By Alan B. Combs

My wife has been making noises about putting a pool table in one of our spare rooms, perhaps in what might be known as the parlor area. It is open to the hall and has room enough for the table. We priced tables and they ranged from a few hundreds of dollars (altogether too little) to several thousands of dollars (altogether too much).

I spent some of my high school childhood learning about this magnificent game. I could conceptualize shots very well, but seldom could make them fall. I assume that if we do go this route, eventually she will be beating me.

In the meantime, she is lacking the table and numbered balls. Neither, does she have the white striker ball, nor, the stick with which to hit the white ball. For the moment, I have to say she really doesn’t have a cue.

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