A Serious Game: Nursing The Balls.
On the other hand, the great majority of amateurs, for whom the game is one of chance rather than of skill, either will not or cannot give the necessary attention to master its rudiments; consequently, they cannot be said to play for breaks, nor is it desirable that they should make the pretence. They will score faster by concentrating their attention on the stroke before them, and by implicitly trusting to Providence for the next. It is true that they never make a break in the higher sense of the word; nevertheless, they often succeed in putting together considerable scores and in defeating better players. For persons of this class—and let it be clearly understood that there need be no cause for shame in belonging to it, because many cannot give the time nor afford the money required for practice and professional supervision—a few general hints will suffice. What is ridiculous is when they pretend to a knowledge they do not possess, and ascribe their failures to playing for position, a crime of which they are wholly guiltless. Beyond these there are an increasing number of persons who have grasped the idea of playing a break, who desire to do so legitimately, and who can give some time and attention to the game, and now and then get a little professional instruction. Though such are undoubtedly in a higher class than the former, it by no means follows that they invariably defeat them. Their breaks though played for may very probably not equal by half the scores made by the others; indeed, until decided progress has been made the difficulty before alluded to of providing for the leave will result in the immediate stroke being missed so often, as to more than neutralise the benefits which arise from occasional success. In time, however, the average play and rate of scoring of this higher class will surpass the performances of those first mentioned to such an extent that they can give a start of from one-fifth to one-fourth of the game. The best players of this higher class soon reach the standard of what for want of a better definition may be called good club play. That is to say, few players in London clubs can give them points, they make consistent scoring, and under favourable circumstances may play 250 points in an hour. This means a considerable aptitude for the game, as well as some knowledge of it, and more or less education. In fact, a standard has been attained which will be lost unless kept up by steady work. Comparatively speaking, very few gentlemen pass beyond this stage, and when they do they seldom play in clubs. The reasons are obvious; in the first place they cannot get the tables for sufficiently long games, and they are liable in club-rooms to all manner of interruption fatal to continuity of play; they further meet no opponents from whom they have anything to learn. Hence naturally they prefer to play elsewhere, and they often attain to a very high standard of excellence in cases rivalling not without success high-class professional form. It must not of course be overlooked that certain natural qualities should be possessed by the student if he is to become a fine player, and also that men in every class as players may be fortunate enough to enjoy them. They will always be useful, and will often lead their possessor to victory when contending with a harder working but less gifted opponent. The most important of all is perhaps good health, for that covers a multitude of excellences; good nerve, good sight, quick and sound judgment, good temper. A good figure, too, is of great advantage, and it is better to be tall rather than short; yet how many short men have been and are fine players.
But these advantages will not of themselves suffice to make a player; intelligent practice and plenty of it are required, and the fewer or weaker the natural qualities may be the more must they be reinforced by work—‘à force de forger en devient forgeron.’
The system of classifying a player by means of his average break is a safe one, provided that the average is calculated from a great many games, and that the other person with whom comparison is made is averaged from the same number of games played under the same circumstances. Unless this is attended to results may mislead. The average break is found by dividing the points scored by the number of visits to the table. Thus if a player scores a game of 100 in 10 innings, the initial miss of course counting as 1, his average is 10; 20 innings give an average of 5; 25 an average of 4; and so on. This process if continued over a large number of games will give a result on which dependence may be placed. But a little consideration will make it plain that unless the circumstances are very similar comparison between players based on their averages may be misleading; one table is much easier than another; one adversary plays an open game and gives many chances, another plays for safety and leaves no opening time after time; the size of the balls, the temperature of the room and the light, the order maintained, and a variety of circumstances will affect the average, and moreover affect it differently in different men. Hence care is necessary before assuming as a result of one or two observations that the average derived from them is trustworthy. Still it is less liable to mislead than unassisted observation, and a man who desires to play a match with another and who knows his own average is considerably helped by taking the latter’s average, even if only from one or two games. If prudent he will allow a good margin in his favour to meet the unforeseen, for few things are more difficult to explain than personal questions concerning play and that most potent factor which we call luck.
As regards the first of these, it is a matter of common experience that men play differently—indeed, very differently—with different opponents. One man’s manner, or style of play, or what not, is aggravating and irritating to another, and the feeling need not be mutual; yet the man affected will play many points behind his real game. It is no exaggeration to say that there may be three men, A, B, and C, equal players, yet a record over a great number of games might show that whereas A generally beat B and lost to C, B on his part generally defeated C. Such an anomaly is of course more likely to be found where men are acquainted with each other—indeed, without acquaintance personal peculiarities would not count for so much.
