Who was your teacher

By Bert van Manen

Show of hands, who remembers: "Paint the fence, wax the car”?  If you have not seen "Karate Kid”, go rent it, it is a little Hollywood gem; a feel-good rather than a fight movie. Pat Morita is Mr. Miyagi, the wise man teaching the teenager, and his methods are unorthodox but effective. I saw one of the sequels the other day, and was reminded of my own Mr. Miyagi: the man who taught me billiards. His name was Gijs Kemp, he died in 1987 aged 58, an unsung hero. None of you have ever heard of him, but I am about to change that.  

Gijs Kemp had the ugliest face and the warmest personality imaginable. Quite possibly, those facial features had forced him to develop his formidable social skills. He had no formal education, but industry, common sense and frugality in abundance; worked as a waiter, then opened up his own little liquor store, sold that and built himself a billiard room when he was 49. I walked into it as a 21-year old, and it changed my life.  

We (me and my student friends) did not even think about 3-cushion in those days. The room only had two tables, and they were 2.30 x 1.15, much more common in Holland than the full-size 2.84 x 1.42. We used house cues, played the free game, and with an average around 2.5, I beat most of my friends and thought I did pretty well. Little did I know that Kemp, the friendly guy who poured our drinks, was capable of 20 average in balkline 47/2. On the smaller tables, in balkline 57/2 (the equivalent of 71/2), he was a legend, with dozens of tournament victories to his name.

Once Kemp gave me a few pointers on how to play, my average went up pretty quick, and I was hooked. He would say cryptic, fascinating things to me, like: "That right hand of yours is already fine, it’s all about the left now, and the other moving parts”.  I spent my every free hour in his room, billiards was like a drug, I could not get enough. I had a thousand questions, and the guy behind the bar knew all the answers! It was heaven, until my teacher became annoyed with me. He had told me a hundred times to leave my left hand on the table, during AND AFTER the stroke. I always lifted it, as soon as my cue had made contact with the white. It was not a big deal, what was 1 or 2 seconds going to change? Get off my case, man. Show me more gathers, and teach me to massé.  

What can I say? I was 22, and stupid.

Then one day. "You wanna play 47/2, right? And eventually even 3-cushion on a full-size?” YES. "OK, here is the deal. You can practice for free on the slow afternoons, mondays and wednesdays, if you leave your left hand on the table until I tell you to lift it. If you lift it without permission, for any reason, I am done teaching you.”  I instantly agreed, of course. 

He set up a demanding draw shot for me, but I knew I could make it. Free practice hours, twice a week! I was a student with no money. I concentrated on the shot and hit it like Ceulemans would have. Straight as an arrow, my left hand on the table, like a rock. After what must have been 15 seconds, but felt like an eternity, I tried to look at Gijs, expecting praise. Not easy looking behind you, with your hand  still on the table. I heard a distant sound. He was in the kitchen, doing the dishes. A lot of dishes.  

The guy was such a natural teacher. He could tell one player to speed it up, another to slow it down, and he’d be right both times. He watched you play, and saw who you were, and how you thought. Few things reveal more about you than the way you play billiards. Your soul is on the table, your courage and your cowardice are on display, for those who have eyes. Kemp had eyes in the back of his head, and he sometimes snapped his fingers in approval of a shot he had not seen, just heard. ("That was a good stroke”). We always took a copy of the scoresheet back to the room when he had played an away game in the league, and he’d study those. "What happened there, in those 3 innings? That run over there, what was your starting position?” I learned the importance of re-living a match, so I could give my mistakes proper attention, which in turn meant I did not have to beat myself up over them, DURING a match.

Kemp gave me the basics, and had I known then what I know now, I would have appreciated him even more. I sometimes hear his voice in my head, to this day.  

"Your right arm moves. The rest of you does not”.

"If billiard players lose at swimming, they say there was something wrong with the water”.

"If you want those balls to obey you, talk to them as if they were kids. Don’t whisper. Don’t shout.”   

"A cue goes back and forth. Never left to right. Never up and down”.  

The billiards "sensei” from Ede lost his fight with throat cancer, shortly after he had expanded his two-room place to accomodate 6 tables, one of those a full-size Wilhelmina. It was on that table, that I played my first 47/2 match in 1 inning, and my first league match over 1 average in 3-cushion. Needless to say, none of that would have ever happened without the dish-washing lesson. We tend to have better memories for things we’ve learned the hard way.