The pool cue was hurled with direction and intent. As my two young siblings rounded the corner of the pool table, heading for the exit, screaming, I was visibly upset, ranting to the effect how could they have beaten me in a game of pool?! Once they were well past the target, I hurled the pool cue into the drywall…now before you judge me, let me finish…

I had saved up for a brand new Simpson Sears pool table. Made of wood, there were screws to adjust for warpage. The six pocket had a slight warp which played to my advantage.

I was seventeen, my siblings were eight and ten years my junior. Little sis was a happy girl, when she laughed she made a snork, snork sound, so I nick named her Snorky. I would chase her around the house as she screamed, laughed and inevitably snorked; my way of playing with my baby sister. Tall, cute and lanky for her age, she still needed books to stand on to hit the cue ball and make the shot. Little bro was the neighbourhood star, at least to the next door neighbour kids. My brother was the leader of a little gang of athletes that liked to play crocket and baseball on the front lawn. Two small Italian boys were in awe of my little bro’s athleticism. They were loyal followers ready for any games. Cleanliness was always forefront with these Italian boys. You could observe them washing their hair daily in mud puddles.

Through my adolescent brain, I had thought I could make their win in a pool game more realistic. I could beat them every time and this time I even set up the cue ball to their advantage. I had learned from the best. My old Uncle Setä used set up his stripes or solids in front of the pockets so that if I hit them I would pocket his ball. My plan was to let them win, have a tantrum, then they would have something huge to talk about. It was the last game of the day. A win would send them over the moon. After I lost the game, the pool cue was thrown into a portion of the drywall where a doorway opening was to be cut out to a new bathroom that this family of six desperately needed. A mini tantrum, some convincing acting so they can tell all their friends how they beat their big brother!

After my fake tantrum, I waited for them to pass as fast as their little legs could let them race around the end of the pool table. Then I threw the cue well past my panicked siblings and into the drywall. Not even close to a real threat. I was good at throwing things. From baseballs, footballs and later dart trophies would prove that. A dent from an accidental jumping pool ball in the drywall left a target. The dent, a little left of the centre provided a harmless target. Or so I thought.

I was an adolescent myself, clearly, not the best thinking here and they still children at seven and nine. This was long ago, forty years long ago. Why I write about this now is, well a few years ago this incident came up. My younger brother thought I was so angry that day that I threw the cue at them trying to injure. I explained my story, had a laugh and thought nothing else of it. Then just recently at my mother’s 85th birthday, somehow this story came out in conversation. My little sister, ten years my junior, thought I had intended to hit them. I tried to explain as best I could but am unsure of the results.

I had made this ill-conceived show of love and affection into thoughts of some evil, hateful brother. Of course I love them. They are the same flesh and blood. I could never hurt them nor ever did. I was stupid and careless. Now I wonder how much this incident, this lack of judgment on my part, has kept us apart. They remembered the event so vividly in their minds and how could they have known what was in mine? I love my brothers and sister. Be careful when they are young. A miss understanding can lead to a lifetime of regret.

Written by Barnwood