His shadow kept him company as He stopped under a streetlight. Its static flicker warned of demise. He took a cigarette from an empty pack, balled the wrapper, and tossed it at a trash can, missing without care. Striking his last match, he cupped the flame, racing to see who would win: him or the flame.
His topcoat was out of style and beyond its use-by date. It wasn't a fashion statement; it was bought at the secondhand store and fit well, almost. His shoes were well-worn, covering a lot of miles as he walked to old haunts, playing some pool to whoever would take him on. He learned the game from a very fat man who owned this establishment and was well known for his skill. He was just a kid when he met him, asking for a job, any job, so he could keep watching the fat man win game after game.
The months turned to years, and the kid had learned the game and proved himself time and again with every win. He was a hustler and nothing else. He quit his job and, with the cash he had won, went out on his own to make his fortune, leaving behind the one man who told him there's more to the game than what he had taught him. Anybody can be taught how to hit a ball into a pocket, he explained, but it takes a confident man to realize when he is off his stride, to set the stick down, and to walk away.
More time passed, and he kept walking from bar to bar, challenging anyone who felt lucky. His winnings attracted the ladies, and seldom was he alone unless he lost, and the money went out the door on a perfumed cloud. The bartenders all knew him and never thought twice about starting him a tab, as he always made good on it, unless his streak was gone and the only things in his pockets were some loose coins and a small box of wooden matches.
And then it happened, one night, it just stopped. His aim was off, and his confidence was vanishing to some place he'd never been. He couldnt win a single game. He began to drink a lot, and more than once was shown the door, just another drunken hustler. He lost the crappy apartment, the nice clothes, and the jewelry he pawned, knowing if he could have just one more game, he'd be back to his old self.
On a cold winter night, as he sat at the bar sipping a beer, one of his old players and teachers came up to him, the man called Fat Man. Not doing so well, I see. He began. You've had a lot of wins under your belt over the years, but it wasn't fate that took the game from you, was it? It was the expectation of the win that got you. Learning how to be humble, whether from a win or especially a loss, is something it takes to be great.
He stood under the street light, cupping his hand around the flame, walking down the empty street, knowing what the answer would be.
Mike 2025 
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