The corner of Broadway and Houston street used to be one of the “head centres” of billiards in this city, when kept by Pierre Carme, the French billiard sport.
This Pierre Carme was a curious sort of a chap. Most men that are great on “wind” are not great on anythin’ else; but Carme was not only “fussy” in his talk, but when he chose he was fine in his performance.
He not only talked and printed a good deal–and a good deal too much–about billiards, but he really played some splendid games of billiards himself.
He was great on fancy shots. He could execute all sorts of seemin’ impossibilities on a billiard table. And it was these fancy shots rather than his regular games that made him so famous in his time.
Carme was a strikin’ example of the truth of what Dudley Kavanagh once said–that “a billiard player, like a poet, is born, not made,” that skill at billiards is a knack, a gift, not a somethin’ that can be got without any great aptitude just by study and practice.
All the crack billiard players of this country got to be great before they got to be old. They “dashed” at billiards rather than were “drilled” into it. Foster, McDevitt, Goldthwaite, Kavanagh himself, Estephe, Dion, all these made their mark in billiards while they were young men, and as for Pierre Carme, he was astonished the world with his skill while he was a mere boy.
He began at fourteen years of age to play a good game, and he played as well when twenty as he did twenty years afterwards.
They tell a good story about Berger the crack billiardist, in connection with Pierre Carme. This Berger was a cunnin’ chap, and didn’t propose to tackle anybody who was likely to beat him. He had heard a good deal about Carme, and began to think that Pierre was one of the few it would be dangerous for him to tackle. But he kept his own counsel on this point.
One day Berger met a swell who was one of a club that had engaged Pierre Carme to give an exhibition of some of his fancy shots at the club rooms. This swell took it into his head that it would be a big thing to get Berger to play against Carme, thus doublin’ the excitement.
So he said to Berger, “Monsieur, we have a young player here with whom we would like to see you cross cues.”
“Indeed,” said Berger, “and what is his name?’
“Pierre Carme,” answered the swell.
“Pierre Carme,” repeated Berger, coolly, as if he had never heard of that name, and then he continued: “Is he an amateur or a professional player?”
“He is a professional,” replied the swell.
“Oh, then,” said Berger, “I can’t play with him except for a thousand dollars. I play with professionals only for money,” and Berger walked off.
The swell reported to his club what Berger had said, and after a powwow it was determined that it was worth the money to have the fun of seein’ the two “fancy” players pitted against each other. So the club determined to raise the thousand dollars.
Then the swell sought out and found Berger.
“Monsieur,” said the swell, “we have accepted your suggestion.”
“Eh, what suggestion?” asked Berger.
“About the thousand dollars and Pierre Carme,” answered the swell. “Our club has agreed to back Monsieur Carme in a game with you for a thousand dollars. When will it suit your convenience to play, Monsieur Berger?”
“Never!” replied Berger. “I do not play for money; I never gamble,” and Berger walked off.
Perhaps the “fussiest” billiard match in all the history of billiards was that between Pierre Carme and Rudolphe, some fifteen years ago. There was printer’s ink enough spilled on this match before it took place to run a political campaign, or to bolster a Langtry. Rudolphe began the fight, and the fun, and the fuss, by challengin’ Carme. Then Carme published a letter objectin’ to some of Rudolphe’s propositions for the match; objecting among other things to the kind of table Rudolphe wanted to play on. Rudolphe wanted one kind of table in the interest of one billiard table maker, and of course Carme wanted another kind of table in the interest of another billiard table maker, and neither man would have anything to do with the other man’s table. Rudolphe wrote to the papers defendin’ his table and his challenge in reply to Carme’s objections. Then Carmie wrote to the papers a second time, replyin’ to Rudolphe’s card. Then Rudolphe wrote to the papers a second time, replyin’ to Carme’s reply to his objections. Then Carme wrote to the papers a third time. Then Rudolphe wrote to the papers a third card. Then the backers of Carme and Rudolphe each wrote to the papers twice, and it was a liveliest game of billiards ever played in this wide world–on paper.
At last a day was really appointed for the match, and people expected after all the fuss to see some fight. The table was put up and all the preliminaries were arranged, the crowd of sports had begun to gather when, hoop la, presto change! the man to whom the billiard table belonged on which the match was to be played seized the table for some legal reason or other, with an order of court and a sheriff’s officer. There was nearly a row, but there wasn’t any game just then, though it was followed by some more “fancy” card writing and publishin’ in the papers. Carme, Rudolphe, their backers and the man who seized the table all stated their sides to the public through the press. As a show of “literary billiards,” as a wag called it, it was a tremendous success, but looked at in any other light it was a fizzle.
Finally, after weeks of chinnin’ and printin’, the two men, Rudolphe and Carme, did get down to playin’, and if they had only played their best then all might have been satisfactory after all. But somehow the match was all a walkover for Rudolphe–Carmi seemed to be nowhere.
First the two men played a French carom game, five hundred points, Rudolphe comin’ out one hundred and five ahead. Then they played the American game, one thousand points, in which Rudolphe came out three hundred and fifty-one points ahead, and averagin’ nearly fifteen.
People knowin’ how even the two men were were generally, said this was a “sold” game and a “put up job.” Perhaps it wasn’t, but certainly there was some cause for people to think so. Such a match after such a time about it was a mouse after a mountain, sure enough.
