Guile, menace and ruthlessness were always thought to be the hallmarks of pool hustlers, occupational requirements for a dark art. But then came Danny Basavich, who applied some reverse English to the archetype and took a different angle.
Doing business as “Kid Delicious” starting in the early 1990s, he killed with kindness, leaning into both the table and his weight … and leaving the joint as the rare pool hustler who made money and friends in equal measure.
There is, of course, no official stats bureau or reliable metrics for pool hustling. But Kid Delicious, who died Wednesday at age 44, was by any measure among the most successful pool hustlers in pool’s flavorful history. He made hundreds of thousands of dollars lining up action and then winning.
Kid Delicious’s go-to move was to muss his hair, slather cake on his untucked sweatshirt and slouch into a pool hall near his home in central New Jersey. Then, he’d start banging balls with the local shortstops, Jersey Shore greasers and Rutgers frat boys. When they finished snickering at the slob with the funny voice, he would challenge them to a game. He’d lose, all the while engaging them in small talk and cracking jokes, often at his expense.
Then he’d ask for another game, raising the bet. And eventually, when the stack of bills of the table got sufficiently fat, he would reveal his skills. Kid Delicious didn’t look the part, but make no mistake—here was an elite athlete, endowed with poise, touch, hand-eye coordination and a world-class ability to pot balls in any of the six pockets coupled with masterful cue ball control.
Clay Patrick McBride/Sports Illustrated
In time, the 5'9"or so pool savant, weighing north of 300 pounds and cracking jokes while running racks became a known quantity in New Jersey. He tried disguises. He tried dying his hair. But there were only so many pool players matching his description with an ability to go hours without missing.
So Kid Delicious did what so many skilled players did at the time. He became a road man. For the better part of a decade, he caromed across the country, slinking into town talking up a storm, and inevitably leaving the joint a few hundred bucks to the good, be it at an underground hall in Hattiesburg, Miss., or a joint favored by Philly mobsters right off the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge.
Personal backstory: In 2004, Grand Central Station was the site of a pool exhibition, and I caught wind of a “personable hustler” with the irresistible nickname “Kid Delicious.” My story meter beeped. I tracked him down. A few days later we were eating sushi—Danny’s favorite meal and the repository for much of his winnings at the table—in Lower Manhattan. He regaled me (and then the people at the next table) with his road stories, all delivered in a Wolfman Jack voice and punctuated by a laugh, often at his own expense, that originated deep in his gut.
“No matter where we were … people couldn’t get enough of Danny,” his longtime road partner, “Bristol Bob” Begey, once told me. “Me? They would want to fight. Him? They wanted to be his friend.”
The resulting story ran in Sports Illustrated on Feb. 14, 2005. Even at 5,000 or so words, there were dozens of anecdotes left on the floor. So, with Kid Delicious’s blessing, I wrote a book on his hustling exploits. Though “wrote” is overstating it. I essentially let Kid Delicious tell his tales, his ability to recall detail as extraordinary as his ability to pot pool balls. I tried to verify his accounts—to an alarming degree, even the players he vanquished were able to corroborate that, yes, he had beaten them out of $500 … and then treated them to dinner. I put the stories into something resembling a structure, and presto. Even the marketing—often the most unpleasant of the book process—was a joy. Danny was as charming and game on the publicity circuit as he was during his pool hustler heyday. Here he is, winning over Bill Weir on ABC’s Nightline.
Clay Patrick McBride/Sports Illustrated
Like most pool players, Kid Delicious and his money didn’t always get along. Even when he was winning, the cash didn’t tend to stick around. And, in around 2005, he came clean, as it were, and tried to play on a fledgling professional pool circuit. He did well at first, confirming that his pool chops were world-class. But in a classic case of the hustlers getting hustled, the tour was run by Kevin Trudeau, a convicted fraudster, who made his money in telemarketing. Within a year, the pool tour went bust, many players were left unpaid and—hastened by the internet—they could longer slink around the country incognito.
Kid Delicious spent the last decade in New Jersey, unable to replicate the thrill of the road. But as he gave pool lessons, told his stories and met strangers, he projected the same charm. He is survived by his longtime partner Danielle Graziano, son Anthony, parents Dave and Doris, and innumerable opponents who handed him their money. And nevertheless fell into his thrall.
Eight ball, corner pocket. RIP, Kid.
