World Pool Championships
Only one will stride through the week to hoist the cup. All others will miss the mark and be relegated to anonymity. It is a cruel week for all but one, and we cannot as yet fathom just how cruel the week will become. Fate has a club in her hand, and she will play the blackest card
imaginable at the worst possible moment.
Later, later. The horror comes later. For now it is one knockout delivered after another. Day five reduces the field to only 32, and the giants are falling like stallions forced over the edge by wolves. Souquet has passed. 
Charlie Williams has gone down in the hands of his good friend Johnny Archer. Kim Davenport fell by only one game to his compatriot Cory Deuel, while their friend Shannon Daulton celebrated his win over last years champion Mika Immonen by the same slim margin. Cruel? You think this game is cruel? Stay with me friend, you havenŐt seen cruel yet.
Now the body blows come hard and fast. Robles is felled by Ortmann. Engert never even gets a jab at Lining and leaves the arena scoreless. Yang removes Steve Davis with an amazing 7 rack and out run while both Deuel and Varner are also felled and fall silent to the remaining song.
On Friday 112 of the original 128 are no longer joining the ring. Only 16 cues still require their joints. It is Friday morning and the day has dawned brilliant and warm. There is a promise in the air of great matches and everyone is looking to grab their seats early.
Nothing in billiards can possibly match the belly thrills that will be generated by todayŐs competition. For pool fans, this is the zenith; this is what it is all about. The buzz in the room generates an undercurrent of eclectic electric noise that bites the nerves and ups the bets.
When suddenly there is silence. The room has grown so strangely quiet and dark that you know something is about. Some monster has been released. Some terror, some dark spirit has commanded the room and then there are the wails, and the tears, and the everywhere of grief is upon the room and is spilling in horrible waves out into the street and spreading from hotel room to corner store to restaurant.
The news has come that Francisco Bustamantes' 6-month old daughter has died. Still in the tournament after a week of absolutely brilliant play, the call has come from the Philippines that she went to bed well and woke up gray. The ambulance came, but delivered her lifeless to the hospital.
Now it doesnŐt matter, this cup, this quest for one of sportsŐ highest honors. For the moment it is only tears and embracing and questions that will bear no answer. An entire arena of fans and competitors is in shock and helpless to pretend that their priorities have not changed. When Francisco passes through the hall every heart is hollowed for him. Silent lips reach out to find the words that are too weak to come.
He called his wife. After consoling one anotherŐs grief she made one of the bravest requests the sports world could ever know. She urged him to play on to honor the memory of their child. How he found the strength to continue can only be deemed miraculous, but from the moment he returned to the arena the field had claimed a favorite. The players donned black armbands in her honor. The fans and broadcasters likewise. No one would have been at all surprised to see Francisco fail, but somehow he dug down deep and prevailed over Antonio Lining 11-10.
This placed him in the final eight. But the road ahead seemed impossible. His next opponent was none other than the legendary magician, Efren Reyes. Reyes knew better than to slack off. Efren is possibly the best friend Francisco has ever had and he would not cheat his friend of the moment by being easy. But Bustamante would not be denied. He played now with an inspiration from the depths of his being and shot a nearly flawless round to make it into the final four with an 11-8 victory that retired Reyes from the field.
The next stick would surely flail him. Ching-Shun Yang is the highest ranked player in Chinese Taipei. Higher even than the World Champion of two years ago, Fong-Pang Chao. Already Yang had dusted away Archer and Takenaka. Already he had rid the field of the great Steve Davis and the tenacious Michael Schmidt.
Bustamante would not hear anything from that. The past is only the past. The two giants traded body blows and sidesteps as the fans fell silent in respect for Bustamante and in awe of the shooting display that both had produced. No one can play like that they thought. Surely no one can bring the cue ball back to land upon an area the size of a stamp time and time again like this!
Finally a jump shot failed Yang and Bustamante rose again. A grand cheer rose from the stands and Francisco turned ever so briefly to find the hundreds of faces there who loved him. It was an inspiring sight and he would not disappoint them. Bustamante matched YangŐs effort and then some. He broke the balls as a hammer over marbles. He cut balls backwards and banked them off impossible angles and through openings that the commentators said were not there. In the end he ran four racks and out and bested Yang 11-7 and the only error Yang made the entire match was to come up empty on a single jump. Bustamante would be in the finals!