherence in decor is created by the players and spectators, whose dress leans toward white wing-tip shoes and Argyle socks, matching purple tie-and-shirt combinations, ruffled cuffs, simulated-diamond stickpins, ivory buttons and pomaded ducktail hairdos. Most of the time it's difficult to tell if they are trying to appear well dressed or have simply been out of touch since the mid-Fifties. While some look like smalltime gangsters, others just seem to be color-blind.

Of course, in addition to these representatives of the underbelly of the pool world, there are the regular hard-hats in plaid shirts and khaki pants, out to see how the legendary players work, and to take back something to talk about over the quarter-a-rack bar table. And the blacks turn out in an array of leather hats and studded wristbands, rainbow-suede vests and high-heeled shoes, not to mention pink- and puce- and avocadotinted sunglasses. . . . Then come the promoters and officials, carefully sewn and zippered into Robert Hall, bargain-basement and neo-bland suits spanning the spectrum from light gray to dark gray. It's more like a recreation room in the local asylum than the site of a world-championship pool tournament.

Four tables making an open square in the center of the room are in use simultaneously during the eliminations. Associated with each pair of subjects are two chairs and a card table supporting ashtrays and water pitchers, blue chalk and talcum powder. Behind each card table a staff of judges observes the contestants in silence, displaying with an overhead projector a record of the results. Beyond the playing area, spectators shift and fidget on the worn wooden bleachers.

At each table are two kinds of patients. One is an acute depressive, sitting down, sipping water, trying not to look too hard at the score and wondering when his opponent--the manic--is going to stop making those damned shots. The manics move around, pocketing balls with malicious glee, between ripples of applause from the audience. One such case, a man named Hopkins, defeats his alter ego 150 to 1, on the strength of an opening run of 141 balls.

Many microcosmic dramas of victory and defeat are witnessed in this tournament. Luther ("Wimpy") Lassiter, winner of the 1969 tournament, and legendary player in his own right, is defeated twice (disqualifying him) in his first four games. His eyes have gotten so bad lately that he has had to paint the end of his cue red. Lou ("Machine Gun") Butera--nicknamed for his rapid-fire style of play--misses one shot that is so easy and obvious that he throws his cue onto the floor. He is out of the running after three games. Younger contestants such as Steve Cook and Andrew Tennent, Jr., are especially hard hit when confronted with the seasoned players more in control of their nerves.

Game after game, and almost point after point, what takes place is not so much the victory of one man in a game as the spectacle of one man seeking out and destroying another's ego, finding his little weaknesses and jumping in to take advantage of them. And beyond a certain level of technical accomplishment, the game comes closer and closer to being one man's character against another's: Psychological inadequacies lose the matches more often than motor-skill deficiencies. To most of these men, pool is war, and defeat means more casualties.

In competition as fierce as this, the players are cautious, hypertense and cagey. Their movements around the tables are quick and abrupt, but their shots are carefully planned and executed with grave concern. Only rarely will you see a player attempt a difficult shot, even a bank or cushion shot that he's made many times in more casual play. The pressure is simply too great. If the ball doesn't drop, it could mean the end of the game.

The exception is Mizerak. We see him at one point faced with a shot that, for all practical purposes, is impossible. Nevertheless (before a crowd of over 100 people, clamped to their seats, renitent with nervous tension), he flips his wrist, shrugs his shoulders and watches the object ball deflect off three others, making no fewer than three right-angle turns before it dribbles toward the appointed pocket, almost pausing for a moment--and then drops. There is a second of breathless quiet while people double take to make sure it has really happened. Then the audience explodes. Behind the table a judge's spectacles tumble into his water glass as he stares in disbelief, not so much that Mizerak made the shot but that he had the nerve to try it. And that's the point.

When you think of the best in the world, you might picture a dapper man in his 40s, like Willie Mosconi, totally dedicated to improving the game of pocket billiards. Or perhaps a cigar-smoking hustler who vaguely resembles a new species of rodent. But not Steve Mizerak, who can be found most of the year casting pearls before seventh graders at the Samuel E. Shull School in Perth Amboy, New Jersey. And not a man who, most days, goes out after school to shoot a dedicated but mediocre game of golf. And most certainly not a man who plays pool only when he has to. You'll never find him in Johnston City hustling the hustlers, and you probably won't see him in other tournaments. Yet he's the first man under 30 ever to win the U. S. Open.

