Our Team's First APA 9-Ball World Championship

Game on.

Our 9-ball team earned our way to the World Championships in our first season. We couldn't believe it.

But here's the thing—based on the APA 23-rule, we had to play with only four members. That meant our top shooter, the guy who usually coached us through timeouts, couldn't even play. And out of the four of us who could, one didn't have enough paid time off saved up. His boss said no. He went anyway. He told us later he couldn't live with the regret of not being there.

When we got to Vegas, we were like kids in a candy store. Rows and rows of tables stretching down every hall. Nice equipment everywhere. We even saw Black Widow. We couldn't stop grinning. We rushed to practice, trying to shake off the nerves and soak it all in.

Then our first match came.

Half our team felt nerves they'd never felt before. Hands shaking while racking the balls. The kind of shaking you can't control. We knew what we were up against—we had to get to 51 points in four matches with no room for error.

Our skill level 3 played first, going up against a 4. He lost. Then I played as a 4 against their 5. I won. Our 5 played their 5 next and lost. Then our 3 played their 5—and won. We clawed our way to 48 points, but we had to forfeit the fifth match. We moved to the loser's bracket.

The next match was the following day. I played first against their 4 and won. Our 3 played a 3 and lost. Our other 3 went up against a 5 and won—he redeemed himself from the day before. Then our 5 was going neck and neck with their 5. Both of them needed three points. Our guy made the game-winning shot to push us to 51.

We jumped up. All of us. We rushed over and hugged and screamed. People around us were staring, wondering what we'd just won. It was just a match to stay alive. But to us? Playing with only four? It felt like everything.

Later that night, we got the scoresheet for the next match. I saw my name. Skill level 5. I just stared at it. My throat tightened. My teammate told me the other team's captain from our last match had told him to mark my defensive shots—hooks that I didn't mean to leave—as safeties. And he did.

Our 3 played first against their 3. Lost. I played their 4. I needed one point to win my match. I lost. Our other 3 played a 6 and somehow won. The other team started complaining. The opposing team had a mark on one for their players so we had to called a watcher over. Our 5 played their 5 whose had to be watched, and the other team kept calling the referee, saying our guy was taking too long, raising a flag every other shot even when there was no risk of a foul. Tensions were high. Our 5 won, but we were one point short of 51. They won because of our fifth-match forfeit.

It was crushing.

In both matches we lost, we were ahead. We only lost because we couldn't field a fifth player. We fought so hard. We dug in and gave everything we had. And it still wasn't enough.

It still brings tears to my eyes, reliving it as I tell this story. It was unforgettable. The highs, the lows, the camaraderie —all of it.

I want to go back. I want redemption.

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