Learning the Art of Business The Owners Biography from pools halls to cyber Security

It was the year 1973.
The day I first stepped into Baldwin Billiards was like walking into another world. The sharp scent of wood polish and the faint whiff of cigarette smoke filled the air, mixing with the distinctive smell of old, weathered pool tables. Chalk dust seemed to hover in the air, illuminated by the dim overhead lights, as if each tiny particle told a story of its own.
The constant clicking of pool balls was the heartbeat of this place, a rhythm that would eventually pulse through my veins as naturally as the blood flowing through them. I was just twelve, but even then, I knew that this wasn’t just a building—it was the epicenter of something much bigger. I didn’t quite know what yet, but I felt it, deep in my bones.
Back then, my role was simple. I was the coffee boy, a small, seemingly insignificant cog in a well-oiled machine. Surrounded by men who had spent decades perfecting their craft, I was nothing but an observer, The men would place their order for coffee with me and I would go to Paul’s deli on Merrick Road in Baldwin to buy the coffees and distribute them to the men, some men liked their coffee light and sweet while other men liked it black with sugar. At that time, the regulars barely acknowledged my existence. But even in my quiet, unnoticed state, I watched, and I listened. These men played a game called “money ball” for 1 dollar per way. The money balls were 1, 5, 8, 10, and 15, and the points were worth three ways. They didn’t speak much while they played, but their concentration, their precision, spoke volumes.
Watching these old-timers line up their shots, there was a quiet, calculated beauty in every move they made. Every sound, every motion, every decision mattered. The way they leaned over the table, squinting down the cue, the subtle twist of their wrists, and the sharp clack as the cue ball struck its target—it was like watching art in motion. I’d watch them for hours, soaking in every detail, dreaming that one day I’d be as good as them. That I’d be the one they’d watch with respect, maybe even awe.
But before I could pick up a cue, I had to earn my time on the tables. My first official job at Baldwin Billiards was to vacuum the tables. In exchange for an hour of cleaning, I was rewarded with an hour of free pool time. It was a deal that suited me just fine. I practically lived at the pool hall, arriving early and staying late into the night. The place became my second home, and it wasn’t long before I gained a lot of friends there.
My duties quickly expanded beyond vacuuming, and I was fixing the tips on pool cues. At first, it was just something I watched Rick Elder, the house man, do. But over time, I got the hang of it. I got good at it, too, which made me indispensable to the regulars. They trusted me with their prized cues, knowing that I could bring them back to life with a little precision and patience. That’s when I started feeling like I was becoming part of the fabric of the hall, not just a kid hanging around.
The regulars began to take notice of me, not just for my cue-repair skills, but for my growing talent on the tables. Frankie Sclafani, Ronnie Terllie, Wolfgang, Ray Garrett, Fat Al, Whipple Stick, Harry, Peter Oliver and Andy Sapon—these men were my first mentors, even if they didn’t realize it. Each of them had their own style, their own way of playing the game and living their lives, and each of them taught me something valuable. Whether it was the importance of patience from Wolfgang or how to keep a cool head like Ray Garrett, I absorbed it all.
Then there was Rick Elder. He was the house man when I first started, and he ran the day-to-day operations of the hall. He was my hero; I would go and give him lunch every day at Paul’s deli. He would eat a roast beef sandwich on white bread with mayo and tomatoes. He was a great pool player also, but when Rick quit, Ralph, the owner of Baldwin Billiards, offered me the chance to take over the cash register and manage the hall’s daily business. I was only 14 or so, but Ralph saw something in me. He trusted me, and that trust meant the world to me.
Taking over the cash register wasn’t just about making change for the customers or keeping the books. It was about responsibility, about stepping up and being part of the backbone of the place. It meant that I was becoming more than just the coffee boy or the kid who vacuumed tables. I was becoming a fixture at Baldwin Billiards. And with that, I gained the respect of the regulars—not just as the guy who fixed their cues or ran the register, but as a player.
The more time I spent at Baldwin Billiards, the better I got at playing pool. I practiced for hours every day, and soon, I wasn’t just holding my own—I was beating some of the regulars, even the ones who had been playing for decades. I became so skilled that I used to spot people 45 balls in a 50-point game of straight pool, for 5 dollars per game. That’s the kind of handicap I’d give them, and I’d still win. Word spread about my abilities, and soon enough, I had a reputation. I was able to run 30 to 50 balls in a row!
Kids from Baldwin High School would bet that I’d be on table seven, shooting pool as they walked home after school looking through the window. I became something of a local legend, but despite my growing reputation, I never let it go to my head. I was always diplomatic, always focused on the game, and I never got into fights. Baldwin Billiards was my sanctuary, my escape from the struggles I faced at home and school. It was the one place where I felt like I belonged.

