Culture Shock and the Island (P.3)

 

As a child growing up in the midwestern United States, racism would rarely raise its porcine head. Predominately a white suburb of Denver, we had a large population of Hispanics and a small percentage of black Americans. My first crush was on a beautiful Spanish girl who we remain friends to this day. A black family lived up the street, a medical doctor and his wife and two children that I attended high school with, and zero problems “race-wise” or any otherwise. My mother and father had an open-door policy, meaning everyone was welcome.

Perhaps because my parents came from Australia, outsiders, so to speak, race difference only came up over our kitchen table discussions on the weekends. Friends would gather and discuss the politics of the day and particularly the war in Vietnam. When Nixon came to power, my father, playing devil's advocate, would side with the Republicans and the rest of us arguing for civil rights, anti-war, and the hot topic of segregation. Governments wanted to bus white children to black schools and visa-visa. This never eventuated in our town. If there was racism in our neighborhood, it never even manifested on the surface. It wasn't until landing in Australia that I experienced true racism in the open.

Vacationing on an island has never been my first choice when traveling. You sleep, eat, drink, sunbathe, swim, eat, drink, and on this certain night, played a game of pool.

My wife had a big night when we arrived, so after dinner, she preferred to go back to the room and sleep. I found my way to the main bar, and the place was rocking as much if not more, than the night before. The only difference was there were no half-naked women dancing on the bar tops. Wading my way through clouds of cigarette smoke, made my way to the bar and ordered another beer. My back against the bar, I observed an intense game of 8 ball between an indigenous staff member and a tourist. Both looked to be good players. There was a considerable amount of cash on the table. A bet. A small crowd surrounded the game in silence.

As an aside, I grew up in our towns bowling alley. Most days after school, my friend and I would play the pool tables in the back to the sounds of bowling pins crashing in the air. Over many summers we became quite proficient in the game. This had become a skill that has never left. Unlike the guitar, where you drop it for a while, and return to the instrument a lesser player, for me, pool was different - the nuances of the game never left.

The game came down to the eight ball. A few shots later, the tourist made a silly shot, banging the ball, sinking it in the side pocket. This was not a skill but drunken luck. Money is exchanged as the small crowd cheered. For an instant, I felt anger at the tourist because he won the game with dumb luck. The crowd cheering felt to have a racist tone to it. The white man beats the black man. Right then, a young girl in her twenties turned to me and said,” That'll teach the Abo for being so smug.” This really pissed me off. Stepping forward, I asked the winner if he'd like to play a game. He looked at me in a drunken sneer and asked: “How much money do you have, mate?”

I thought this guy is alcoholically confident. But I knew from experience, that beating a dude like this in front of his friends, would only throw gasoline on a drunken situation. I reached in my pocket and found a twenty-dollar note.

“Twenty”. I said.

The inebriated champion of the night smiled and said, “Rack'em up!”

Anyone who knows pool understands the break is important for a variety of reasons. Merely touching the rectangle, will extend the game, revealing true skill. Smashing it can either win the game for you or after a single mistake, will give the win to your opponent I decided to break the rack somewhere in the middle, creating an equal battleground.

Because my drunken champion was so loose and nervous free, he began dropping balls one after the other. He made the game look like child's play. He missed the last stripe, the 11 ball, leaving all the solids and the black 8 on the table.

Only after a few wines at dinner and a single beer at the pub, I was pretty much sober as the day I was born. A small crowd had gathered, not only my opponent's followers but a group of staff members as well.

Examining the table, I knew the sequence of shots that would bring me to victory. (I desperately wanted to beat this racist). It was soon later I discovered that the twenty-something girl who was gleeful at the “Abo” loss, was my opponent's girlfriend. 

I made the first shot.