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MANILA IS HUMID. A pungent, fruity odor works its way into the pool hall from a canal beyond the door. A man in a sweat-stained dress shirt breaks a 9-ball rack, and a cracking sound filters through the room. As the balls come to rest, so does their clatter, and in a far corner of the parlor, the best player in the world silently levels his stick above the green felt. He shoots. And he misses. The few fans around the table trade looks with one another. This isn't what they expect. They want to see a little magic -- a trick shot or an inventive technique or a subtle ploy that reveals why Dennis Orcollo is the best there is.

Orcollo, 33, doesn't look like anything special. He's 5'5' and would weigh less than his 150 pounds if not for the small belly punctuating his thin frame. You would not pick Orcollo out of the crowds of Filipinos in the pool halls that are as characteristic of this country as the jeepneys that ferry passengers through the crowded streets. His appearance is well-suited to a game in which the goal is not to win a few racks but to be underestimated -- and thus take the money your overconfident opponent has wagered on the match.

Orcollo has won so many money matches over the years that he is forced into long stretches of solitude, like this one at Star Billiards Center, where he is practicing. No one underestimates him or plays him for money anymore. Not on equal terms, not without asking him to spot several games or a few balls -- carrying 'weight,' as it's called. The skill that lifted Orcollo from poverty to upper-middle class is decreasingly applicable these days.

We analysed 172+ games to win free money online in 2020 and selected the best ones Play Real Money Slots No Deposit Needed Play real money games! 2021 WSOP Online. The money got so big - with matches up to $60,000, often taking place at Pacquiao's high-end Asia Poker Sports Club - that Pacquiao and Orcollo became the biggest game in town. 'I made a lot of.

Seclusion is the penalty for being the money-game king of the Philippines, which has become the international center of pool. Playing the game, and betting on it, is the national passion. Even Manny Pacquiao, boxing's welterweight champ, has been a regular in the action.

Orcollo attempts several more shots, the balls still refusing to drop. He isn't missing because he has lost his touch but rather for a reason that is nearly as unsettling: He needs a new cue stick. His favorite -- a $2,500 SouthWest weighing 19.5 ounces, which he used to win last year's player of the year award from the World Pool-Billiard Association -- warped in Manila's moist climate, and Orcollo sold it recently at a tournament in Kentucky. Now he is searching for one he can 'believe in.' The cue stick is the pool player's single article of equipment, the material link between him and the cue ball on the table. In a tight money game, in the final rounds of a tournament, when simple shots become difficult and the pool hall's heightened tension can feel as stifling as humidity, belief in the cue stick calms a nervous heart. 'If you don't have a good cue,' Orcollo says in his accented English, 'you can make a mistake.' It doesn't often happen that a top player abruptly loses a cue stick that has been kind to him. These searches last as long as it takes, making for a distressing period of uncertainty that has reduced great players to the crowded grouping of the simply good.

It's unfortunate for Orcollo that faith cannot be expedited. In one week, he travels to the United Arab Emirates, where he will defend his World 8-Ball Championship. Such tournaments now hold his only prospect for making a living. He must plan ahead and manage his money closely these days, much like he manages the scatter of balls on the table. Orcollo can't afford to miscalculate, for his wife and two small kids depend on his ability to make prize money last through the dry periods engendered by his success. Orcollo lives a tiresome paradox.

He steps away from the table, unscrews the cue. The fans press forward. Orcollo is a two-time Filipino athlete of the year. He is often on TV, and he signs autographs and smiles for cameras wherever he goes. But a pool player isn't supposed to smile at the table, particularly when he can't find a cue.

THERE WERE 1,000 pool halls in New York City around 1900, about four times the number of Starbucks today. When the Philippines became an overseas U.S. possession in 1898, the country became one of the first recipients of American cultural export. Pool especially seeped into local life after World War II, starting in the town of Angeles City, north of Manila, where bars and brothels materialized around nearby U.S. military bases. GIs spread their R & R dollars around the town's dusty streets, where playing a game of pool for money provided an escape from the periods of drudgery and danger that made up their lives.

For Efren Reyes and other locals who'd grown up near the GI pool halls and needed money, pool became the vocation of choice. They learned straight pool, one pocket and 9-ball; day and night, they studied stroke, draw and placement. They mastered the game's intricacies so well that when they began hustling GIs, it was hardly fair. The tables had turned so dramatically that by the 1980s, Reyes brought his game to the U.S. and hustled $80,000 in a week, according to popular legend. Word of his escapades filtered home, and Reyes, already considered a top-tier pool player, became a folk hero.

At the time, the Philippines was not known for much in the world besides the dictatorship of Ferdinand Marcos, and it was this environment into which Dennis Orcollo was born. Orcollo's father was a fisherman in the southern village of Mangagoy, but a typhoon claimed his life when the boy was just 5 years old. At 9, Orcollo dropped out of school to run racks on his grandfather's pool table, routinely beating grown men for 20 pesos a game. He was a pure shooter, cleanly sinking shots that others usually missed. At 15, Orcollo left Mangagoy -- despite pleas from his mother and grandfather, who wished he'd stay and become a fisherman -- to see how far this skill could take him.

The first step on his journey was a frontier gold town called Mount Diwalwal. It was a mean place. Men stole from one another and gunned one another down in the streets for the smallest of nuggets. Orcollo found little gold, selling the dust and flecks he panned from a river in exchange for time at the local pool hall. There he heard the tales of Reyes' successes abroad. His success reinforced Orcollo's dreams, so he left Mount Diwalwal -- but not before he spilled molten gold on his right hand, his stroke hand, the town leaving its permanent mark on him.

For the next two years, Orcollo bounced around, playing pool in the pockmarked and backroom pool halls scattered across the country like a solid 9-ball break. He often ate once a day, usually a handful of rice or a thin soup made from chicken bones scrounged from café trash bins. Bedding down in rusted auto frames abandoned on the side of the road, Orcollo would dream of Reyes -- the type of dramatic figure encountered only in fantasies. In the pool halls, Orcollo heard stories about Manila, about the big money in a place called Sunrise Billiards, about the action that paused only when it came time to spot the rack for a new set. Orcollo hopped a ferry, slept standing up for several days, crammed like a fish in the hold with a thousand other souls transiting between stages of desperation. He was 19 when he landed in Manila with 300 pesos -- about $7 -- in his pocket, and he walked straight to Sunrise Billiards.

Sunrise felt like home. In fact, it was home. It was open 24 hours a day, so