The tournament brackets had followed destiny's course, and The Killer waited to sic on The Kid and feast. Paul "The Killer" Arness pushed back a comma of hair that had fallen over one eyebrow as he stood adjusting his appearance in the bathroom mirror without conscious thought. "Well, now or never, Paul," he admonished himself.

He stepped outside to hear a few cheers and a smattering of applause. Willie Mosconi had, as expected, begun his repertoire of top-shelf trick shots to entertain the local crowd.


The people crowding the bleachers and those others covering most available bits of linoleum remaining on the poolroom floor leaned in to watch and listen as The Kid continued his line of patter.

"Folks," said Mosconi in his lilting Italian voice touched with inflection of Philly's back alleys and factory grit, "Lots of people rack the balls with two hands, like this," as he pushed 14 of the balls within an old wooden triangle along the cloth. "Call me lazy, but I sort of like to do it this way instead."

Mosconi lightly plucked the neighboring 15th ball from where it rested and wedged it beneath an uplifted edge of the triangle. He strode lightly behind the nearby cue ball before bending to it.

After a few mechanical practice strokes followed by a dramatic pause, he sent whitey rolling three rails about the table before it contacted the bridging ball, knocking it into place and dropping the rack down with a light smack to surround all 15 object balls in the completed rack.

There was more than a smattering of polite applause--there was hearty approbation and even a few cheers and attaboys.

"Thank you, thank you, folks. And now--"

Paul was unaffected by the simple trick shot. As it looked, Mosconi was also. But then something happened next that made Paul suck in his breath with a whoosh.

Mosconi lightly drew in his cue stick toward his body even as he stepped a bit closer toward the cue ball with a slight, Geisha-like shuffling of his feet. Standing nearly erect with his cue elevated sharply, The Kid plunged the stick toward the base of the white ball once, twice, now a third time. He drew a bit more slowly back then, gathering momentum as for a powerful 9-Ball break shot, then came down very hard on the ball, pinching it tightly to the cloth and slate beneath with a loud whap.

The cue ball leapt high and soared over most of the table before flying over a second table lengthwise and landing with a hard rap onto a third. It traveled but a few inches before striking the 5-ball, the lone orange sentinel left untidied after Paul's semifinal match concluded just minutes before. The five promptly flew into the far corner pocket where Mosconi had aimed.

Not one among the hundreds of spectators present spoke or even moved for several long moments while the enormity of what they had witnessed sank in. Then they broke into applause which quickly grew to a loud roar.

Paul, standing adjacent to his semifinal table just off the body of the pressing crowd, watched Mosconi smooth down imaginary creases along his suit jacket's front, which had flown open like two wings as he stroked the extraordinary jump shot.

Willie returned Paul's gaze. His hands paused for a moment before he continued patting down his immaculate clothing. That was all. No flicker of recognition in his eyes passed to Paul of either respect or competition. "I'm a ghost," thought Paul.

Some in the crowd noticed Arness's return from the washroom and began to clamor for an end to the tournament. "Hey, it's Paul Arness... Come on, Paul… Go get 'em, Mr. Mosconi… Get in there, Paul! Let's go, Willie!" There would be no continuation of the trick shots, at least until Kid Mosconi had wiped the floor with his eager opponent, who then would likely complete the evening fetching balls to serve his exhibition. It was always a good way to save face instead of running back to the bathroom to vomit or going to the local saloon to get ripped on bourbon, or beer for the younger set.

The Kid nodded nonchalantly to Mr. Burgess, the referee for the afternoon, who cleared his throat loudly to begin. "Ladies… and gentlemen!" began Burgess in his stentorian preacher's voice. "How original," thought Paul. Mosconi eyed the provincial crowd. "Some ladies, maybe two gentlemen," thought The Kid.

"We are delighted today to announce our competition finalists--first, all the way from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania--Mister--William--Mosconi!" The crowd broke into a crushing volume of applause.

Burgess had put no particular emphasis on any one syllable of Philadelphia. There was no "Phil-la-delph-eye-ay" or another affectation that some big city announcer would have stressed. He likewise made no bones while introducing Mosconi's opponent, The Killer.

"And his challenger for today, Buckfield's own, homegrown young champion--Mister--Paul--Arness--Junior!" The crowd shouted their approval for the local boy, and Paul recognized the depth of their support for perhaps the first time during the weekend tournament. Despite his appreciation for his dear father, Arness could have done without the Junior bit, but his ears reddened regardless.

Paul realized it wasn't just his game, his show. He wanted to defeat the best player there was on Earth but hadn't anticipated how much of the local hopes and dreams were pinned squarely to his shoulders. The townspeople slunk in the Depression hadn't understood what Paul had understood, that he would slice through any and all comers until he met Mosconi in this final match.

It had only been destiny that the two men had been separated in the tournament brackets until now. No one present would remember who else had ascended through those tournament brackets fifty years from now, but they would remember what would happen this evening, which was when the tournament really began--now. Even the visceral thrill of the jump shot just taken was already past. With emotions running from breathless innocence for the children present clutching the hands of their parents to brutish slavering for Mosconi or Arness for the degenerate gamblers present, the witnesses would remember to their end what would come next.

The crowd finally settled down again to silence. Mr. Burgess stated his need. "Gentlemen, please step to the head table for your final lag."

The Killer And The Mosc, Part I: 13-Rack Ride
The Killer And The Mosc Part II: Roll Two Million Balls
Part III: Pickle Juice Paul
Part IV: Arness Gets A Taste
Part V: Ralph Greenleaf Kicks Willie Mosconi's Tail
Part VI: Mosconi's Madness, The Fire Down Below
Part VII: The Old Man's Three Rules Of Great Pool
Part VIII: The Men In Town To Clash
Part IX: Stand And Fight
Part X: Showdown On Cloth
Part XI: Cue Ball Killing It
Part XII: Willie's Best Bank Shot
Part XIII: Crushed, Snookered, Busted
Part XIV: Rolling Loose
Part XV: Swing And A Miss