Backspin on a warped table under bad light.
A kiss off the 8-ball, a bank on the six.
Double bull on a single throw, three pints in.
Picking up a spare in the final frame.
Singing on-key, off-key, and, losing keys.
Steady hands, blurry eyes.
Bars, billiards, basements.
Bacon sandwiches with extra hot sauce.
Surviving buzz-kills, third-wheels,
cock-blocks and cabs in the rain.
Finish lines drawn by dawn.
These are the providence of the After Hours Athlete.
When last call calls, don't answer.
The night, too, is for sport.
And they are the champions.