A candid, humorless 27-year-old, Mizerak grew up the middle-class son of a professional baseball manager and player who later turned to running a pool hall to support his family. Steve drives a new Ford and drinks an old fashioned occasionally, for social reasons. He lives in Woodbridge, New Jersey, with his wife, Linda, and their infant son. He likes to bet on his golf game but always loses. Twice a year he goes to the track --more cash down the tubes. Occasionally, he makes promotional tours for Brunswick--but, he emphasizes, only for the money. For fun? "I do very little for fun," he says with a dry chuckle, "except play golf."

About his growing fame all he has to say is: "Well, somebody's liable to read an article and want me to come over to his house for exhibitions or lessons." He has two students right now who pay $20 to $25 an hour for help with their games, which Steve describes as "not too good--one guy can run maybe forty or fifty balls. The other guy can run twenty or twenty-five. You can't really teach a man too much." Everything he says comes out with a shrug.

This is what makes the critical difference. The man is extraordinary, which means he's more ordinary than most people. And this makes him so strange that he really doesn't care: The amazing shots he makes, the high runs, the title he takes home year after year are not a matter of nerve and courage. Because he is relaxed, apprehension cannot betray him. With no concern, there is no fear; with no fear, no tension; and without tension, there is no flickering of an eye or random twitch of a muscle to keep any of the balls from falling into the intended pocket. In almost any game, practice is the deciding factor. Pool is no exception, but Mizerak is. He's the living embodiment of the textbook natural.

Consequently, when the final match approaches, it is likely not Mizerak who is thinking about that monumental carom shot he just made but his opponent, "Dapper" Dan DiLiberto, defeated only by Mizerak in the final game of the eliminations.

DiLiberto has been wearing the same blue double-breasted suit coat all week. It's still clean. He's a tall, trim 33-year-old from Miami who was once a professional boxer and bowler. Now he plays pool for money and paints for relaxation. His striking blue-black mustache and full head of hair, combined with his muscular build and decisive movements, make Mizerak look like a cartoon figure by comparison.

For this final confrontation, a single table remains in the center of the room. Everything seems a little brighter, a little cleaner, and the audience looks somehow different. The people have all changed their clothes. Tonight the diamonds and pearls are real, and real money in 100s and 50s is changing hands. The nervous chatter has given way to intense silence--until the official introduces DiLiberto without realizing that the contestants haven't shown up yet. Someone in the audience punctures the dead quiet with, "Hey, Danny, this isn't a chess match!" Finally DiLiberto appears, grinning sheepishly.

The first game goes very quickly, ending in not much more than an hour. To everyone's amazement, DiLiberto wins it, and he's greeted with nearly five minutes of standing hysteria. Mizerak just sits there, sipping his water, calm and unruffled. You can see his thoughts in (concluded on page 238) The Natural(continued from page 144) the way he looks: So he lost a game, big deal. After the way Dapper Dan ground out that victory, there's no way his nerve tan last. Later Mizerak admitted that he wasn't worried about losing the first game. He wasn't exactly certain he was even trying his best to win it. After all, DiLiberto gave him enough shots. When asked why he didn't take advantage of those opportunities, he just shrugged. Besides, the rules favored him. In double eliminations, the challenger needs more victories than the defender. In this case, DiLiberto needs to win two games: if Mizerak wins one. he retains the title. With Mizerak it's just a matter of keeping cool and waiting. Anyone who cares can't possibly remain calm this long.

When the second game begins, Mizerak has changed from a dark suit to a less somber coat and tie. Dapper Dan, as always, wears his blue coat, still clean. One of Mizerak's opening moves is to make two bank shots in a row, a very rare and, in a way, defiant gesture, comparable to hitting a home run with the handle of a bat. By the time Mizerak misses for the first time, the tension is so great that he and Dan begin talking to each other, unheard of in tournament pool, even when the players know each other. At one point, Dan is left with a shot he cannot reach over the unbroken pack--even by stacking one mechanical bridge on top of another to elevate his cue. After several minutes' deliberation, he decides to try it one-handed, leaning all the way across the length of the table and jabbing at the cue ball with his stick.

"I hope you make it." Mizerak says.

"I'm only trying to help you." Dan replies.

Inevitably, Mizerak wins with a heartbreaking score of 150 to 18, barely more than one rack for Danny. Mizerak's movement is too sure, his nerves too calm. Even before the last ball finds its perfunctory way to the pocket, on an 87-ball run, one senses that Mizerak's mind is already turning toward Perth Amboy, where lie's still trying to break 85 on the local golf course. As far as pocket billiards goes, he'll be back at the tournament this year. Until then, he doesn't much want to be bothered with little colored balls on a cloth-covered table.