In Praise of His Rumpus Room

I call it his because I see him in it, trying out his games. He painted curling rings on the tile floor, 4 feet in diameter, for a set of hard-plastic rocks filled with sand--1/4 the volume and weight of real rocks--mounted on bearings. They'd slide; I don't remember much curl.
The 4x8 table brought pals over, his and mine. He rigged up a rod strung with wooden disks you moved with your cue to keep score. For snooker. And he loved billiards, eight ball, any game he learned. You could beat him, but you could lose.
The frame of the door leading to the laundry room and deepfreeze--and the darker corner where he shone his shoes, and the cold room where she kept her jars--jutted to within two feet of the pool table. He built a stubby cue, tip made from hockey puck. You'd have to hunch over, do your best.
The pool table, a rocking chair, couch and tv, and his piano at the far end. I call it his piano because he's the one who stood there, tapping on the bench as you played, reading the notes the teacher left in your book.