Calling the Pocket

Hopped the edge of the slate pool table and hit the green felt in a low crouch. Under the low hanging lamp, the heavy eight ball was sitting dead center, polished slick and solid as granite. I didn't reach for a cue. I braced my boots against the felt, locked both hands behind the black resin sphere, and drove forward with my entire chest and legs. The ball broke loose with a heavy, rolling rumble across the slate, picked up speed, and dropped straight into the corner leather pocket with a hollow thud. Clean shot. Nothing rattles when your footing is solid.