Dave Piona, or California Dave Piona as he was often known, was more than just a good pool player; he was a true action enthusiast, game for anything, and always ready with a joke and a genuine smile. Our personalities clicked immediately, and Dave’s extensive knowledge of high-stakes pool games proved invaluable to me. Together, we carved out a comfortable living for over a year navigating the world of professional pool.
My friendship with California Dave Piona blossomed amidst the competitive atmosphere of pro pool tournaments. In a world often filled with intense focus and sometimes brooding personalities, Dave was a breath of fresh air. His infectious enthusiasm, booming laughter, and unwavering optimism were a welcome contrast. He enjoyed smoking weed, and his laid-back demeanor and humor often reminded me of Cheech Marin from Cheech and Chong.
In 1979, we spent a considerable amount of time traveling through Texas. Houston served as our home base, where we both maintained apartments. It was a strategic location, always buzzing with pool action. Dave was a seasoned road player, a journeyman in the truest sense, while I was a younger, more technically skilled player with less experience in the grittier side of the game.
Dave brought significant value to our partnership, and I, in turn, offered something valuable to him. He possessed an intricate network of contacts and knew the players he had previously outmaneuvered. These were the individuals he would set me up to play. He was a master of infiltration, paving the way for me to enter various pool halls and venues. He would provide detailed briefings, outlining exactly what to expect and how to proceed. After the games concluded, a simple phone call would bring Dave back to pick me up.
One particular instance in Dallas stands out vividly. Dave dropped me off at a rather unconventional location – a roadside tavern that had been repurposed from a 1960s-era drive-up Root Beer stand. Inside, four bar pool tables were crammed together, including a smaller 3’x6’ table. This smaller table was the preferred battleground of the man I was there to play. He was known to readily wager $50 per game, and as his confidence grew, the stakes would often escalate significantly. However, he always insisted on playing on that undersized table.
He had mastered the quirks and unpredictable nature of that 3’x6’ table. It was notorious for its inconsistent play, demanding a period of intense adjustment for any newcomer. This familiarity gave him a perceived edge, allowing him to feel competitive even when facing more technically proficient opponents.
Initially, I struggled to find my rhythm on this peculiar table. After an hour and a half, I found myself down three or four games. Frustration mounted as I recognized that I should have been dominating my opponent. A combination of my own unforced errors and his improbable lucky shots led to me losing to someone with demonstrably inferior skills.
During this frustrating stretch, the tavern held about fifteen patrons and two bartenders. My focus was intensely fixed on trying to regain control of the game when a loud argument erupted at the bar. It quickly escalated between a bartender and a customer, becoming increasingly disruptive.
The escalating argument momentarily drew my attention. The tension ratcheted up sharply when the customer declared, “I’m going to the truck and get my gun.” The bartender’s response, “just go ahead,” was delivered with chilling sincerity.
I felt a surge of genuine concern. The voices conveyed a sense of impending violence, as if things were truly about to “go nuclear.” The customer stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Immediately, both bartenders reacted, moving to a drawer and retrieving long-barreled handguns.
The tavern had a few windows, and both bartenders positioned themselves against the inner walls, strategically seeking an angle towards the entrance door. I, still in the middle of the room, playing pool, suddenly felt acutely vulnerable. I had become an unintended and highly probable target for stray bullets if a shootout were to erupt. This was profoundly unsettling. I was reluctant to abandon a potentially lucrative pool game, but equally unwilling to become collateral damage. I quickly formulated a plan: if gunfire broke out, I would dive under the pool table and hope for the best. Escape seemed risky; exiting the tavern into a potential gunfight felt like a gamble with my life, possibly ending up mistakenly shot and listed as another casualty, or unfortunate statistic in the annals of pool hall history.
Adding to the surreal nature of the situation, the other customers in the bar seemed utterly unfazed. They casually continued their drunken conversations, seemingly indifferent to the unfolding drama, as if armed confrontations were commonplace.
Eventually, the blare of police sirens pierced the air. The tension dissipated as quickly as it had risen, and the situation de-escalated. Our pool game resumed. I did eventually win, but I couldn’t shake off a lingering sense of aggravation with Dave. He had knowingly placed me in a potentially dangerous environment, and the image of those drawn guns and the nonchalant reactions of the other patrons remained disturbingly vivid.
