Winter 1999, on a North American solo van trip after a hasty divorce, I found myself in Phoenix in a housing project full of foreclosed houses. I was also in the company of some heavy-hitters, armed with skateboards, Tecate, and not much else. A quick hop of a fence, and a foot-sweep of some stones from the dry hole, and the session was on.This particular pool had coping the size of an adult’s thigh. Randy Colvin handled it with pure aggression, and control. I re-injured a familiar fracture in my left wrist, so I took a few shots. After about twenty minutes, we split, so as to not bring down the heat. Pool rituals, timeless, and unspoken. Cheers! – Greg Baller