The second subject, that of luck, must be approached with much caution. One person, generally that one who is enjoying fortune’s favours, will say that in the long run, as between man and man, luck is even. Indeed, he may go further and practically deny its existence, affirming, what is no doubt true, that the laws of nature are not altered or suspended in favour of any player, and that effect follows cause irrespective of personality. Another will declare that some men are habitually lucky, and that with certain players his chances are better than with others. There is truth probably in both contentions; luck is more likely to be evenly divided between the players in a long than in a short game, yet we think no close observer would care to deny that some men seem habitually lucky at billiards, just as it is generally admitted that certain persons are good cardholders, and, again, that other men appear to be more than averagely unfortunate. The better the player the more ready is he usually to admit his obligations, but as a rule, though no less valuable, they are not so evident as the palpable fluke of the weaker performer. They consist of trifles, so to speak, which are summed up in the phrase ‘a kindly run of the balls,’ and enable the fortunate man to compile breaks and play with confidence, feeling that nothing can go wrong, whilst all the time, no evident fluke being made, he is credited with playing a fine game. His unfortunate antagonist meanwhile can do nothing right; even when by dint of cue power and science he pulls off one difficult stroke after another, each leaves a more difficult one to follow, till failure is inevitable. And this is not all nor the worst; for whereas Fortunatus on failing to score leaves the balls safe or nearly so, our unlucky friend can scarcely touch them without leaving one certainty after another; finally, when attempting some impossibility, he makes the most undeniable fluke, at which the spectators smile in appreciation, whilst he is engaged in trying to solve the problem of why a fluke even should leave nothing to follow.
Luck plays an important part in most breaks, more in those all-round and what are called ‘out in the country’ than in top-of-the-table play, and least of all in spot breaks. With professional players it affects the results of games less evidently, and probably absolutely less than with amateurs, yet even with the former its power is immense. If they fluke seldomer, they make far more of each piece of luck. For example, the writer saw a match of 1,000 up between two very fine players, one of whom conceded the other a start of 100. He gave the usual miss in baulk, and his opponent attempted to screw in off the red. He failed egregiously, but drove the red round the table into a pocket, whilst his own ball after a strange career settled down beautifully for spot play. From this opening 100 spots were made, and the game when he broke down was called love, 404. Though play on both sides was of a very high order, the lead thus obtained made the final result almost a certainty.
In dealing with breaks, one other matter must be kept in mind; it is very important, and must influence anything we have to offer in the way of advice, making that of necessity general rather than particular. This is, that what is the game for one man is not necessarily the game for another, and that no very moderate break can be twice played alike even by the same man. Still there are general principles which cannot be neglected with impunity, and attention to them will without doubt improve the chances of the most moderate performers. More experienced players adhere to them almost unconsciously, and some even are disposed to push them too far, thus occasionally sacrificing the break in attempting too minute and too perfect control over the balls. This is a rock on which many a game is wrecked, specially by players of great delicacy of touch. A freer player, who recognises the futility of attempting too great precision, but who at the same time never loses sight for an instant of the general principles which should guide him, and whilst obeying them leaves minutiæ to take care of themselves, is far more likely to steer clear of trouble and to get home first.
A few words may suffice on the subject of nerve, a quality which is intimately connected with making breaks. All men at times suffer from nervousness, and its effect is paralysing; judgment, sight, and muscular control are all affected, in some instances one might say arrested. Nerve is probably closely allied to courage, yet in many respects it is quite distinct; and very often a player at billiards who is nervous has his failure unwarrantably attributed to what is expressively though inelegantly called funk. Yet the man is no more a coward than the hundreds are who if called upon to make a speech suddenly find their tongues if not their ideas paralysed; he would face danger, moral or physical, with average intrepidity, but still under certain circumstances his play breaks down and he collapses. In so far as the question is between man and man—one person’s nerve being greater than another’s—we have nothing useful to say: one man is taller or healthier or stronger than another, so much the better for the fortunate man; but much that is set down by thoughtless spectators to fear is in reality want of confidence, which happily may be supplied by intelligent work. That, with ordinary care in living and with a resolution never to play for stakes which cannot be lost with complete equanimity, is the remedy which will be found most effectual.
Allied to this gain of confidence is the consideration of whether beginners should select for purposes of play a difficult or an easy table. The question is open to argument, and perhaps what may suit one man may not suit another. But judging from personal experience and from professional advice respecting training for a match, we should counsel commencing to learn on an easy rather than on a difficult table. Many persons have doubtless experienced the feeling that when they have made 20, 30, 40, 50, or some greater number of points, they are on the way to making a break, and therefore must be careful lest they should fail. The thought is fatal, and is quickly followed by collapse. The best prevention is to become accustomed to making such breaks, and that is most easily managed on a table where the pockets are not very difficult. As one’s powers improve so may tighter pockets be encountered, but if the same game be played the limits of divergence of tables must be small. Half an inch or less in the width of a pocket necessitates a very material alteration of the game, which need not at this moment be further particularised.