All Terrain Thinking

A Compendium of things I think are Important

Wonderful strange stories from around the world

Across the baize

I found the entrance by mistake. That could well have been the intention because, although the arrangement seemed secure, the address was decidedly vague - hidden, as it was, amid a dark labyrinth of back sides that gurgled with mischief and neon glitz.

Nevertheless, I was greeted by a smiling dwarf with a metal leg, who pushed aside a heavy red drape, and led me along a pee-stained corridor.

Venue? Bangkok snooker club. Time? About 9.30 p.m. Temperature? Rising. Corruption? About 80 per cent.

Welcome to the real world of snooker. A world full of dedicated players who seek gratification through the game, and frequently find it by using their skills to separate you from your money, if you don't keep your eye on the ball. Literally.

It's also illegal. Which doubles the fun, and, quite often, the stakes.

This is a world of hustle, challenge, and addiction. Although the atmosphere appears to be laid-back and fairly congenial, it's just a front for strangers with awkward questions. On each of the 15 full-size tables there is a game in progress, and, therefore, money on the outcome. There is little chat because someone has to win, and someone has to lose between the fangs and claws of instants of happiness.

Thailand is a nation of game players who fool with the rules to suit the occasion. Golf is perfect for deal making and power broking-which is why caddies know more about what's going on here than anyone else. When a bigwig takes 20 minutes over a putt on the 18th hole, it's not that he's hoping to emulate Tiger Woods, it's because there's Bt100,000 and an apartment block in Nong Khai riding on the outcome.

So it is with snooker. Inter-club tournaments involving high caliber players can attract enough money to buy, well, a golf course. Like most imports, snooker has been dramatically tweaked and honed to suit the culture. The table, equipment, and basic professional rules may be standard, but the Thais have developed their own variations of the game with names like "Electricity," "Striped Ghost," and "Russian Snooker." The difference being, they make the game much faster, more exciting, and completely unpredictable. They also ensure a result that lines the pocket of the player, the opponent, and the punter. In essence, the match is gambled on as it goes along. Indeed, there are games within games. Most variations use only six red balls, but for some, even that takes too long. Hey, why not bet on one ball? And why not bet on one ball going into that pocket? Here's Bt1,000 if you sink the top left. You're on.

Pro snooker began to make its presence felt in Thailand when Barry Hearn brought Steve Davis and a couple of his stable mates to play an exhibition match here in the mid eighties-which coincided with the rise of  cues man, James Wattana.

Prior to this, there were probably fewer than thirty snooker parlors in Bangkok, all of which could only be described as lacking in style-not to mention air-conditioning, a decent table, and a reasonable chance of getting out alive. Fees were Bt4 a game, and you left your wife or girlfriend at home. Definitely a boy's night out.

Today, snooker halls can be found on very major thoroughfare, and there are plenty more tucked away like this one, whose name I cannot reveal because I am quite attracted to life. Many clubs are still dingy dives full of hoods and hit men-but downtown and up market the newer clubs boast bars, carpets, cable TV, and private rooms along with attractive female staff who set the tables, keep the score, and the balls. (No. Don't even think about it.) Fees are charged by the hour, and range from Bt90 to Bt550. Upcountry, a snooker table can be found in almost every village headman's front yard.

However, if you're thinking of starting your own club, I suggest you pour a large Scotch and sit down. For starters, you will have to obtain a license-which comes in at around half a million baht-to be paid to certain gentleman who officially don't earn much, but seem to own an incredible amount. Secondly, you'll need a "stable" of at least ten top players who will have to be taken care of. The average parlor has 12 full-size tables, each costing around Bt400,000. You'll require staff that are courteous, hard-working, discrete, and, preferably, armed.

You'll also need balls. They are a necessity in this game.

Shall I pour you another, or have you decided on a flower shop instead?

But if you are still determined to "play" in this snooker business, then you had better start watching the players who will make it pay for you. They fall into several categories, and, like any sport, there are very few of the very best-the cream of which are currently led by James Wattana.

This elite is followed by the " A" class, who are well-known on the circuit and regularly make a century break. Bets placed on these guys measure in the hundreds of thousands per game, with each player receiving a percentage. Many of these top players belong to a stable and live above the parlor rent-free.

They are "owned," nurtured, and contracted by the club, and - just like prize stallions - are extremely valuable.

The " B" class are occasional century breakers, are still in touch with the top talent, and the punters are very much in touch with them.

"C" class players frequently make half-century breaks and are rising through the ranks, whereas the "D" class potter sometimes makes a good break, and the "E" class loser is going to take a century just to make one.

And then there are the hustles. The classic snooker shark has a vague manner that conceals a very shrewd judgment.

He's a loner who consciously plays down his talent. He'll enter a club in another part of town, saunter up to the dais - a raised area with two tables that are strictly for those with talent or money to burn - and suggest a game. Losing a few "small change" encounters to lay the trap, he'll then begin to obliterate the opposition, pocket the "serious money" and move on.

He takes great care not to build a reputation, and harbors no desire to turn pro. Hugging the shadows and covering a wide area, he does very nicely indeed.

The "odds" players are the hustlers who frequent the clubs but don't play - preferring to study the form of those who do. They bet on the odds as to whether a player will pot a certain ball in a designated pocket or not. Wandering pot from table to table all day, they are practically part of the furniture, such as it is. They only drink water and don't always have their own teeth - but to these guys, it's not the game, it's not the game, it's the outcome. They figure on about Bt500 a day.

That's Bt15,000 a month.

But to the true snooker addict, both the game and the outcome are of equal importance. A double rush. It could almost be called a "respectable" addiction, but it isn't. The typical snooker junkie is over 25 years old, unemployed, or a sales representative. He plays every day, usually from around 5 pm until the witching hour, while the true extremist thinks nothing of playing 40 hours straight. They neither eat nor drink on the short haul sessions because it dulls the focus. These addicts are open about their addiction. Many are married, and the wives don't seem too upset either - at least they know where their husband are. Nonetheless, a mobile phone is de rigeur.

Finally, there are those payers who love the game but play it badly. Let's call them "oddballs." They lose enormous amounts of money but they don't care - as they are masters at playing other games that they don't enjoy as much, but which earn them a fortune. Stocks, bonds, logs, girls, gems, opium. Whatever.

My snooker "contact" here is an oddball. He's a wealthy, elegant man with a brain the size of a small planet, who's hopelessly devoted to the game, and who loses far more than he wins. He wears black gloves to protect his hands from calluses, and he owns the most beautiful custom-made cue I've ever seen. It's a precision instrument, a work of art that's balanced and weighted to perfection, and comes with a double extension that makes "the rest" redundant. He has a special briefcase in which he carries his balls, cue tips, chopsticks, and chalk. Very 007.

He can't remember when he last saw daylight, and asked me to describe it to him. I tried really hard, but I couldn't remember either.

He grinned at me and said, "I'll" give you Bt300 if you sink the black in the centre pocket."

Click…missed by a mile. Another game perhaps? Absolutely.

By Roger Beaumont

Prior | Tell us what you think | Next

Add to Your Social Bookmarks: Del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Simpy Spurl Y! MyWeb - StumbleUpon