Editorial

The guys at Diamond Billiard Club know how to set the mood.

The midday sun is bathing two nine-foot Diamond pool tables placed near the windows along the front of the building in bright light.  Farther in, seven eight-foot tables take up considerably more space.  Set in the darker recesses of the club, each table looks like an island of ocean blue felt under the light placed above it.  Empty because the club just opened, they are a beautiful sight.

High wooden spectator chairs border each table, bringing to mind scenes set in Ames Billiard Academy in the classic black and white film, “The Hustler.” I can almost see Jackie Gleason tapping the butt of his cue on the floor after a great shot by Paul Newman.  Neon signs advertising a variety of beers bring me back to the world of color.

In the background, but loud enough to hear, the Beatles are singing about starting a revolution.  At the opposite end of the club, past booths that will soon be occupied, the bar manager, Heston, is getting ready for the afternoon crowd.

Diamond Billiard Club is no bowling alley with a couple of pool tables by the lockers, or a video game arcade with a few tables thrown in as an afterthought.  It is, purely and simply, a pool hall.

Heston meets me at the front desk, hands me a rack of balls, and tells me the club charges five dollars an hour for a table.  “We don’t do quarters,” he says.

As Pink Floyd begins to sing about brain damage, I select a bottom heavy cue, walk to the nearest table, and place the balls on its surface.  I then fish the triangle out of its hiding place and arrange the balls in a tight formation.  As I walk to the other end of the table, I run my fingers across the felt.  It’s as soft as flannel.  Even better, there are no tears or crimps in the fabric.  The unbroken smoothness is sexy.

After chalking the tip of my cue and placing the cue ball on the table, I lean in, draw my stick back, and then send a white bullet flying across the azure surface.  It hits the tip of the rack with a satisfying crack, and balls explode in every direction.   A couple drop into pockets with a satisfying thunk.

Tables like this one are rare.  It feels good.  It feels right.  It feels like billiards should.

Looking at the bar, I see a curious thing: Heston is handing a woman several to-go boxes.  What? Since when does anyone go to a pool hall to get take out?

Realizing I’m hungry, I leave the table, take a seat at the bar, and ask Heston, a gaunt man with prematurely gray hair and a scraggly beard, what’s good.  “The meatloaf,” he says.

Of course.  The meatloaf.  Why didn’t I think of that?

Brad, who also tends bar at the club, speaks up from three chairs to my right.  “Miss Cheryl in the kitchen can cook her face off,” he says.  “She’s just a good ol’ country girl.”

Brad isn’t on the clock; he just came in to tear through a burger and nurse a beer.  “Our burgers kick butt,” he says as Heston walks off to place my order.  “If you ever do a piece on the city’s best burgers, ours would be in the top three.”

I realize Brad might be prejudiced, but his burger does look good.  As Stevie Wonder starts to sing about being superstitious, I make a mental note to try one someday.

Brad also recommends the wings, especially on Wednesday, when they’re 50 cents apiece, whether you order three or 300.  “I’d put our wings up against anyone’s,” he says, continuing his soft sell on the club’s food.  “We make our own rubs and sauces.  They’re the best in Hamilton County.”

Heston has returned and, hearing Brad bragging about the wings, chimes in about Tuesdays, when hard shell tacos are 75 cents each.  I know what Brad is going to say next.  “They’re phenomenal,” he says.  “If you’ve been looking for a good hard shell taco, look no more.”

Heston agrees with Brad about the tacos, and says they go well with their 16 ounce canned beers, which cost “a buck-fifty” on Tuesdays.  “We have PBR, Natural Light, Yuengling, Rolling Rock ...” His voice trails off as he leaves to fetch my meatloaf.

When he returns, I can scarcely believe my eyes.  There before me on a white dinner plate is a thick slab of homemade meatloaf, real mashed potatoes smothered with dark gravy, a cup of greens with real bits of bacon, two wedges of Texas Toast, and a slice of tomato, just for color.  I’m so transfixed by what I’m seeing, I barely hear Heston ask me if I want vinegar for my greens.

What? Since when does the bar tender at a pool hall ask you if you want vinegar with your greens?

As I dive into the meatloaf, I ask Heston to tell me about himself.  Brad speaks up first: “He likes long walks on the beach...”

Both men crack up.  Heston is no beach crawler, he’s a rock climber who moved from South Georgia to Chattanooga to take advantage of the more than 3,000 vertical rock facings located in and near the city.  He tends bar to feed his kids.  “I was a stay home dad for a while, which was way harder than working,” he says.  “But my wife knew I wanted to do this.  I enjoy the people and the camaraderie.”

I look around.  Although the club is still empty, its regulars will soon begin filling the seats along the bar.  “We have a large clientele that comes here when they get off work,” he says.  “They have a beer or two, and then go on their way.”

During the day and early evening, Heston says Diamond Billiard Club is a good place to drink a quiet beer and play a game of pool.

“What’s it like around midnight?” I ask.

“It’s a beast with claws and venom dripping from its fangs,” he says, smiling.

As the Rolling Stones begin to sing about...something, I tuck a mental note about leaving the club before midnight next to the one about trying a hamburger.

Heston works for owner Jason Peterson, who steps up to the bar after spending the morning tending to business.  Peterson purchased the club from Dean Norwood, who ran the place as Hot Shots as long ago as the nineties.  Peterson was driving a truck for Norwood’s chemical company when Norwood asked him to manage and eventually take over the pool hall.  Peterson waited until he felt the time was right, and has been the man in charge ever since.

I ask him about the leagues, which play on Thursday nights.  “The American Pool Association manages our leagues,” he says.  “We simply supply them with a location.”

Details about joining or forming a team are located at the front desk.

Diamond Billiard Club also offers darts.  Patrons can either play a friendly game with someone they know or meet, or they can take part in one of the tournaments held Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights.

Competitions include Blind Draw, Double Shot, and Triple Shot.  In a Blind Draw tournament, participants are randomly paired up and compete for prize money.  In the Double and Triple Shot events, each participant purchases a ticket, and then the officials draw the name of one person.  This lucky son of a gun then spins a wheel to determine the number on the dart board he or she must hit, and is given three shots at hitting the double or triple spots of that number.  The purse is divided among the three darts, and the thrower wins one third of the money for each dart that lands in the target area.

“The prize money was up to nine thousand dollars recently,” Heston says.  A vision of a beast with claws and venom dripping from its fangs flashes before my mind’s eye.

After finishing my lunch and shooting a few more racks, I leave Diamond Billiard Club feeling as though I’ve discovered a Chattanooga treasure.  While tall beers and late night dart tournaments might not be my thing, billiards certainly is, and Peterson and his crew offer an authentic pool hall experience.

Noting that the club is open daily from 11 a.m.  to 3 a.m., I scribble a final mental note to return the next day to try the tacos.  Brad says they’re phenomenal, and I’d hate to miss out.

To see more photos, pick up a copy of the Hamilton County Herald.