Breach

“Ask them if they’re interested in a game,” my dad said, pointing in the direction of the pool table.

He and I were seated in the hotel lobby waiting on Mom – not an unusual situation. Whether heading to church, a party or the airport, she often ran behind the rest of us.

That said, Dad’s request took me by surprise.

“You want me to ask them if you can play pool?” my tone incredulous.

“Yes,” he responded flatly.

Slowly rising from my seat, “O … OK.” To be sure, it wasn’t his asking me to communicate with the two twenty-somethings that gave me pause. At that point in time, I’d been living in Sweden for nearly two years. I spoke the language. He didn’t.

But pool? It made no sense to me.

Together with my mom and two brothers, I attended more of Dad’s basketball and fast-pitch softball games than I care to remember. In all that time, never had he mentioned, much less played, pool – not even when we visited our neighbors, the Jensen’s, who owned a table.

“My parents are visiting from the States,” I began, “and we’re waiting on my Mom to come down for dinner. My dad wondered if he might play?”

“You two want to use the table?” one responded, misunderstanding.

“No, no,” I said, holding up my hands in the universal sign of surrender, “I don’t play. He’d like to play you or your friend.”

Looking at each other and then back at me, “He play a lot, does he?”

Slowly shaking my head from left to right, “This is a surprise to me,” quickly adding “It’s OK if you don’t want to, I can just tell him, no.”

“Of course not,” the taller of the two answered, waving my father over to the table, “it’ll be fun.” Meanwhile, his friend began racking up the balls, being careful to place the eight ball in the center position.

“I saw they were playing for money,” Dad observed in a hushed tone, “Tell them I’m willing to do the same.”

Looking him directly in the eyes, “What are you talking about?!” I was beginning to think he’d lost his mind.

“Tell them,” he repeated – which I did.

“Javisst (sure),” the first one responded, continuing in Swedish, “It’s his money (det är hans pengar).”

Retrieving a five-crown note from my wallet, “Well, technically it’s my ‘money,’ since he only has U.S. dollars.”

“I can pay my own way,” my father said loud enough for all to hear, placing a crisp one-dollar bill along the table’s velvety, green edge

I stood, mouth agape. A friendly game of pool to pass the time was one thing. Gambling was an entirely different matter. The many times our family passed through Vegas on the way to visit my grandparents, I’d maybe seen my folks put a nickel in a slot machine a couple of times. Growing up, money was just too hard to come by.

Anyway, the first two games went as you might expect. He lost. The second against the shorter of the two Swedes lasted a bit longer – my father actually managing to pocket a couple of balls – but was still pretty much a rout.

That’s when my mom arrived. I admit to feeling relieved. Maybe now, my father would regain his sanity and start acting normal again.

“Thanks for the game,” the first player said with a nod of his head.

Whispering in my mother’s ear, “You are not going to believe what …,” I began, before being interrupted.

“You have to give me a chance to win back my money,” Dad blurted out in the same deluded vein he’d been carrying on for the last 20 minutes, “I’m down two bucks.”

Initially, both hesitated. When he suggested double or nothing, the taller of the two instantly picked up his stick.

He didn’t get to use it, however, as Dad ran the table – not missing a shot from the break to sinking the eight-ball.

A wry smile crept across his face as he picked up and pocketed his two dollars.

“I don’t want your money,” he said, turning toward me and Mom, “should we go get some dinner?”