L. Jon Wertheim - Running the Table

I N THE SUMMER OF 2006, the sport of pool thought it had found its white knight. Flush with the cash he'd made from his controversial "natural cures" books and products, Kevin Trudeau was going to do for pool what Steve Jobs had done for Apple. With a rap that was smoother than freshly vacuumed felt, Trudeau launched the International Pool Tour (IPT), an eight-ball circuit that, the founder promised, would transform pool into "the next poker."

With a circuit attracting the best players from around the globe, international television rights holders and sponsors would line up. Then there were the prizes. Unfathomable to pool players accustomed to borrowing gas money, the top IPT winners would earn $500,000. A first-round loser who failed to pocket a single ball could make $5,000. Plus, Trudeau supposedly told players that those earning a "tour card" based on their 2006 results would make a minimum of $100,000 in 2007. In pool, this was akin to increasing the minimum wage by a factor of ten.

In retrospect, more than a little cynicism was in order. Pool had burned through plenty of tours in the past, none offering anywhere near this kind of prize money. And Trudeau's history was somewhat disconcerting. In addition to having served a prison term for felony larceny, Trudeau had often been in the crosshairs of the Federal Trade Commission and various consumer protection groups for making false claims. Some observers were concerned that Trudeau was using the pool tour as a platform for selling more books and products, noting that even the homepage for the IPT had a prominently featured link to naturalcures.com, his Web site.

Still, the initial events were successful, the checks cleared, and soon players were coming out of the woodwork to try to "get on the IPT." But if the poker boom sounded the death knell for hustling, the IPT was the final squirt of embalming fluid. Kid Delicious was among those selected for the tour. He played in his first event in Las Vegas in the summer of 2006. Despite shooting poorly, he left with $5,000 and was fired with optimism. "That settles it," he told me. "I'm going to play pool for the rest of my life."

It couldn't have come at a better time for him. His love for pool still burned, but playing opportunities, particularly against the best competition, were becoming increasingly scarce. He no longer hustled much, and the grind of tournament playcompeting through the night in lonely backwaters so far from New Jersey that gas money could exceed prize moneyhad become wearying. Suddenly the IPT gave him a chance to play against top-shelf opponents at least once a month.

What's more, over the past few years he had rekindled his relationship with Danielle Graziano, the teenage girlfriend he had left because she was diverting his attention from pool. As if no time had passed, they felt an instant connection. She was recently divorced and still attracted to him. His physique, his personality quirks, his livelihood were all part of the appeal. He was still attracted to her and became a fatherly figure to her young son, Angelo. They reckoned that with the IPT money they could get married and buy a house in central New Jersey.

In keeping with the circadian rhythms of pool, the good times didn't last. At an event in Reno late in the summer of 2006, players flew to the venue on their own dime and paid for their own hotel rooms and meals. After the tournament, they were informed that the IPT was short of funds and could not give out the prize money. Trudeau, once so accessible and upbeat, was nowhere to be found. Over the Internet, the tour eventually informed players that the prizes would be paid in installments, eleven percent here, nine percent there. But future events were canceled, and as of this writing the IPT appears to be another name in the necrology of failed pro-pool tours.

Like many, Kid Delicious was left devastated. Part of it was, of course, financial. He'd figured that the IPT would provide some stabilityand possibly much more if he could win one of those $500,000 checks. Suddenly having lost his livelihood, he was back on shaky footing, leaning on the generosity of friends and family, living with Danielle at her mother's house. But beyond that, he had again lost the intoxicating rush of competing at the pool table. One day in the fall of 2006, burdened by stress and still overweight, Kid Delicious, age twenty-eight, suffered what doctors believe was a heart attack. After visiting him in a New Jersey hospital a few days later, I realized that this was the one time in all our interactions that I didn't leave in better spirits than when I'd arrived.

Fortunately, he reverted to form within a few weeks, though the experiencehe has never overcome his fear of doctors and hospitalsshook him to the core. He has vowed to lose weight, live healthier, and cut back on his excesses. Most of them, anyway. Okay, some of them. Tantalized by a Hollywood studio's acquisition of the "life rights" to his story, he holds out hope that Kid Delicious: The Movie will one day play at his local multiplex. Meanwhile, he and an enterprising friend and former road partner have created a Web site, pooljax.com, that sells Kid Delicious DVDs and cue case towels.

Doctors have told him to work on reducing stress. As he holds out hope that the IPT will regain its footing or that another pro tour will emerge in its place, he is easing himself back into competitive play. And while he still contends with his full-moon phases, he has found an outlet that combines his pool skills and his winsome personality. A few times a week he gives lessons in poolrooms and homes in New Jersey and New York. He's even given demonstrations at bar mitzvah parties. "Tell anyone who's interested to contact me at 1-877-348-0400 or at Delicious2@aol.com."

As for Bristol Bob Begey, he and Kid Delicious remain bound by their experiences on the road. They speak frequently, though when Delicious neglects to return a phone call, Bristol will leave a string of increasingly irate messages. The old dynamic, in other words, remains intact. Bristol, too, has found a way to move on with his life without abandoning pool. Several years ago, he returned to Bristol, Connecticut, and has taken a variety of jobs. Both pool and painting, however, continued their magnetic pull. Working in an office or waiting on tables was simply a means of paying for table time and art supplies. In 2006, Bristol decided to combine his two passions and began painting pool murals and selling them online at bristolsportsart.com. In 2007, Bristol entered several small pool tournaments and claims that he's never shot better in his life. He's now considering a return to the road.

Beset by eye trouble, Greg Smith007, the lovable pool detectiveis in semiretirement. He has "been winning real big at the racetrack," he says. He's also backing his eighteen-year-old son, Josh, an aspiring pool shark whom he has nicknamed "the Chicago Kid." "HE's GONNA BE DA best player in the world by the time he's twenty-five," Smith vows. Despite his best efforts, Smith can't stay away from the pool wire. I hadn't spoken with him in months, but then his unmistakable voice growled on my voice mail: "You wanna see real action? Get your ass to this small town outside OF NASHVILLE. Start driving and I'll GET YA DA NAME OF DA PLACE. They're gambling like FRIGGIN' CRAZY down there!"

Based largely on his reputation as a gambler, Little John Macias of Hattiesburg, Mississippi, was selected to play on the IPT. He bets high on the road, as always, and claims to have won $15,000 gambling at the 2007 Derby City Classic. And he confirms Greg Smith's tip that, in the winter of 2007, big action was passing through a juke joint outside Nashville.

`Kid Delicious' on-again off-again mentor, Carlos Santos (a/k/a Carlito, a/k/a the Peruvian Prince), continues to embody the American Dream. Happily married, he lives in Old Bridge, New Jersey. In addition to his cockfighting business and billiard hall in Central America, he still owns Action Billiards in Plainfield, New Jersey, and works as an early-morning delivery driver for the Museum of Modern Art. "It doesn't leave me much time to play pool, but I'm happy."