I first fell into the world of billiards through a TikTok video that randomly appeared on my feed. Minh Anh—the 'Queen of Nine-Ball'—was executing a perfect curve shot. Each stroke wasn't merely a technique; it was calculated with such mathematical precision that it made me, someone who seeks systematic logic in every algorithm, question the limits of object control. Her flawless execution was like a mirror, reflecting my clumsy, amateur image in stark relief.
I replayed her tutorial video—maybe for the seventeenth time—eyes locked on the screen, dissecting each technique layer and every tip-to-cue-ball contact angle. That massé shot was pure artistry: how could such a delicate point of contact between the leather tip and the ivory sphere generate such a graceful arc as beautiful as a crescent moon carved through green felt? My finger instinctively tapped the heart icon, as if delaying might cause this moment of inspiration to vanish. Then, with the false confidence of an armchair expert, I crafted comments loaded with technical jargon I'd absorbed just hours before.
My phone slipped into my shirt pocket by habit, hand brushing against the pristine leather cue case. My chest expanded with a deep breath, attempting to draw courage from the humid Saigon air. Then, with an outward decisiveness that masked the chaos churning in my mind, I pushed through the glass doors into the arena—Sky Club. Today, I would bridge the gap between an anonymous online commentator and someone who had never held a cue stick. No more fingers dancing across keyboards; today, I would become a legitimate player in my first tournament.
My primary motivation for this reckless venture was the girl from that video clip—the Queen. That title wasn't casually earned but a crown forged through countless professional tournaments. She consistently executed impossible game-winning shots in every match when only the nine-ball remained. Blocked paths, impossible angles—no shot was truly difficult for her. Rumors circulated endlessly: she'd never missed a decisive shot, some claimed she could pocket balls blindfolded. Just hearing these stories was enough to feel the pressure mounting.
Today, whispers about her exhibition had transformed Sky Club into a packed shrine for billiards devotees—from seasoned amateurs hungry for technical insights to absolute beginners like myself, hoping to witness a living legend in action.
Preparing for this battle, I'd risen an hour earlier than usual. Standing before my bedroom mirror, I practiced my stance and grip repeatedly, searching for anything that might appear remotely professional. Three different athletic outfits were tried on, rejected, and tried again. Finally, I settled on a sky-blue polo—hoping the color might bring luck, as they say. I kneeled before my laptop more embarrassingly, typing pathetically naive questions into Google: "How to stay calm during the first billiards tournament" and
"What to do when anxiety blanks your mind."
Sky Club certainly lived up to its reputation as Saigon's premier billiards sanctuary. When I stepped through those transparent glass doors, I was nearly overwhelmed by the cavernous space and brilliant white lighting cascading from the high ceiling. Light reflected off seventy-two regulation tables draped in pristine green felt, arranged in perfect formation like an elite army awaiting orders. Everything here screamed two words: class and professionalism. This wasn't a place for casual players seeking entertainment—this was a battlefield for serious competitors.
"A K-rank player entering a GHI tournament?"
The voice cut through the ambient noise beside me, half surprised, half amused at discovering something unexpectedly entertaining. I turned to meet the condescending gaze of a man in his thirties. From his tailored athletic wear to the premium cue resting beside him, everything projected the supreme confidence of a seasoned professional—the polar opposite of everything I represented.
"You sure you're in the right place, buddy?" Though phrased as a question, his tone made it clear this was a statement: I didn't belong here.
He gestured toward the registration board, finger tracing through the names, pausing at G-rank, then sliding down to the bottom where my name sat in isolation beside the letter K. His mocking laughter felt like arrows piercing whatever dignity I was desperately trying to preserve.
I was painfully aware of my position. K-rank—the absolute basement of the billiards achievement universe, a remote place that even the faintest glimmer of glory couldn't penetrate, like some banished planet orbiting the furthest edge of competitive space. Within the community, people whispered that K stood for a cruelly ironic Vietnamese phrase: "Kho luyen Khong Kha"—roughly translated as "Practice Hard, Progress Never."
