The Mother-of-Pearl Mirage

A beautiful old cue can fool you.

At first glance, you see the decoration.

Sharp points.

Colored veneers.

Mother-of-pearl.

Ivory.

A handsome wrap.

But the best custom cues were never merely pretty.

They were built around the idea that a player should eventually feel as though the cue belonged to his hand.

The Point of the Points

Traditional cue construction often featured sharp points of contrasting wood running into the forearm.

They were beautiful.

They were also evidence of craftsmanship.

Building those points required careful cutting, fitting and gluing. Different woods had to meet cleanly, with little room for error.

The decoration was therefore also a kind of signature.

A well-made cue announced the skill of the man who built it.

The Cue Maker's Work

Names such as Herman Rambow and Harvey Martin became associated with the American custom-cue tradition.

Their work belonged to a period when a cue could be treated less like a mass-produced sporting good and more like a personal tool.

The customer might care about the wood.

The weight.

The balance.

The shaft.

The taper.

The wrap.

And, of course, the appearance.

A custom cue was supposed to feel right before the first ball was ever struck.

Beauty Wasn't Always the Point

Players sometimes developed strong opinions about inlays and decoration.

One wanted simplicity.

Another wanted ivory.

Another wanted elaborate points.

Another wanted a cue that looked almost plain until you held it close.

There was no single definition of a beautiful cue.

That was part of the culture.

The cue was personal.

The Linen Wrap

Irish linen became a familiar material for cue handles because it offered a practical combination of grip, durability and feel.

It also gave the cue a distinctive appearance.

For a player who spent hours at the table, the wrap mattered.

A hand that could remain relaxed was a hand that could deliver a smoother stroke.

Again, the beautiful part and the useful part overlapped.

The Cue as a Signature

Eventually, players began to recognize cues almost as they recognized people.

You knew the look of a certain maker.

You knew who favored a particular style.

You might recognize a player's cue leaning against the wall before you saw the player himself.

That is what makes old custom cues so interesting today.

They were not simply equipment.

They were personal objects.

A good cue carried the taste of its owner and the workmanship of its maker.

The decoration caught your eye.

The craftsmanship earned your respect.

And somewhere underneath it all was the simple requirement that the thing had to play.