Vacuuming tables at Baldwin Billiards might sound like a menial task to most, but for me, it was a rite of passage. Each time I pushed the vacuum across those felt-covered tables, I knew that I was earning my way to something far more valuable—free time shooting pool on the pool tables. An hour of vacuuming meant an hour of free pool time, and that was a trade I’d gladly make any day of the week.
There was something almost sacred about those late nights in the pool room. Sometimes the hall would be quiet, with only the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the music from the 1970s playing on the radio and the steady tick-tock of the clock on the wall. I’d line up shot after shot, feeling the smooth glide of the cue in my hands, the sharp crack of the cue ball against the others, and the satisfying sound of a ball dropping into a pocket. It was in those quiet hours, alone with the table, that I truly honed my skills.
Before long, I wasn’t just cleaning the tables; I was fixing cues also. It started with watching Rick Elder, but soon, I was doing it myself. Fixing the tips on pool cues was an art, a delicate craft that demanded precision and patience. At first, I’d fumble with the glue and the clamps, but with practice, I got the hang of it. And once I did, the regulars started coming to me. They trusted me with their cues, and in return, they taught me more about the game, about life.
I’ll never forget the sense of pride I felt when one of the regulars would come up to me, cue in hand, asking for a repair. It wasn’t just about fixing a piece of wood—it was about being part of the community, being needed, being valued.
And then there were my friends—Frankie, Ronnie, Wolfgang, Ray, Fat Al, Whipple Stick, Harry, Peter, and Rick. Each one of them taught me something different. Frankie was always the jokester, but he had a way of making you think about the game in a new light. Ronnie was quiet but deadly on the table—he taught me the importance of focus. Wolfgang was 6 foot 5 inches tall, with his thick accent and gruff demeanor; they taught me patience. Ray, well, Ray was the cool head, the guy who never lost his temper, no matter how heated the game got.
Together, they were my first real community, my first tribe. These men, with their rough edges and sometimes questionable humor, became my mentors, whether they realized it or not. They showed me the ropes of not just the game but life itself.

