Skinny On Minnesota Fats Legendary Pool Shark Had Compassionate Side

He had touch. Oh, how he had touch. With those chubby little fingers he could make a pool stick sing like a Stradivarius.

And he was light and quick on his feet, too. Especially for a fat man. At his heaviest, he was 300 pounds. But he moved around the table the way Ali used to dance around the ring.

Like most athletes of singular skill, he saw the game three plays ahead of everyone else.

His full name was Rudolf Walter Wanderone Jr., a k a Fats, and his sport was pool - straight or 8-ball, rotation or 9-ball, one-pocket or billiards, it didn’t really matter all that much - and on the face of it to refer to him as an athlete seems to be gross mislabeling.

But his hand-eye coordination was superb and he had Joe Montana’s touch and he could make the ball dance the way Magic Johnson used to, and he could go 48 hours straight if that’s what it took to empty your wallet, and he would chatter all the time, mostly about how good you were, too bad you weren’t in his class. Indeed, he was almost as good as he proclaimed himself to be.

In many ways, the man known as Minnesota Fats was the precursor of today’s athlete, a self-promoter and a blowhard. He could be beaten in a match, and frequently was, but by the time he finished talking he’d have you swearing that he’d won.

The difference is, Fats never stiffed an autograph seeker, never refused an interview request, was never mean-spirited, always let the loser walk away with carfare, always left him with his dignity. Mostly, he was harmless.

Fats died Thursday, one day shy of his 83d birthday. Or was it his 95th? Originally he claimed to have been born in 1900. Later, though, he said it was actually 1913. As with most things with Fats, fact and fiction seemed to forever intertwine. The line that separated reality from legend always was kept blurred. Purposely, of course.

He said three ships sank while he was on them.

He said he had been around the world six times.

He said he could speak five languages.

He said a lot of things about himself, and initially I was prepared to dislike him. But when I first met him, 30 years ago in Johnston City, Ill., he reeled me in, too.

“I’m the world’s greatest talker,” he said. “Even Ali bows to me.”

Highly doubtful. But even if you told him you thought it was highly doubtful, he wouldn’t take offense.

The best shooter I ever saw was Willie Mosconi. He might go all night and not miss. Willie and Fats played each other a lot, and most times Willie beat Fats like a drum. In later years, their matches would be on TV, often on “Wide World of Sports,” and Fats would yap away nonstop while Willie, the dour precisionist, would silently run the table.

That night, people would talk about how they’d seen Minnesota Fats on TV. Yeah, you’d say, and Mosconi creamed him. Really? Never noticed. Such was Fats’ persuasive sway.

He cashed in big after the brilliant movie “The Hustler” came out. Jackie Gleason was Minnesota Fats and Paul Newman was Fast Eddie, and Rudolf Wanderone, the consummate hustler, knew an opening when he spotted one. He claimed the movie and the book were based on his life. The author denied it. No matter. Fats seized on his borrowed fame and made it work for him all the way to the end.

Pool had a smoky reputation. In the words of “The Music Man”: “You got trouble right here in River City, friends, and that starts with a T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool.” But Fats brought redeeming charm to the sport and spiffed up its scruffy image.

He neither smoke nor drank. His weakness was anything sweet, but especially ice cream. He was never without a slim silver case. But it didn’t hold cigarettes, it held a stamper with his signature. His name clean and clear.

“When you get older, sometimes you get the shakes,” he explained. “This way, everyone who gets my autograph won’t have to tell people who it is.”

A small, forgivable vanity.

The best thing Fats ever passed along was his secret to education: “You don’t learn from smart people, you learn from idiots. Watch what they do, and then don’t do it.”

As simple as the eight ball, side pocket.