By Bob Krauss
Advertiser Columnist

To fully appreciate Masato "Manoa" Taira, keep in mind that he plays three-cushion billiards, not pocket pool. Anybody can shoot a pool ball into a pocket. Three-cushion billiards requires the finesse of a Ph.D. in calculus.

Disregard his 90 years and the fact that his dentures are a little loose. Pay close attention to the way he poses like a ballet dancer under the soft light of a pool table in Hawaiian Brian's Billiard Palace on Kapi'olani Boulevard, how delicately he aims his cue.

So what if his wife thinks he spends too much time in the pool hall? She's stuck by him for 60 years, hasn't she? During the bus strike, he walked all the way from Punchbowl seven days a week just to politely ask, "Got game?" That's the way pool players in Our Honolulu throw down the gauntlet.

"In his day, Manoa was one of the best three-cushion billiard players on the island," testified Richard Akimoto, owner of Hawaiian Brian's. "I know him from Diamond Cue on Kalakaua Avenue."

Of course, Manoa goes back further than that. He learned the game at age 14 in an open-air pool hall in 'A'ala. The other players couldn't remember his name, only that he lived in Manoa. So that's what they called him.

"He knew all the great ones during the golden years — Kauai Lee, Joe Quixote (no relation to Don) and his brother," said Akimoto. "Manoa played with them all."

Manoa agreed that another pool hall legend was Bo Belinsky, the charismatic pitcher for the Hawaii Islanders during the 1960s. He often came to the pool hall with a beautiful woman on his arm.

"Once he brought Mamie Van Doren,"Akimoto recalled reverently. "That was a beautiful woman. Bo played Black Quixote that time. Every time Mamie crossed her legs, Black missed a shot."

Manoa's wife really doesn't have to worry about him getting into trouble at Hawaiian Brian's. Pool halls have come a long way since the open-air days when loungers watched from the sidewalk and bet on the players.

There's not a drop of liquor on the premises at Hawaiian Brian's. "Pool and alcohol don't mix," Manoa explained. Half of the huge room is devoted to innocent neon lights, penny arcade prizes and hurdy-gurdy music. High school band members come for pool parties. They feast on pizza at the lunch counter.

The other half is a dim cathedral where 39 green-robed pool tables await the faithful, each table under a soft glow like an altar. Here only the click of billiard balls disturbs the silence as the players perform their devotions like monks clicking their rosaries.

Manoa says pool is a competitive game. He remembers years ago when a kid named Jay Zablan tried to hustle him. Zablan is now manager of the billiard palace. Today young hotshots still come up to Manoa and say, "Got game?" The price of their education is the change in their pockets.

Reach Bob Krauss at 525-8073.