No Need for Tricks

From its clattering bowling alleys to its reeking card rooms, Bensinger's Recreational Amphitheater on Chicago's Randolph Street is a male refuge in a world that is rapidly going to the dolls. There, fly-blown velvet curtains shut out the flickering neon of The Loop; cigar smoke hangs like a grey curtain of decency between the elbow benders and the ripe, oil-painted nudes behind the bar. Cluttered with old-fashioned sporting prints and spittoons, Bensinger's is a comfortable clubhouse for pool sharks, poker players, three-cushion wizards, and foul-air fiends of every variety.

Last week, though, the Bensinger regulars put aside their cards and pool cues to crowd into the twin grandstands of the exhibition arena and watch dapper Willie Mosconi, 41, take on putty-nosed Joe Procita, 56, for the world's championship in pocket billiards, better known as pool.

Champion for so long (since 1941, with the single exception of 1949, when an attack of nerves ruined his game) that he seemed scornful of any opposition. Willie sat in his chair, smoked and impatiently tapped his foot while Joe made his runs. Then he moved to the table, chalked his cue and stroked his shots with swift perfection. Most blocks he won handily; scores were as lopsided as 150 to 8. "It's a great game, but it's not much fun any more," Willie complains. "There are only about ten real pros in pocket billiards--only five who are first-class. All the rest are a lazy bunch of louts."

In the old days, before pool had its name changed and went highbrow, competition in all forms of billiards was keener. And the best shark in the business was not too proud to indulge in a little gamesmanship. There was "Kokomo Joe" Sachs, who splashed his hands so freely with talcum powder that he managed to bathe his opponents and the table as well. "The whole joint," recalled one victim, "looked like an explosion in a flour factory." There was Robert Cannafax, who would pull a knife and stab himself in his wooden leg when his game went bad. Everyone knew how to sneeze, scratch, or reach for a towel just as his rival was shooting. But few could imitate bald Onofrio Lauri, who was often accused of polishing his pate and reflecting the table lights into his opponents' eyes.

A player since he began to hang around his father's South Philadelphia pool parlor at the age of six. Willie Mosconi is a veteran of that rowdy era, but now he needs none of its tricks. His mechanical perfection is enough, and it earns him at least $10,000 a year in exhibitions. Last week it won him another world championship by the impressive score of 1500 to 589.

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