THE CORNER POCKET

"You just need something to take your mind off my crotch," one of the scruffy regulars in the corner chuckles as his partner shanks an easy bank shot and sends the two-ball careening toward the opposite corner of the faded green table. A cigarette-choked cackle from Mike, the manager of the place, rumbles into the small pool room through a slit in the wall of the ajoining snack bar along with screams and cat-calls from the Jerry Springer Show audience. Hazy light sifts in through the spotty second floor windows, but the men inside pay no attention to the day passing them by.

For these men, the sun is a much smaller white ball, and the planets number 15, not nine. They pass their time in Sully's, the Brighton Billiard Club, the Rack, Pockets and in the Boston Billiard Club--just a few of the urban oases which dot the metropolitan landscape of Boston. From unknown to acclaimed, from tiny capsules of kitsch to mammoth monsters of mahogany, these billiard halls are loaded with personality, and though they may be divided by money, by class and by style, they are united by the game, and the game never changes.

Sully's Billiards

To its credit, Sully's Billiards in Brighton,run by the garrulous Mike, might have slightlymore character than its competition. This stemsfrom the fact that its full name is actuallySully's Auto Body/Billiards. The parking lot thatsurrounds the building on three sides is litteredwith rusted-out caddies and banged-upsport-utility-vehicles, all seemingly automotiveprojects in various stages of repair.

This jungle of twisted steel obscures the smallside door entrance that opens onto a rickedystaircase. The staircase climbs past a signindicating the availability of the daily racingform, past the body-shop's accounting office andfinally into the pool room at the top of thebuilding. Seven thinly-felted tables are crammedinto this rectangular box, with windows on theleft side overlooking the repairmen below. Sully's1996 "Best-of Boston" award, which seems to havebeen photocopied and posted so that a copy isvisible from every location in the building, isfor "Best Neighborhood Bargain Billiards," andit's well-deserved--it's hard to imagine any placemore bargain or more neighborhood than this. For 6dollars total, anyone with serious time on theirhands and a high tolerance for thick Bostonaccents can shoot from 3 to 8 am alongside thequietly-cursing Latino customers and wisecrackingIrish locals who frequent the neighborhood joint.

The walls here seem to have been decorated withthe spoils of a Salvation Army rumage sale. Abizarre portrait of an elderly man standing on acloud hangs next to a Budweiser mirror. Across theroom, a psychedelic Camel cigarettes postercontrasts sharply with a dusty and disorganizedplastic case of pool cues for sale. Near thebathroom, almost out of view, an engraved mirrorquietly requests "no gambling, no cussing, nospitting," while fake plants swing in ceilingbaskets along the windows. Every inch of wallspace is covered by something which was almostcertainly obtained for free, including thethoroughly-crooked set of house cues. Theexception is the back wall; this surface iscovered by a custom-made mural which clearly datesfrom an era long past. In the foreground, thepainting crudely depicts a scene from "TheHustler," with vaguely recognizable likenesses ofJackie Gleason's Minnesota Fats and Paul Newman'sEddie Felsin. At the middle table in the painting,three ruddy-faced Irish fellows contemplatesinking the eight-ball in the corner pocket. Themural distinguishes the setting as undeniablySully':, jammed with more spectators than players,in the background, about 30 onlookers take in theaction, a sort of potpourri of capablestick-handlers and nuclear families. On the rightside of the mural, at a lone table far away fromthe main event, two black men shoot a game. In themidst of jolly family fun and Hollywoodexcitement, one of the black players, dressed in ashiny leather suit with matching hat and danglinggold medallions, lines up his next shot.Meanwhile, his partner, clad in a blue and whitejumpsuit, shakes a fistful of dollars and a bottleof liquor, the Sully's tallisman. The mural maysay a number of things about Sully's--but mostlyit says that this place hasn't changed much overthe years.

Harry Chapin's "Taxi" blares from the overheadspeakers as one of the locals in the corner loudlydiscusses his upcoming vasectomy operation, onlytwo short days away. This time, Mike shoots hismouth off about Iraq, Monica Lewinsky, the Bruins'incompetence, and other topics to anyone who willlisten. Nearly every pool table is full. At oneside of the room, a bearded man in his early 30smoves slowly in a circle, practicing a cut shotfrom every diamond on the table. Two Latinopatrons in work-stained t-shirts speak softly inSpanish and slam home stripes and solids inongoing games of eight-ball. Next to them, anotherLatino man plays rack after rack of straight pool,while his older companion sits in a corner,silently watching him clear the table. "Even amale prostitute runs out of energy," Mike snickerswhen one of his regular customer's shots comes upshort of its desired destination. As the lastshadows of twilight fade in the parking lot below,balls are racked and broken and the game goes on.B-16FMPablo Colopinto"EVEN A MALE PROSTITUTE RUNS OUT OF ENERGY,"SAYS MIKE, MANAGER OF SULLY'S BILLIARDS.