 The pool hall was dimly lit, smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and ZZ-Top's "La-Grange" played out of the sound system around us. I was with my step-father Bob and my oldest brother Wayne at the pool hall out by the Reformatory. I think I remember Bob saying that the owner was a friend of his, a man by the nickname of Buttons, but I may be mistaken. Regardless of the details, I'm sure he knew the owner as I remember sometimes playing for free or at least damn near it. Plus, Bob knew everyone, and regardless of whether they loved him or hated him (sometimes both, it seemed) everyone respected him.
  Wayne made his way around the corner of the table and eyed his shot intently, careful to keep his stick parallel with the ground as he tested its weight in his grip. Finally, he connected to the cue ball, sending it flying to its target and sending it into the corner pocket, a picture perfect shot. There was no celebration as he picked up the chalk dispenser and applied it to the tip of his cue, his eyes never leaving the table.
  My older brother Wayne was good at damn near everything. He was handsome (still is fifteen years later, the bastard), strong, capable and intelligent. He had spent a few years in the Navy, and when he got back, naturally, he was my hero. I can always rely on him and my brother Larry, much like the rest of my ridiculously amazing family. Whether it was girl problems in puberty or a blown tire mere weeks ago, I can call either of my brothers and they will be here to help me.
  Once his next shot was lined up, he resumed his shooting stance. Again weighing the stick and going through his practice strokes, he was about to take his shot when he noticed me watching him keenly. He smiled, stood up, and held out the cue stick, offering it to me.
  "You take it, man." he said.
  I swallowed hard and anxiety began to course through my veins. I walked forward, took the stick from him and attempted to mimic his stance and look of concentration. He leaned down next to me and whispered in my ear.
  "You see the black 8 ball?"
  "Yeah." I said.
  "You're going to put that ball in the corner pocket to the right, but you don't want to send the cue ball in behind it or its a scratch and you'll lose." He said.
  "Okay..." my voice trailed off in confusion. "So what do I do?" I asked.
  He smiled.
  "You'll want to hit the white ball near the bottom. When it hits the ball you want, the cue ball will roll backward."
  I wasn't surprised. It made perfect sense and my brother knew it so matter-of-factly. He knew everything, well at least its seemed like it at the time.
  At this point Bob made his way around the table with his cue stick and began his inspection.
  "Level your stick out, Gus." he said, tapping his stick against mine.
  I did as he said, bringing my cue level with the floor beneath us, feeling pressure wash over me with the both of them watching, overwhelmingly wanting to make them proud of me. I steadied my breathing, zoning in on the number 8 ball and visualizing what I wanted it to do. I hit the ball the way Wayne had instructed, and sure enough after the two connected the 8 ball went into the pocket and the white ball rolled backward to us. Wayne picked it up and handed it to me, smiling.
  "Nice job, bro."
  I couldn't help but smile ear to ear.
  "Thanks." I took the cue ball and looked to Bob, who was also smiling.
  "You want to break for the next game?" Bob asked.
  "Yeah!" I said.
  The two of them gathered the balls together and proceeded to rack them up in preparation for another game, only this time I would be making the first shot of the game, scattering the balls across the table and setting the stage for the rest of the exhibition. I stared at the cue ball in my hand, barely able to contain my pride.
  "Ready?" Bob said.
  "Yeah!" I replied.
  "Why don't you give Wayne his stick back and use the one your sister bought you."
  The Christmas before my sister Linda had bought me a pool stick with an opening in what they call the butt sleeve (yes, really) and it was filled with slow moving fluid with miniature pool balls floating around in it. It was awesome because when you hit the cue ball that portion of the stick would light up red like those shoes your mom bought you for elementary school back in the 90s. Obviously, the stick was so cool I had to oblige.
  Handing his cue back to Wayne, I grabbed my stick out of its case and screwed it together, imagining I was a Marine sniper about to take out a member of Al-Qaeda. I got into position again, tuning out the AC/DC on the radio and the background noise of the other pool games around us as I prepared to take my shot. Bob walked around to the side of the table and I let her fly. It was a terrible shot, the racked balls barely spreading across the table and my pride shattering in their place.
  "Argh!" I blurted out my frustration and turned from the table. I've always been extremely hard on myself, one of my greatest strengths as well as one of my greatest weaknesses. I tended to get into my own head and stand in my own way then, just like I still do now.
  "Its alright." Bob grabbed the cue ball and motioned for Wayne to rack the balls again. While Wayne reset the table Bob sat the cue ball down and put me back into position.
  "Hitting the ball is only half the battle, Gus." He took control of my stance, helping to frame where it should be as opposed to how I had it. He used his right hand to steady the cue behind my hand on the wrap, and steadied himself behind me with his left hand on the table.
  "Pool is just like life, son." He continued. "Anyone can hit a ball. It takes follow through to put the ball in the pocket. In pool, just like in life, its all about follow through." He pulled the cue back and began to count.
  1
  2
  3
  Together we let it fly, only this time instead of reflexively pulling back to watch the carnage I let the stick follow through. The white ball tore through the rack and sent the other 15 balls flying, the white and blue 10 ball falling into a side pocket. My smile returned as I turned to face Bob. He was proud, but his face didn't show it.
  "Get ready for your next shot." He said.
  I haven't thought about it since it happened, but it has so much significance for me now at 27 than it did then at 14. Anyone can make one shot, win one game or succeed at something once. We don't remember the greats because they won one game. We remember them for their consistency. We remember them for their follow through.
  For me, 2016 will be the year of the follow through. And as soon as I follow through on one thing, I'll move right on to the next. There will always be the next shot. The next game. And I will always follow through.