IN the great game of life one of the most important things is a good partner. From the cradle to the grave most people are looking for one. I know one man who has been seeking his late partner for years in order to inform him that by comparison with that most offensive animal the skunk, the skunk would be called a sweet-smelling perfume, and will he please tell him where the missing cash box really is. This type of partnership is distressing and usually ends in a court scene, faith and trust having been replaced by the broker's man.
Leaving this distressing story of the financial or absconding partner, one's thoughts naturally turn to the partnership of the male and female species, wherein the male refers to the female as the partner of his joys and sorrows—a very fine and equitable outlook — except on those occasions when the male comes home full of joy and hands her a larger packet of sorrow than usual, when the female refers to her partner as "that human sponge in pink blotting paper."
This brings us by easy and well defined stages to the sporting partner in four- or six-handed snooker, an intricate game wherein, without complete trust in the honesty, ability, and skill of the partner or partners, one is liable at the end of the game to hand over certain sums of money to a grinning and satisfied opponent, at the same time trying to turn a deaf ear to one's late partner or partners, one or both of whom are anxious to explain why billiards rooms should be Closed to some people, failing which they should only be allowed to jeopardise their own money by playing in singles.
And how these partnership games produce types! First of all the cynical but fairly good player, suffering from an overwhelming conceit of his own game, and utter contempt for all others. Failure is never debited to himself but always to something entirely innocent. The cue is not straight, the tip is wrong, the balls are not true (and how the red blushes to hear itself called untrue), cushions are dead, and the table not level. Then follows criticism of his partner's play, carried to such an extent that what little skill the poor devil does possess disappears entirely, leaving in its train an insane longing to thrash the critic to death with a wet lettuce.
Here we have the snooker Shylock, lacking only the bent nose and the claw-like hands of his prototype.
Watch him playing for a shilling on the game and a penny on each ball.
Never does he pot the black as seven, always as seven pence; the pink is not six but sixpence; and so on through the whole of the colours down to the penny reds. "Finance without Fun" is his motto; a lover of Omar, he takes the black and lets the yellow go, nor heeds the rumble of the distant red.
Applies the term frequently to himself with no knowledge except his own as to its exact meaning.
Sometimes in his brighter moments he has been known to apply the term to an opponent playing in front of him, but only when the opponent leaves the balls on. Let him play after an opponent who persists in snookering him. Whereas when he himself does it, it is good play; in an opponent it is unsporting, spoils the spirit of the game, and, incidentally, spoils his chance of showing off. May he rip the cloth and have to pay for it.
What a partner, if one is not too sensitive! Toiling, rejoicing, but never sorrowing, coat off, shirt sleeves rolled up as near to the shoulder as possible, the smith a mighty man is he with large and sinewy hands, who looks the table in the face and pots what e'er he can.
Seizing his cue as though it were a sledge-hammer, he gives it a preliminary shake, and then crash, —"he loves to see the sparks that fly." The mystery is that he never hits the clock, smashes a window, or brains a spectator. Round the table go the balls in a whirl of riotous colour and confusion; crash goes a red in one pocket; crash goes the black in another; until, finally, the remainder come to rest, the blacksmith roars with laughter.
Something attempted, something done has earned a slight repose—and seven away.
Here we have the true sportsman —the man who plays the game for the fun of it. Ready to join in at any time, always willing to make one.
Never does he quibble about the sides; any side suits him. All he wants is a friendly game with friends. Let the others spend valuable time arguing as to which side should give the other two blacks. He doesn't care. Snooker him and he laughs; when he himself snookers an opponent he still laughs.
Someone talks while he is making a stroke, what does it matter? He likes to chaff the others and likes them to chaff him; he enjoys the other man's joke as much as his own. Win or lose, it is all the same to him. Genial company, genial friends, a merry game played as a game and not as a business, is all he needs.
Hats off to the real sportsman— the man who plays the game as a game and enjoys it