This year has been a bad year for pool tables I have known. Earlier in the spring, I got an alarming text message from my mother at 8:26am that read “The clubhouse burned down last nite.” I was devastated. She was referring to a community building that served as a meeting place at the yacht club my parents have belonged to since before I was born. It was where they met, it was where they had their wedding reception, it was where I had my first kiss and my first stolen sip of beer.  But most importantly, that clubhouse was where I learned to play pool on idle summer weekends as a kid.