The Hustler

I used to go to an overnight camp where we’d sing songs, one of which was Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler. Even then, the subterranean grime of gambling, pool halls, and whisky intrigued — maybe even attracted — me, even if the closest I would get was $1/$2 house games with other private-school classmates, ones where we all inexorably shoved at the end of the game; even if I was ten years old at a sleepaway camp where sailing and horseback riding were offered.

I never thought there was anything useful to glean from this world. I’m not as inclined to believe that now. Cut away polish and glamour; the world is just people in rooms talking — there’s no clear difference when Tony G tilts Phil Hellmuth for a few hundred thousand on a film set and when a pool shark performs the art as old as history: not pool, but the human game, just in different form.