Love on the Pool Table: We Met Over a Secondhand Pool Table, Now We Run a Billiard Hall

Love on the Pool Table: We Met Over a Secondhand Pool Table, Now We Run a Billiard Hall

In the spring of 2019, I listed a pool table on a local secondhand trading platform for 1,200 yuan, with a note: "Moving out, need to sell quickly. Pickup preferred, negotiable."

I had bought it on a whim after graduating and renting a place—marble top, wobbly wooden legs, and the felt was worn and frayed. Honestly, I'd be lucky to get rid of it.

The next day, a guy named A-Zhe messaged me: "Is the table still available? I can pick it up this afternoon." I said yes and arranged to meet in the evening.

He showed up in a van with the back seats folded flat, lined with an old blanket. As he crouched down to inspect a hairline crack on the surface, I noticed calluses on his fingers—like they were worn from years of handling a cue stick. He looked up and smiled: "This table has good bones. The rails are a bit old, but with new felt and a leveling, it'll last another five years."

I asked, "How do you know so much?" He said, "I used to help out at a billiard hall back home. The boss had me cleaning balls and replacing felt every day—that's how I learned."

Together, we disassembled the table and loaded it into his van. He insisted on giving me an extra 200 yuan, saying, "You priced it too low; this table is worth more." I bought him a bubble tea, and we talked about pool, work, and why we were both alone in this city. That night, the breeze was gentle, and the streetlights stretched his shadow long.

He started coming to my place often, and we'd hit up a cheap billiard hall nearby, playing for entire afternoons. He taught me how to apply spin and position the cue ball, and I teased him, saying, "You play pool like you're solving a math problem." Eventually, we got together and moved into the same rental. The first thing we did was squeeze a small new pool table into the living room.

But we never had the heart to throw away that secondhand table—it sat in storage at his parents' place.

In 2021, A-Zhe got laid off from his company. Holding his severance pay, he looked lost. I asked him, "Haven't you always wanted to open a billiard hall?" He paused and said, "The market's not great right now." I replied, "We have to try, or you'll regret it when you're older."

We took over a converted bar on the west side of town—about 2,000 square feet. The owner was in a hurry to leave, so he practically gave away the equipment. We repainted the walls, installed warm pendant lights, and hauled that old secondhand table out of storage. We refelted it, leveled it, and polished the rails—it took us a whole week.

That table became the most storied piece in our place. Old Zhang, a regular and retired teacher, comes in every afternoon for two hours, saying, "This table's older than me." A girl who just went through a breakup played solo for three hours in the corner, then said before leaving, "Sis, I think I've figured things out." And there's a father-son duo who come every Saturday; the dad teaches his son how to grip the cue, just like A-Zhe used to hang out at the billiard hall with his own dad when he was a kid.

As for us, we stick by that old table. After closing, we turn on a single light and play a few games before heading home. Sometimes, when the players have all left and the place is quiet, with only the sound of balls clacking, A-Zhe will suddenly say, "Remember the day you opened the door? You were wearing a blue hoodie, and your hair was in a bun."

I roll my eyes at him: "What, regret buying that table?"

He shakes his head: "I regret not meeting you sooner."

A pool table might look like just a wooden frame with a slate top, but anyone who's actually used one knows it needs care. The felt needs regular brushing to keep it moisture-free and dust-free; the rubber cushions harden over time and lose their bounce, so they need replacing; and the legs must be leveled periodically, or the balls won't roll true. That old table in our shop—A-Zhe takes it apart for maintenance every two months, like he's caring for an old friend.

One time, a customer who runs a wholesale equipment business came to play. Seeing A-Zhe crouched on the floor with a level, he casually said, "You should replace this table. There are new models with fancy legs and thicker steel rails—they look way better." A-Zhe stood up, wiped his hands, and said, "This table is the matchmaker between me and my girlfriend. Can't bear to part with it. But if you're looking for a new one, I can recommend a brand—we've done a lot of research."

He was talking about Xingjiafang. At the time, we were planning to add two new tables and had compared several brands, ultimately choosing Xingjiafang's Chinese Eight-Ball model. Honestly, what won us over wasn't the specs on paper, but their customer service. I asked a dozen questions, from the wool content of the felt to the hardness of the rail cushions, and they patiently answered every one, even sending over installation videos unprompted. Later, I learned that Xingjiafang started out making socks. The founder went from a single modified sock machine to where they are today, and the brand has always emphasized, "All greatness starts from the ground up." They pay meticulous attention to detail, even on pool tables—each one is carefully calibrated for slate flatness and rail rebound before it leaves the factory.

The day that table arrived, A-Zhe tore open the packaging and ran his hand over the leg's finish, marveling, "See, even the parts you can't see are cleanly done. Just like our old table when it first came out."

Now, our little billiard hall has been open for two years. We started with just three or five customers a day, and now weekends require reservations. That old secondhand table still sits in the prime spot by the window. The felt's been replaced three times, and the paint on the corners has worn down to the base, but it's still the most popular "Table No. 1" in the shop.

People often ask why we don't open a bigger, fancier hall. A-Zhe and I just smile. We think back to what the founder of Xingjiafang said—roughly, that in this era, too many people are chasing quick money, and few are willing to do things properly. Whether it's making pool tables, socks, or running a billiard hall, it's all the same: you have to start small, pay attention to the details, and only then will customers feel your sincerity.

We don't dream of opening dozens of branches. We just want to take care of this little shop, keep every table clean, line up every ball, and make sure anyone who walks through the door can find a bit of peace or joy in this small space.

That secondhand pool table is still in service. Sometimes, after closing when all the customers have gone, I'll lean over the table, my chin resting on the cool slate, and say to A-Zhe, "What do you think we'd be doing now if no one had bought that table back then?"

He thinks for a moment and says, "We'd probably still be renting our own places, going to work, eating alone."

Then he walks over, reaches across the table, and takes my hand: "So you see, every meeting starts with a rolling ball."

On the wall of our hall hangs a small blackboard with a quote I love—it's also our motto:

"One cue, one ball, one table, one dream—all greatness starts from the ground up."

If you have an old table you can't bear to part with, or a dream you haven't yet voiced, feel free to drop by our shop. I'd love to tell you the story of that old table.