"I just want to learn from better players," I stammered, unable to meet his gaze.
"Learn?" The man touched his chin thoughtfully, his expression suggesting he'd discovered something genuinely amusing. His voice remained soft, almost courteous, but every syllable dripped with mockery.
The tournament coordinator shifted her attention toward me, her scrutinizing look resembling a professional appraiser examining questionable merchandise. One eyebrow arched skeptically: "Are you certain about this decision? This tournament is designed for GHI-level competitors, not a playground for newcomers."
"I understand, it's just..." I fumbled for words. "I want to challenge myself." The statement sounded absurd even to my ears—like a non-swimmer declaring their intention to cross the Pacific Ocean.
She shrugged, adding my name to the roster with the detached indifference of someone witnessing an inevitable disaster. "Table three, against Tung Rau," she announced coldly, then added with a thin smile,
"Good luck." This wasn't encouragement—it sounded more like condolences for a sealed fate.
My opponent was Tung Rau, one of the most respected players in the H-rank bracket. The billiards community had crowned him "The King of Championship Finals." And here I was, someone who had never properly held a cue, forced to face such experienced opposition in my debut match.
From a safe distance, I observed Tung warming up. The cue ball glided smoothly across the felt, obediently responding to his every command. Other players moved with casual confidence, completely at ease in their element.
I continued watching a nearby match between two middle-aged competitors moving around their table with admirable grace. Every shot seemed pre-calculated—not just the trajectory of the cue ball and target, but precisely where the cue ball would settle to optimize the next shot. This was position play at its finest, the kind of strategic thinking I could only dream of executing.
A cocktail of emotions surged through me—admiration, envy, and creeping despair. How could I ever reach such levels of mastery? How many years and thousands of hours of dedicated practice would such skill demand?
"Hey, see that guy over there?"
Mocking voices carried from nearby tables. "He registered to compete. Maybe he thinks H-rank stands for 'Harlequin,' right?" The comment triggered waves of laughter rippling through the surrounding area.
"Magic cue stick?" Tung Rau approached my assigned table.
I looked up to find my opponent standing before me, a smirk playing across his features. He towered half a head above me, his beard meticulously groomed. Beside him rested a high-end carbon fiber cue, which I'd only admired in professional videos.
"Hello, Tung," I managed, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I'm your opponent for this round."
Tung glanced at my basic cue, then shook his head slightly with that patronizing smile adults reserve for children. "Do you know there are ten balls on a billiards table?"
My face burned with embarrassment as I lowered my head, unable to meet anyone's gaze directly.
"Yes, I'm aware of that."
Tung's smirk widened as he rolled a piece of chalk between his fingers. "Should I explain the basic rules? right?"
Of course, I knew the rules. I'd studied hundreds of matches on YouTube, analyzed the legendary shots of Efren Reyes, Shane Van Boening, and Earl Strickland. I had strategies and angle calculations memorized, like mathematical formulas, and could recite the mechanics of draw shots, follow shots, and English application in my sleep.
The problem wasn't knowledge—it was what I'd started calling ATSM. Anxiety That Stiffens Muscles. My little clinical term for the curse that hit me every time pressure mounted.
Like any good programmer, I'd tried to debug the issue by documenting the pattern. First came recognition—when I realized everyone was watching, judging, waiting for me to fail. Then the physical symptoms kicked in: racing heart, sweaty palms, shoulders locking up like seized gears. Stage three was the worst—complete system shutdown. My hands would stop obeying my brain, my fingers going numb, and fine motor control just... gone.
I'd researched breathing techniques, progressive muscle relaxation, and visualization exercises, and built myself a whole recovery protocol. But standing here, watching Tung's confident smirk, I realized all my preparation was useless. I'd never figured out how to prevent the crash—only how to analyze it afterward.
