At my grandparents' house, they call my nonno (Italian grandfather) the 'teenager'. They call him this because he's moody and never home. And he never tells us where he goes. We come up with all sorts of stories for him, but as to the truth, it's a mystery.
Although, The Matchroom, I think, has shed some light on that mystery.
One thing I know of his mysterious past is his pool-playing ability. I've never seen a better pool player. In person, anyway. So I asked if he wanted to go to a club. He reluctantly agreed. I listed a few places but he said no to most of them. This set of the first alarm bell. I wondered if he knew these places and didn't want me to meet the kind of people he hung out with.
Finally he conceded to The Matchroom.
I'm a bit of a wildcard when it comes to pool. I'm either amazing or terrible. There's no middle-ground. But one thing I love to do is break. I love the thunderclap of the white ball breaking up the motley assortment of other balls. I always hit the white ball too hard, however, and often knock it off the table. It makes my nonno go ballistic, but I just love and continue.
One time, however, the owner of the establishment caught me and he marched over to me, angry-faced, and began to give me a firm telling-off. That's when my nonno came to stand beside me. The owner gave him one look, then looked back to me, apologised, and left.
Now isn't THAT interesting. read more