Sand and stars

It used to be we’d go every week to Coogee to play pool. He always looked the better player doing his spins and crap. Always planning three shots in advance. He even had his own bloody cue.

I just like to hit the damn ball.

But somehow I managed to keep up every time. Sneak in wins. Or close defeats. Somehow, I could dog my way to end up being about even.

And then afterwards we would yak about the important stuff. We were a couple of dreamers aiming for a place among the brightest stars in the night sky. A couple of wankers talking about things we knew little about in the manner of a couple of sages. He was the artist. I was the writer. He was more heart. I was more noggin. In the back our minds, we knew that if we ever worked together at something, we could be special. But more often than not we were competitors. With pool. With our own brand of pseudo-philisophy. Perhaps even with women. Silent competition, a knowing nod here and there, and the knowledge that we were always only ever one step ahead or behind the other.

Eventually he left for Stockholm to design a chair or something. And we lost touch. Even when I came to Stockholm, I missed him by two days. Over time, he stayed a dreamer. I became a cynical old man. And then even when he did eventually come home, we’d lost it somehow.

Now, three years down the track, we’re back at Coogee. Five games. Three to two To him.

Bastard.

The dreamer had his dreams shattered. A cynical old man no longer has dreams. Only wishes. But both feeling strangely fine. That’s the way it goes sometimes.

But as we sat by the beach, trying to ignore the aftermath of a drunken brawl and a strange woman drawing strange lines in the sand, we started talking about things we knew little about in the manner of sages.

Some things never change.

‘Maybe it’s time to call it a night.’

At least now we know when to stop.

Maybe we’ve gotten a little wiser. Or maybe just a little bit older.

Or as Winnie the Pooh might say, ‘Same thing.’