In all forms of activity there is a first class, and then there are a few men who stand above it in a class by themselves. Such a man was the late John Roberts. There have been other billiard players who have made higher -breaks, Peall with his 3,000 (or was it nine?) red winners off the spot, Gray with his miraculous but wearisome anchor stroke. But there has never been one who could touch Roberts in the grace, the attraction and the veritable artistic splendour which he lent the game. Most unfairly, billiards is too often associated (by those who know nothing about the game) with drinking, gambling and sharping. The fact that it calls forth the highest qualities of nerve, muscle and eye and that a professional, to succeed, must be as abstemious as a Marathon runner is conveniently ignored. It was said in yesterday's obituary that Roberts (and his father) really made the game. But he did something more. He ennobled it. In his hands it became an art and was invested with an atmosphere that was almost poetic. The man's own temperament and personality showed out in his ing" as surely as the personality of a great pianist or violinist is revealed in his music.
Like tae Growrs oF Liziss.
Here is a pen picture from a description of a match between Roberts and Stevenson in 1905:—"Roberts's play is like the G growth of lilies. It is so apparently unpremeditated, and so extraordinarily swift that before we have considered what we ourselves would do with any given stroke, Roberts has played it, and six beyond it.
"Sometimes the balls move quickly—a click, a flash of white plumb to the middle of the pocket, and the red ball twice down and up the table and back over the middle pocket. Sometimes they move slowly, such a crawling gait that one would never believe them capable of reaching the desired point. But in_ neither case is there any appreciable difference of effort. The cue is held right at the butt, the stroke is done entirely from the wrist—and the balls move with the docility of trained poodles. One particular shot there was which took the fancy of thie, whole room—when, in a fine canton, we all thought the player had missed his aim. Before the "Ah!? of sympathy was off our lips the white ball had crept to the cushion, and. by its tremendous side double ed back upon the red from above, like a skater performing a crosscut and the three balls lay to gether as in a basket."
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.