For decades, Shaw was a stable working- and middle-class area, home to a hopping collection of jazz clubs along U Street. After the 1968 riots, many residents migrated to the suburbs, leaving behind housing that steadily deteriorated. Now, like many areas in the District, Shaw is flourishing, sometimes at the expense of small, neighborhood institutions. On Westminster Street, around the corner from the club, condominiums are selling for $799,000.
The club's members find the changes almost unfathomable. "All the houses were finished -- you couldn't walk in any of them," said Robert "Rabbit" Findley, shaking his head. "Those houses are in the big thousands now."
Tal Roberts, left, president of the Capitol Pool Checkers Association, and Jeff Thompson joke at their clubhouse on S Street NW, in Shaw.
(Marvin Joseph -- The Washington Post)
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And they are in stark contrast to the club, which is furnished with tables that Hill assembled at home from planks of wood. He made the checkerboards as well. On a table in the back, there's a coffeepot and a microwave, and a shelf holds a small selection of books, including three Bibles, "The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose of John Donne" and "Operative Surgeries of the Nose, Throat and Ear." None appears overused.
The club's bylaws, typed on yellowing paper and tacked to a bulletin board, forbid gambling, profanity, smoking and drinking -- regulations that are flouted as soon as members arrive. "That's what rules are for," said Tal "the Razor" Roberts, 74, a former Paine Webber stockbroker and the club's president, chuckling between swigs of beer.
On a Saturday afternoon, more than a dozen men filed into the club, where Donald "Pressureman" Cunningham, 58, an all-purpose handyman, and Tony "the Hammer" Simuel, 52, a postal clerk, were engaged in a grudge match, as the hand-scrawled sign on the wall advertised.
Taking a break from his own match, Findley, 69, retreated to the rear for a smoke. As a young man, he recalled, he quit working because he could earn more playing checkers.
"I'd play a game or two and let them win," he said, wearing thick glasses, a baseball cap and a flannel shirt buttoned to the top. "Then when the money got bigger -- $10 or $20 -- I'd let them almost win. In a day, I'd make $50."
"Eventually they quit playing me," he said, cackling, "and I had to go back to work."
Since retiring as a parking attendant two years ago, he spends most of his evenings at the club, which is always open because each member has a key. They look out for each other. When a member was hospitalized for diabetes, they raised money for his mortgage; when another went to prison for insurance fraud, they collected so his kids could get haircuts.
For the past couple of months, they have allowed William "Hitman" Howard, 52, to sleep over while he tries to find a job and a place to live. His bed is a couple of chairs and a blanket. "It's better than hanging in the street," he said.
He has company on many nights until 2 or 3 a.m. and even later, much to the chagrin of some spouses. Spencer "Chicago" Taylor, 76, recalls looking up from his game once to find his wife hovering over him. She tipped over the board, grabbed his glasses and walked out. He followed. "She was young -- she didn't know any better," said Taylor, a member of the prominent gospel group the Highway QC's.
The block, they said, is safer these days than when the robbers broke in. Now their greatest fear is losing members and being priced out of a rapidly changing neighborhood.
Their landlord said she has no plans to sell the property or raise the club's $500-a-month rent, but members worry that they will not be able to meet their expenses. Since September, the club has canceled monthly meetings because it couldn't get a quorum. Roberts said he is planning to let members know that they had better show up "if you want this thing to survive."
Inevitably, such talk and concerns fade as the men focus on checkers. As the afternoon light faded, Tony the Hammer took his seventh straight game from Pressureman.
"I can't beat him. I just can't beat him," Pressureman said. But he was still trying. The night was young.