Victor Estephe was a third French billiard player who made a hit in this country. But Victor made it by playin’, not by printin’. The queerest thing about Estephe was that he preferred Philadelphia to New York to live in–about the only man of this way of thinkin’ I ever heard of. But then Victor was always fond of “the country” and liked a quiet life.
Victor’s father used to keep an old time billiard saloon at the corner of Fulton street and Broadway, and by the time Victor was sixteen he was one of the most accomplished billiard players in the city. But from some reason–some reason that I have never yet heard explained–Victor took a sudden and permanent dislike to New York and left it at once, never to return. He opened a billiard saloon in Philadelphia and did well in the Quaker City, becomin’ one of the “institutions.”
By the bye, talkin’ of “institutions,” the billiard saloon on the corner of Tenth street and Broadway used to be a New York “institution.”
Phelan kept the place, and here Dudley Kavanagh played many a fine game. Here, too, many of our best business men used to drop in and knock the balls about over the green cloth. Big money has changed hands here over a game, and some of our “merchant princes” and “kings of Wall street” used to take a hand in the playin’ and in the bettin’.
Poor “Doesticks” Mortimer Thompson used to pass many an hour here. Doesticks fancied himself, in his good-natured, harmless way, about the best billiard player livin’. He cut about the queerest figure, at a billiard table, of any man I ever met, a regular “gawky,” but so jolly.
I may note just here that somehow Miles O’Reilly, Artemis Ward, Mark Twain, George Arnold, John Clany, Fitz James O’Brien and other old time Bohemians, almost all thought ‘emselves real champion billiard players.
Clapp, the king of the Bohemians, used to play billiards with Ada Clare, their “queen.” They were both a pair of “royal duffers.” Clapp’s style was founded on that of young McDevitt’s–or young McDevitt’s style of playing was founded on that of Clapps. They were both so fond of “nursin’” their balls. McDevitt was the best hand at “nursin’” billiards I have ever seen. He was not skillful in bold angle shots–he never attempted that line, like Dion or Estephe–but at “nursin’” he distanced ‘em all and thus saved himself in many public matches.
Frawley was a good “nurse,” too. He never cared much for billiards till he was kind of forced into it, as it were, and then he came to the front mighty quick. He was an Irishman, and it is a fact that “Ould Ireland” has given birth to more good billiard players than any other country, except France.
Frawley was the hero once of the most excitin’ contest–a match with Henry Rhines. There had been a good deal of feelin’ between the men and their friends, and a good deal of bettin’ on the result. The two men played pretty nearly even, and for a while no one could tell who was likely to win. Rhines made some splendid runs. So did Frawley. Now one side would be wild with joy, and then the other. At last Frawley won by the skin of his teeth, and a few points. And then Frawley’s friends and backers went for him, rushed at him, carried him off his feet, and carried him on their shoulders into the street, hurrahin’ all the way, and makin’ quite a curious procession.
One of the most steadily popular of the New York billiard players was Dudley Kavanagh. He was considered the very best player in the city when he was but sixteen years old, and was employed in the saloon opposite the old New York Hospital, of which his playin’ was the chief attraction. Kavanagh used to play with George Smith, Joe White, Tom Stone, Ralph Benjamin, Mike Phelan and all that set, and was regarded as equal to any and superior to most. Yet his first game in public was a failure; he was beaten badly by Barney Crystal. And his last public game was a failure, too. He had to forfeit to Fox by reason of sickness. So that, although his career was a brilliant success, it may be said to have been “first and last a failure.”
Kavanagh was a great admirer of Roberts, the champion English billiard player, who told Kavanagh a story of the way that he (Roberts) got into a scrape and was called idle because he worked too hard.
Roberts was about twelve years old, and was already wild about billiards. He studied the game, played it, worked at it day and night, worked harder than he ever did at anythin’ else, and really deserved encouragement for his industry and skill in this department, but he didn’t get it.
His grandfather got amusin’ himself playin’ with Roberts, and at first, when the old man beat the boy, he praised the boy, and said he liked to see young people enjoyin’ ‘emselves.
But when the boy worked harder at learnin’ how to play, and finally, by dint of resolute perseverance, so improved that he beat the old man, then the old man got mad, and actually called him an idle lad–idle, when he worked at a billiard table eight or ten hours a day–and had him apprenticed to learn a trade. So much for beatin’ one’s grandfather.
Everyone familiar with billiard history will remember Snyder, a German by birth, who was known as “the Teutonic champion.” He had bad luck in several of his public contests.
One match in which he was to play against John W. Coon, was won by Coon without his makin’ a shot, simply by Snyder’s fallin’ sick. Snyder wanted to play Coon the worst kind, but his doctor wouldn’t let him–said it was as much as Snyder’s life was worth to try. So Snyder had to abandon that match, but, spite of his doctor’s warning, Snyder took a chance of dyin’, and within a week challenged Coon to play another match with him, played the match and won it.
Another match was to take place between Snyder and Frank Parker, and herein Snyder had bad luck again. Snyder was by far the better player of the two, and of course was only too anxious to prove it. And for all I know, Frank Parker may not have had any hand in what happened, but at any rate, as soon as Frank Parker’s friends saw that their man was bound to be beaten, they set to work, and as a chap said, “caromed with their lungs.” They yelled, and swore, and threatened and frightened poor Snyder out of his wits. Finally one big fellow took hold of Snyder and threatened to play billiards with Snyder himself for cue if he didn’t give in, which Snyder accordingly did. This idea of making a player serve as his own billiard cue has always struck me as bein’ a decidedly original idea in billiards.
