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So another one is gone.The news that Mika Immonen is dead at 52 feels… inevitable, I gues... So another one is gone.
The news that Mika Immonen is dead at 52 feels… inevitable, I guess. When someone announces they have Stage 4 cancer, you start the clock. We all do it, even if we don't say it out loud. You see the tributes roll in—"one of the greatest," "a true gentleman," "a warrior"—and you nod along because it's the script. It's what you're supposed to do. But I keep getting stuck on one thing.
Immonen himself called it "the greatest match of my life." And I get it. It’s a powerful metaphor. It’s what you say to rally the troops, to show you’re not backing down. But cancer ain't a game of 9-ball. There’s no strategy that guarantees a win. The table is always tilted, the pockets are smaller, and the cue ball has a mind of its own. Calling it a match implies you can lose. And nobody wants to say someone "lost" to cancer.
When "Control" Is Just a Bad Joke
The Iceman Melts
Let’s be real, the nickname was perfect. "The Iceman." It was more than just a marketing gimmick; it was an accurate description of the man at the table. Cold, focused, ruthlessly efficient. I’ve seen footage of him from the 2000s, when he was named Player of the Decade, and the guy was a machine. He had this stare that could burn a hole through the felt. He’d stalk the table, every movement precise, no wasted energy. He was the only Finn to ever win the World Nineball Championship, and he did it by being smarter, colder, and more relentless than everyone else.
So what happens when an Iceman gets a diagnosis that’s pure, chaotic fire?
The story of how he found out is just brutal. He’s in Japan for a tournament, in so much pain he has to go to the ER. Fellow pro Naoyuki Oi helps him out, which is a small piece of humanity in a garbage story. But he doesn't even get the final verdict there. He gets it in Costa Rica. Think about that for a second. You have to fly around the globe, from one country to another, just to have someone finally put a name to the thing that’s killing you. It reminds me of the time I had to visit three different specialists just to get a straight answer on my busted knee, and all I got was a shrug and a massive bill. The whole system is a joke.
This was a guy who won the US Open back-to-back. A guy who, according to one fan story I saw, got devistated by a loss at the World Championship one year and came back the next to win the whole damn thing. That’s control. That’s will. And then this thing comes along that doesn't care about your will. It doesn't care about your Hall of Fame ring or your 15 Mosconi Cup appearances. It just… is.
Whose Story Are We Really Telling?
The Difference Between a Statement and a Tribute
After the news broke, the official channels did what they always do. Matchroom Pool put out a statement calling him "one of the greatest to ever play the game." It’s a nice sentiment. It’s also corporate PR. It's the same template they’ll use for the next legend who passes.
The real stuff, the stuff that actually means something, came from the players. Ronnie O'Sullivan, a snooker god, called him "one of the greatest pool players of the generation." Carlo Biado, a killer on the table himself, just said, "Your legacy lives. No more pain." That hits different. There’s no corporate sign-off. It’s just raw. It's one pro who knows the grind recognizing another.
Immonen was a fighter. No, 'fighter' doesn't cover it—he was a goddamn surgeon at the table. A silent assassin. But the public narrative always demands a fight. He even came back in 2024 to play in the US Open, which is insane. He put out that quote, "There were some dark times but I feel like I never gave up. I always stayed in the fight."
And I guess that’s the part that gets me. We demand our heroes fight to the bitter end because it makes us feel better. It fits the story we want to tell ourselves about the human spirit. We want to believe that if you just have enough grit, you can beat anything. And when it doesn't work out, we just quietly change the subject. We talk about the legacy, the memories, the highlight reels...
Then again, maybe I’m the crazy one here. Maybe that narrative is the only thing that gets you through the day when you're staring down the barrel of your own mortality. Who am I to sit here and deconstruct the man's own words? He said he was in a fight, and he stayed in it. Period.
All the trophies and titles are one thing. Being named MVP of the Mosconi Cup is a hell of an achievement. But enduring what he endured, and still choosing to walk back into that arena and compete? That’s something else entirely. It’s a level of courage most of us will never have to understand, and I honestly hope we never do. The accolades are nice, but they're just footnotes to the real story of a guy who got dealt the worst possible hand and still tried to run the table. And for a while, he did.
Some Games You Just Can't Win
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