Tung lightly chalked his cue tip, then turned with a challenging grin.
"Please break first. Since you're K-rank, I'll spot you the first two points."
I approached the table and positioned the cue ball for the opening break. My hands trembled so violently that the ball rolled away twice before I managed to place it correctly. I felt it happening when I drew the cue back to build power.
Recognition phase initiated.
The familiar dread crept up my spine like ice water. Everyone was watching—Tùng with his amused smirk, the tournament coordinator with her skeptical frown, other players pausing their games to witness what they expected would be a spectacular failure.
Physical onset: engaged.
My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. Sweat broke out across my forehead, my palms growing slick on the cue shaft. The shoulder tension hit next—muscles seizing up like someone had poured concrete into my joints.
Then came the worst part—stage three.
My fingertips went completely numb, as if someone had severed the connection between my brain and my hands. The cue—that precision instrument I'd admired through countless video tutorials—suddenly felt like dead weight in my grip. Despite rehearsing this shot hundreds of times in my mind and knowing exactly how to execute a proper break, my body had entered full rebellion mode.
Time seemed to stretch like taffy. My mind was still calculating angles, still generating strategy, but my hands refused to cooperate. It was like watching a computer crash in slow motion—all the processing power in the world, but zero output.
"Planning to shoot sometime today, or still running diagnostics on your strategy?" Tung checked his watch, voice heavy with sarcasm.
I marshaled every available resource to attempt a break shot. Still, the resulting stroke was so pathetically weak that the cue ball barely nudged the head rail, failing to contact any object balls.
My face ignited as if pressed against superheated metal, burning sensation spreading from cheeks down my neck, radiating upward to my scalp. My ears buzzed with a symphony of humiliation—surrounding whispers, scattered laughter, and the deafening silence of that stationary cue ball serving as undeniable evidence of my complete failure.
I wished the floor would crack open and swallow me entirely. My mouth moved soundlessly, no coherent explanations forming.
Tung exhaled softly. "You realize that break was invalid, right? Want to try again?"
Standing rigidly upright, I couldn't bear to meet anyone's gaze, responding in barely audible tones:
"I... I apologize. I need... I can't continue."
My opponent's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise.
"Forfeiting? The match hasn't even started."
I could only whisper, voice so faint that only those standing immediately beside me could hear:
"This place isn't for someone like me, exactly as you said. I'm sorry for wasting your time."
Without waiting for Tung's response, I hastily gathered my equipment and fled the arena immediately.
Outside, Saigon's merciless sun blazed down, its scorching rays mocking my pathetic circumstances. I frantically searched my pockets for cooling mint candy; the sweetness gradually dissolved on my tongue, but the bitter taste of failure still lingered there, refusing to fade. One, two, three, four, five, six—I regulated my breathing through systematic counting.
My phone suddenly buzzed, signaling that momentary peace was about to end. Hand still trembling, I opened the message notification, and my heart plummeted as I recognized that familiar avatar—the person whose every shot I'd spent countless late nights studying, the player I'd foolishly bragged about understanding in my comments.
"How's your match going? I'm heading over now. I want to see that massé technique you keep discussing with my own eyes. Don't finish too early ;) Lol!" – Minh Anh
My mind raced desperately, searching for any possible escape route. That casual boast—"Billiards is ridiculously easy, simpler than those marble games I played as a kid. Anyone can execute those massé shots"—should have disappeared among hundreds of other comments, yet somehow the Queen had pinned it to the top with a subtle laughing emoji and a direct challenge.
"Sky Club is where serious players gather. If you want to prove your claims, that's the appropriate venue."
I opened the app, frantically deleting that comment and every trace of interaction with her profile. But how could I possibly avoid today's inevitable encounter? My reckless online bravado had become real chains binding me to this moment. The concept of embarrassment was merely the visible tip of the iceberg of despair I was slowly sinking into, with no hope of rescue in sight.