Growing up in a major city in Texas often gives you an odd, senseless, sort of pride. The type of pride that, without much rationale, allows you to claim that other major Texas cities are inferior to your own. Dallas? That uncontrollable disease of urban sprawl with a lesser Galleria than that of Houston? Houston? The city that is a travesty of transportation and is covered by a visible dome of smog and pollution? Etc.

However, what brings all the bickering boys and beautiful babies together is an equally sparse respect for the substantial portion of land that is West Texas. I could only wish that this discourse is a contradiction to the assumed, but, West Texas is damn boring. A boring that I had to endure for more than half of my day. Why?

What was an ephemeral interest in pocket billiards early on in my life has now seemingly turned into a lifelong infatuation with the sport, in all its forms. Early in my game, while learning the moves, I inevitably combined my private affair of billiards with my main-squeeze vice of collecting and produced a financially draining hobby of cue collecting. Having touched upon the production cue offerings, I only wanted better equipment and finally ventured into custom cue land. With some forum grazing and a fair amount reading, though unfair to my academic studies at the time, I came to find what still stands as my favorite cue. Though I’ve played with many names and shot with much more, I can’t help but love my Sugartree. Though the criteria for what constitutes a proper cue is endlessly debatable, I find conversational solace that a great cue, like the ST, only makes you love the game more.

So, since that cue, I’ve always wanted to be a cue builder. I wanted to give the joy to others that was given to me by a 58 inch, full-spliced piece of bocote, cocobolo, and maple. Though he would never admit it, I introduced my friend, Joseph Tsai to the world of cue makers outside of the one he frequented, and his inevitably adoration to Eric Crisp of Sugartree cues sprouted from there. A year later, I get a call from Joseph telling me that he’s befriended Eric and that Mr. Crisp would have us for a week to show us around the shop and whatnot. Insert my no less than overly ecstatic response and you have the reason for what is more of a pilgrimage to Alamogordo, New Mexico.

I often try to find the allure and charm in most things but I was given little chance to enjoy the flat, drab xeriscape. So, unless you can find thirteen hours of enchantment in dry, withering shrubs and an array of dead critters by the roadside, I suggest you find someone else to drive and you sleep through the cinematic equivalent of television static called West Texas.

As the melodic twang of Jack Johnson’s guitar resonates through the hillside, a mother proudly grasps the hand of her son. Her smile is as wide as he is tall. The two glance happily toward one another as they stride toward a pergola adorned with plumes of white blossoms and crystal. The son’s father follows carrying a dignified yet equally tender demeanor.

The Austin sun has set but the gloaming light fills the calming air of Villa Antonia. Below the sky dotted with slow-drifting clouds, groomsmen and bridesmaids align themselves in front of the villa’s guests. Two innocent, winsome young girls trail behind as they carefully flail soft red petals to their sides.

As the wedding party falls into place, the bride makes her appearance. Her father accompanies her beaming through his salt and pepper mustache and beard. With a beauty surpassed by none and a smile as radiant as the summer sun, she glides toward her groom. Her long, angelic veil floats just above a lavish but poised bow cradled in luscious folds of ivory.

The ceremony begins with the prose of the priest; punctual and passionate. As his words fall onto the couple’s ears, their eyes, hands, and hearts are locked. The bride’s thumb tenderly strokes the groom’s fingers and they smile. The priest poses a question, to which the groom replies with unexpected confidence, “I DO,” and the bride responds with the same. The priest then requests for the groom to repeat his words. As he does, his voice quavers. His emotions sweep through the guests; surprisingly uncharacteristic, yet so engulfed with warmth.

And whether she was carefully tucking her hair behind her ear or gracefully wiping a tear from her cheek, the sister of the bride couldn’t hide the happiness she felt for her sibling.

The light disappears, fading from a fitting, maroon hue to a warm, dusky evening. The man holds his hand out toward his wife. They join together and gradually step in rhythm on the wooden floor. As pink lights, family, and friends circle the two, they gaze into one another’s eyes and secretly whisper three simple, deep words. Smiling, they shake their heads in disbelief at their current state. Seven years up until today. Only those seven years before eternity.

To Blake and Ali.

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