Taking over the cash register at Baldwin Billiards was a turning point in my life. It wasn’t just about handling money or managing the day-to-day operations of the hall—it was about stepping into a new role, one that carried weight and responsibility. Ralph trusted me, and that trust was something I didn’t take lightly.
Every day, I’d unlock the doors, flip the lights on and flip the sign from “Closed” to “Open,” and get ready for the regulars to come in. I knew who would be first through the door, who would play on which table, and which cues needed fixing. I kept track of the games, the money changing hands, and the banter that filled the air.
But it wasn’t all business. Taking on more responsibilities also gave me more time to practice. When the hall was quiet, I’d sneak in a few games, refining my skills, testing new techniques. I wasn’t just the kid cleaning up anymore—I was becoming a player in my own right, someone who could take on anyone at the table and hold my own.
Straight pool was my game, but I became one of the best in the game of 3-rail billiards as well, my high run in 3-rail billiards was 15, I was a force to be reckoned with in this game. My skills continued to sharpen, and with that came the respect of the regulars. I wasn’t just the guy who ran the place—I was becoming someone who could compete with the best. People started coming in, not just to play but to watch me play. They’d whisper to each other about the kid who could spot 45 balls in a 50-point game of straight pool and still win. I didn’t let it go to my head, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to have that kind of respect.
But with respect came expectations. I had to be on my game all the time, both literally and figuratively. Running the hall meant managing people, keeping the peace, and making sure everything ran smoothly. There were moments when tensions would run high, especially when money was on the line. But I learned how to navigate those situations with diplomacy, always keeping a level head.
Running the cash register also came with learning the business side of things. Ralph gave me more insight into how the pool hall operated—how to balance the books, manage costs, and deal with suppliers. This was my first real introduction to the mechanics of running a business, and I soaked up everything Ralph had to teach me. He wasn’t just running a pool hall; he was running a business, and he made sure I understood that there was more to it than just watching the games.For a teenager, managing the place was an education. I was learning how to be responsible, how to manage people who were twice or three times my age, and how to handle situations that required maturity beyond my years. But even with all this responsibility, I never lost sight of why I loved Baldwin Billiards in the first place. It was about the game. The art of pool had become a part of me, and I was determined tomaster it.

By the time I was 16, my reputation had solidified. I wasn’t just another kid hanging around Baldwin Billiards—I was a force to be reckoned with. The regulars respected me, not just for my skills on the table but for the way I handled myself. I wasn’t cocky, but I knew I had something special.
One of the things that set me apart was my ability to spot people an almost ridiculous number of balls and still win. In a 50-point game, I’d spot my opponents 45 balls. That kind of handicap was unheard of, but I pulled it off time and time again. It became my calling card, the thing that made people sit up and take notice.
Of course, not everyone was thrilled about my success. There were always whispers, rumors that I was too young to be that good, that maybe I was getting lucky. But anyone who played against me knew better. It wasn’t luck—it was hours and hours of practice, of learning from the best, of honing my craft. Peter Oliver used to take me by car to Queens, to the Golden Cue and set up games for me to hustle pool. No one believed a 14-year-old kid could be so good, but I was making money, playing against grown men who underestimated me at their own peril.
School, on the other hand, was a different story. As my time at the pool hall increased, my interest in school waned. The structure of school felt suffocating compared to the freedom I found at Baldwin Billiards. Sitting in a classroom, listening to teachers drone on about subjects I didn’t care about, felt like a waste of time. I knew where my future was—in the world of pool, not in a classroom.
Dropping out wasn’t an easy decision. There was a certain stigma attached to it, a sense of failure. But the pool hall became my refuge, my sanctuary. No one there cared about diplomas or grades. They cared about skill, about hard work, about character. And those were the things I had in spades.

One of the most important relationships I formed during my time at Baldwin Billiards was with Ralph, the owner. Ralph wasn’t just a boss—he was a mentor, a father figure, someone who saw potential in me when others didn’t. He took me under his wing, not just teaching me about the game but about life.
Ralph’s influence on me was profound. He wasn’t the kind of man who would sit you down and give you a lecture—his lessons came through actions, through the way he ran the hall, the way he treated people and how people treated him. He taught me the value of hard work, of integrity, of standing up for myself. And when my relationship with my biological father fell apart, Ralph stepped in.
It wasn’t long before Ralph made it official—he adopted me as his own. My mother was perfectly fine with it, relieved even that I had found someone who could provide the guidance I needed. Ralph became the father I never had, and Baldwin Billiards became my home in more ways than one.
But the joy of being part of Ralph’s family was short-lived. When I was 17, Ralph passed away. It was a blow I wasn’t prepared for. Losing him was like losing the foundation of my world. I still remember going to his funeral, standing by his grave, feeling the weight of his absence. But Ralph had left me with something priceless—his lessons, his guidance, and the belief that I could make something of myself. His death was a turning point. I had to grow up quickly, and I had to figure out what came next.