A week later, I'm standing outside another billiards hall, trying not to throw up.
Again.
But this time is different. This time I've been practicing. Every day for seven days straight, three hours at this shitty hall near my apartment where the tables are crooked and the felt is worn down to nothing.
The owner, this old guy named Duc, stopped charging me after day four. Said I looked "pitiful enough" that he felt bad taking my money. Thanks, Duc. Really building my confidence here.
But the thing is—I'm actually getting better. Sort of. I can break without the cue ball flying off the table. I can make straight shots maybe sixty percent of the time. I even made a bank shot once, though I'm pretty sure that was luck.
Today's the HIK tournament at Oi Club. Second chance to not completely humiliate myself in front of actual players.
No pressure.
Oi Club is nothing like Sky Club. Thank god.
Where Sky Club was all glass and chrome and intimidation, Oi is... cozy, I guess. Tucked away in some narrow alley that I had to Google Maps twice to find. Yellow lights, dark wood paneling, smells like chalk dust and old coffee. Feels like someone's basement, but in a good way.
I show up an hour early because I'm neurotic and need time to pace around and stress-eat breath mints before people start arriving.
That's when I hear the voice that makes my stomach drop.
"Well, well. Look who decided to show up."
Tung Rau. Standing behind me with two of his buddies, all of them grinning like they just found a twenty on the sidewalk.
"Phi Dang, the famous runner. Here for another sprint to the exit?"
Shit. I'd hoped word hadn't gotten around about Sky Club, but of course it has. The billiards community in Saigon is probably smaller than I thought. My spectacular failure is probably legendary by now.
"Hi, Tung," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm playing today."
"Really?" He looks genuinely surprised. "You sure you don't want to just head home now? Save everyone the trouble?"
My hands are already starting to shake, but I stuff them in my pockets. This isn't about Tung. This is about proving to myself that I'm not a complete coward.
"I'm sure."
Tung shrugs. "Your funeral." He walks away with his friends, and I catch fragments of their conversation. Something about "crash and burn" and "under five minutes."
Great. They're taking bets on how quickly I'll fold.
But here's the thing—I don't run. I stand there, breathing through my nose like Minh Anh told me to, and I wait for the tournament to start.
Small victory, but I'll take it.
---
The tournament starts and I check the bracket. Table five: Phi Dang vs Minh Lun.
Great. Another person I've never heard of who's probably gonna destroy me.
I find table five. There's someone already there—short, maybe in their twenties, setting up a cue that looks way nicer than mine. They're taking practice shots and holy shit, they're smooth. Like, actually good smooth.
"You Minh?" I ask.
They look up, smile. Not the condescending Tung Rau smile. Just... normal.
"Minh Lun. And you're the famous Phi Dang."
Famous. Right. "Sorry, I don't know what you heard, but—"
"Everyone has bad days," they say, chalking their cue. "I forfeited a tournament once. Threw up right on the table. Nobody remembers that shit forever."
Huh. Wasn't expecting sympathy.
"Thanks," I say. "I'll try not to throw up."
Minh Lun laughs. "You want to break?"
Here we go. The moment of truth. Last time I couldn't even hit the cue ball properly.
"Yeah. I'll break."
I place the cue ball, line up the shot. My hands are shaking but not as bad as before. Come on, Phi Dang. It's just hitting a white ball. You've done this a thousand times in practice.
I pull back and—
CRACK.
The balls scatter. Two of them drop into pockets.
Holy shit. I actually broke properly.
"Nice," Minh Lun says. "Two down. Keep going."
I'm still staring at the table like I can't believe it worked. The eight-ball is sitting near the corner pocket. Easy shot. I've made this a hundred times in practice.
Line up. Breathe. Pull back. Hit.
The ball rolls smooth, hits the pocket edge, and drops.
"Good eye," Minh Lun says. "Better than a lot of players I've seen."
A compliment. From an actual player. When's the last time that happened?
I'm lining up my third shot when it happens. That familiar cold feeling creeping up my spine. My vision gets a little blurry. The crowd around our table suddenly feels huge.
I miss. Ball doesn't even come close.
"Your turn," I say, stepping back.
