That’s when he taught me the art of shit-talking.

Not as a lecture — more like a lion keeping a cub in check. He’d talk just enough to raise the stakes. Call the next crazy shot. Back it up. Or slip in a hustler’s nudge:

“There’s a lot of pressure on this one.”

“Too bad you missed that easy shot for the win.”

Sometimes he said it before even walking up to the eight ball.

Naturally, I fired back. That rhythm lasted our entire lives. We only see each other once a year now, but the same pool table still sits in their house. We talk shit. Call ridiculous shots. My celebrations are loud and ridiculous. His are quieter — a wink, a nod — got that one, son — followed immediately by more shit-talk.