Dewey's Good Cue

A boy I'll call Dewey walked into my hall at nineteen with a cue in a case nicer than his shoes. He could run eleven balls on a good night, and he knew it. He told me he never missed a shot he believed in.

I told him that was a fine sentence about a cue ball and a dangerous one about anything else. He grinned like I'd paid him a compliment.

Here is what thirty years taught me. Belief works on felt because felt answers back. Practice, and the table rewards you. So a gambler's mind learns a trick, and the trick is thinking the same rule holds for dice and decks and wheels. It does not. I believed I could feel a hot streak coming. I believed I was due. Every one of those beliefs cost me, and every loss made me believe harder, because the other choice was admitting it had been luck running against me all along.

Dewey came back at forty, gray at the temples, and sat at my counter. His savings were gone, and it wasn't pool that took them. It was games on his phone he was sure he could read. He said he had never lacked confidence. I said that was the trouble.

Self-belief is a good thing. Just point it at something that can hold the weight. You cannot believe your way past a coin flip. But you can believe you are the sort of person who can put the phone down, stand up from the chair, and call somebody. I have watched that kind of belief come true a thousand times, mostly in people who were sure it never would.

Dewey made his call that night from my back office. If you need to make yours, 1-800-MY-RESET is open every hour.

Spend your faith on the walking away.

Sal