Minh Lun takes over and proceeds to sink four balls in a row like it's nothing. Each shot perfectly set up for the next one. This is what real billiards looks like.
They miss on a tough bank shot. "Your turn, Dang."
I'm back up. There are maybe ten people watching now. Word must be getting around—the choker's actually playing.
I focus on the seven-ball. Good angle, decent distance. Just pretend nobody's watching.
Hit. The ball drops.
Someone in the crowd makes an approving noise. Did that actually happen?
I'm feeling good now. Too good. Line up the eight-ball, hit it way too hard. The cue ball flies across the table.
Shit.
"Tough spot," Minh Lun says. "You going for it or playing safe?"
I study the table. The shot's possible but risky. Old me would go for it, try to be a hero.
"Playing it safe," I say.
Smart choice. We trade safety shots for a while. Minh Lun's better at this than me—a lot better—but I'm not completely embarrassing myself.
Eventually they clear the table. Final score: 7-3.
"Not bad at all," Minh Lun says, offering their hand. "You actually know what you're doing."
We shake. I lost, but I finished. Sunk five balls. Made decent safety shots. For a guy who couldn't break a week ago, this feels like winning the world championship.
"Thanks for the game," I say.
"Your grip... there's something off about it. Like you're deliberately doing it wrong..."
Minh Lun pauses, seems to consider saying more, then just shrugs. "Not my business anyway. Good luck, Phi Dang."
They just called me a "sandbagger"—a term in billiards for players who intentionally hide their true skill level. Unlike me, a genuine beginner. Real sandbaggers know their abilities but pretend to be clumsy, only to shock opponents when they suddenly reveal advanced techniques at crucial moments. I've seen this phenomenon online—anonymous masters stunning opponents by suddenly displaying high-level skills.
"What else do you know?" Minh asks, having overheard me discussing sandbagging with another player.
"There are three types of sandbaggers," I answer, unable to control my words. "Undercover pros, unrated players, and wildcards." I stop abruptly, realizing I'm going too far, too detailed for a beginner.
"I mean... that's what I read online."
Minh Lun looks at me slowly, eyes understanding.
"Even players with years of experience rarely understand sandbagging tactics that well."
I quickly take a sip of water, pretending to cough to change the subject. In my head, I wonder about sandbaggers' motivations. Few would do it just to fool themselves—they want to deceive opponents. It's psychological self-defense: by lowering expectations, they create a perfect safety net. Win, and it's due to hidden skill; lose, and it's expected from a low-ranked player.
Come to think of it, maybe I've unconsciously done the same thing by claiming K-rank status—so no one expects me to win, so I won't disappoint Minh Anh.
---
Outside Oi Club, I check my phone. Voice message from Minh Anh.
I hit play: "So? How did it go?"
I record back: "Lost 7-3. But I finished the match."
Her response comes fast: "I knew you could do it!"
Then another message that makes my stomach drop: "But you're not ready for Master Long yet."
What? "Why not? I played the whole match like you said."
"One match isn't enough, Dang. Master Long wants to see persistence. Ten matches, twenty matches. Even if you lose them all. That's real passion."
Ten matches? Twenty?
"You enter tournaments to win," I type back. "Not to lose on purpose."
"I know. But sometimes failing teaches you more than winning. Master Long wants to see you won't quit when things get hard."
I'm walking slower now, trying to process this. She wants me to lose dozens of matches? The entry fees alone would bankrupt me.
"I can't afford that many tournaments," I text.
Read immediately. Typing dots appear and disappear.
"I won regionals last month. Prize money was good. I could cover your entry fees."
I stop walking. Nearly drop my phone.
"I can't take your money. We've never even met."
Send. Immediately regret how that sounds.
The typing dots appear and disappear for like five minutes. Finally, nothing.
No response.
I put my phone away and keep walking. The Saigon evening traffic is picking up, scooters everywhere, but all I can think about is those typing dots.
What the hell was she going to say?
More importantly—why does she care so much about some K-rank nobody who chokes under pressure?
I guess I'll find out eventually. Or maybe I won't.
Either way, I finished a match today. That's something.
Tomorrow I'll practice more. And next week, there's another tournament.
Win or lose, I'm not running anymore.