I was 14 when I first laid eyes on her. It was a chance encounter; I’d wandered into the club’s billiards room searching for my swimming buddy. There she stood, draped in flawless green, her elegant curves illuminated under the hazy glow of cigarette smoke. The room buzzed with men, some chatting about her allure, others engaged in playful rivalry across her surface. I sat there in my tiny swim shorts, a mix of awe and intimidation washing over me. I was utterly captivated. Whoever claims love at first sight is a myth has clearly never experienced it.

From that day on, it became a ritual. After every swim, I’d slip into the billiards room and watch the men play snooker, mesmerized by the precise clacks of balls and the strategic dance of cues. Boys weren’t allowed near the table, but I’d plead, “Just one shot, sir?” only to be gently turned away. Undeterred, I’d rush home and improvise: oranges scattered on the dining table as balls, glasses tied at the corners to form pockets, and a tree branch serving as my makeshift cue. My family watched in amusement as I honed my imaginary skills, but it was never quite enough—I craved the real thing.

Desperation led to mischief. When the room emptied, I’d sneak in, bribe the staff (my first taste of successful negotiation), and steal precious moments at the table. The thrill of those illicit games fueled my passion.

Now, 35 years later, she’s truly mine. I can spend time with her whenever I choose, solo sessions for quiet reflection or lively matches with my snooker buddies, many of whom are the same men who once barred me from playing. What began as forbidden fascination has evolved into a lifelong love affair with snooker, a game that demands precision, patience, and unyielding focus. It’s more than a hobby; it’s a testament to persistence and the joy of turning youthful obsession into enduring mastery.