Werewolves of London

Wherein my hair was perfect

SONG: Werewolves of London

ARTIST: Warren Zevon

ALBUM: Excitable Boy

YEAR: 1978

I used to shoot pool at a place called Wonder Cue. This was during the mid to late ‘80s. I was decent at eight ball, average at nine ball, and totally sucked when it came to snooker given I have the reach of an infant T-Rex.

Usually I’d play with a buddy of mine from school. Let’s call him ‘Sal’. Sal was better at everything. He got better grades, dated more girls (dated, period), and would kick my flabby ass at pool with maddening regularity. Worst part was he’d let me know about it, conducting a running commentary before, during, and after my shot: Better not scratch; Don’t choke now; Stevie Wonder could’ve made that shot. I believe the scientific term is ‘breaking my balls’.

But this is not a tale of woe. This is a story of redemption — of a pimply-faced fourteen-year-old conquering Goliath. And I owe it all to today’s entry in the Gen X Jukebox.

Werewolves of London is the fourth track on Warren Zevon’s Excitable Boy. It was released in 1978 and reached #21 on the Billboard Hot 100. The song was Zevon’s one and only hit.   

I heard it for the very first time eight years later in the winter of ‘86. The latest Scorsese had just come out. It was a film about pool—the sequel to The Hustler—starring Paul Newman, Tom Cruise, and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio.

Sal and I rushed to the theater on opening weekend. We bought our tickets and respective snacks and sat in awe for the next two hours. We loved the tension between Newman and Cruise, the hustlers and pool halls that reminded us of Wonder Cue, the smash cuts and swooping cameras that brought the game of billiards to life.

Then, of course, there was the famous scene. Famous to me and Sal, that is. A scene that changed my life forever.

Seeing Tom Cruise run the table and swinging his cue as if they were nunchucks was rousing stuff for fourteen-year-old me. I yearned to be a hotshot like Cruise; to have Werewolves of London blaring in the background while I kicked my friend Sal’s ass.

Sal and I left the theater brimming with excitement. We wanted to go to Wonder Cue and try out some of the bank shots we’d seen. Unfortunately for us, it was getting late, so we vowed to meet the following weekend for a mammoth session of nine ball.

Now, I’ve never been a religious man. But I prayed, dear reader. Every night that entire week, I dropped to my knees and begged the Lord to forgive my trespasses and imbue me with the power to beat fucking Sal at nine ball.

I also did a lot of visualizing.

I’d lay in bed after my prayers and see myself as Tom Cruise’s character. I was Vincent: cracking wise and running tables, declaring my hair to be utterly perfect and swinging my cue like I was Bruce Lee.

Six days passed.

On the seventh, I met Sal at our neighborhood bus stop. He launched into his customary breaking of balls as soon as I arrived. Ready for a whooping tonight? There’s not enough chalk in the world that can save you.   

I bit my tongue and commenced visualization. I was Tom Cruise: crushing opponents and cracking wise, informing a scantily-clad Mastrantonio that I’d be with her as soon as I was done.

Half an hour later, we arrived at Wonder Cue.

Sal and I strolled inside and ordered up a table. We took off our coats, selected our cues, and agreed that I’d be the first to break.

Then something happened. The kind of moment you never forget.

Don’t Fear the Reaper, which had been blasting through the speakers when Sal and I arrived, faded into a looming silence. Seconds later that silence was replaced by the jingle-jangle opening of Werewolves of London.

Sal and I stared at each other, eyebrows raised like we’d just seen a ghost. It was as if Scorsese had joined us at Wonder Cue, provoking us to stop wasting time and settle our beef once and for all.

I closed my eyes and saw Tom Cruise. Check that – I became Tom Cruise.

I broke the rack of balls with such force, it turned the heads of the older men who were engaged in a game of snooker beside us. They watched with amusement as I sank the 1-ball, then the 2, and bent over the table to line up the 3. All the while, Warren Zevon was singing about a hairy-handed gent who’d been overheard in Mayfair.

I drained the 3 but missed the 4.  

Sal was so stunned when he saw me sink my first three shots that he wound up missing the 4-ball as well. Badly. Matter of fact, Sal didn’t make a single shot the entire game. That’s because he didn’t get the chance.

I cleared the table on my second run. The game was over before Werewolves of London was. It was an accomplishment I’d failed to achieve prior to that magical night, and one that’s eluded me ever since. In short, it was a miracle. A masterful performance guided by the divine.

I guess I’d be remiss if I didn’t add that Sal kicked my ass the rest of the night. As soon as Werewolves of London was over, I was back to being Sonny: to losing at nine ball and eight ball and snooker and being the brunt of Sal’s running commentary: Where’s your hot-shit shooting now? Must’ve had a horseshoe up your ass.

But I’ll always have that shining moment when Werewolves of London helped me rise—however briefly—out of mediocrity and into the stuff of local legend.

Interesting sidenote: I still talk to Sal from time to time. He’s happily married, with two healthy kids, and has spent the last two decades or so working as a tailor.