I attended a memorial service for Loleen Ballinger this past weekend.

Loleen was someone I met through pool. She was on the first league team I played in, and the last, and most of the teams in between. From the first day I knew her, I understood she had breathing issues as she was irritated no end by the smokers standing just outside the entrance to the hall, and their smoke getting magically sucked back into the building to gather in an ironic, choking cloud around her head. On that first day I also found her to be welcoming, generous, and serious about her game.

Time went on. We ended up playing mostly on APA teams together, though our first team had been an all-conquering VNEA team that won the league and a nice stack of cash that session. We would chat about the game, about inevitable league drama and personalities, which she would ruefully smile about with a shrug and a tilt of her head, and we’d move on. She had hard earned wisdom about life, and she shared it in short words and phrases. I could talk for days around something. Loleen did not have that luxury, so it made her more efficient, whilst still remaining nuanced in her advice and observations. The choice of smile, eyebrow lift and turn of head often spoke volumes.

I grew to trust Loleen as a player. League is a team game, and everyone contributes to success and shares in defeat, but Loleen was a solid anchor in the team, someone I could rely on to deliver more often than not, which meant that if I held down my end and she also did, then generally we only needed one more win from our other three matches to secure the win that week. Though more skilled superficially, and I did help her with some aspects of her game in terms of little techniques here and there, and some shot selection habits, I also learned from her.

She bore down. She did not yield a game. She played tough, and win or lose she was gracious. She might mutter something to me as she took her chair after it was over, pleased or pissed, but either way she moved on quickly, and never betrayed her emotions to watching eyes.

I was not like that, at first. I was streaky, and got in my own head, flamed out in matches when a cool temperament would have given me opportunities to prevail. I was not like Loleen, but her example was always there. One time, after I totally choked away a really important match at a mini-cities event (if you know you know, if you don’t, it doesn’t matter), I swore I would never let myself and more importantly, my team mates down again. I was shamed by my failure. Loleen did not blame me, we still won some money, and had a good tournament.

But I resolved to never let that happen again. I learned from Loleen’s example, and tried to bear down on every shot, to see each rack as a reset and play each one individually. I can honestly say I never flamed out again. I still lost, but I never let my emotions so obviously hand a match to an opponent again. It made me a far better player. Thanks Loleen.

She was my doubles partner in a few tournaments. We should have practiced, but she didn’t have time for that, too busy playing league! We did okay, won more matches than we lost, but I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain enough as the high handicap player, and either botched safeties, or left her in thankless positions too often when it was my job to do the exact opposite. She would shrug, tilt her head and smile, then get to business: focus, and shoot.

Over the years I watched Lola (her other name) go from inhalers, to oxygen between visits to the table, to oxygen at the table when playing. She just got on with it, no fussing. In my other life I’m a nurse, and I know the arc of the COPD story. So did Loleen, and she quietly fought it every step of the way. Some places, like that first bar with the smokers, she stopped going to, preferring better ventilated halls.

Then her apartment block burned down. She suffered smoke inhalation, I believe got helped out, maybe carried out by the fire service. I remember thinking she might be screwed by that, too much extra damage to an already weakened system.

She got a new place. Managed to get a new car, and a new oxygen concentrator. She continued to research and try both traditional and alternative therapies, anything to give her an edge on the disease, just another opponent at the table of life. Incredibly she carried on, and outwardly seemed like the fire hadn’t affected her. Years went by.

Loleen demonstrated strength, and the ability to endure constantly. She wasn’t short of physical and emotional challenges in life. She sought assistance where available and used it, managed as best she could when resources were not there. In conversation she was honest about her challenges, her tone measured. She supported others, derived joy from her massage business, always ready to bring her table round to help someone unwind the kinks. I was way too Scottish to let her inside my bubble of personal space!

She did so well at compensating, at carrying on in the face of adversity, at supporting others that it seemed like she would continue forever, but COPD is a relentless opponent. In the end it may have had its way, but it never robbed Loleen of her dignity, or stripped her of her strength.

After her memorial service I visited the pool hall where we spent so many hours together, and drank a Jameson in her honor. “Here’s tae us!” Then I went home, cleaned up my table, and played imaginary scotch doubles with her as my invisible partner.  First rack: we ran out, I set her up for an easy black. I needed to do that more a bit sooner, dammit!

So: here’s to Loleen, a good woman with whom I shared laughs, advice, and competition, a player I trusted, a person I admired. Too soon, but she was with us far longer than she could have been, and that’s a blessing, and a testament to her character. Time to rack up and play the ghost: I reckon she’ll let me win a few, if I play like I mean it.