Every so often, an event transpires in the world of sports so transcendent that it alters the very fabric that weaves our perceptions and our realities. Jackie Robinson's heroic charge across baseball's color barrier, Muhammad Ali's "Thrilla in Manilla," anything Mike Tyson has done or said since 1988, Lance Armstrong's almost otherworldly performance in the face of anonymity, doubt, cancer, and cheating allegations. This article will address one such event that may have slid under the mainstream's radar ... the phenomenon they call "all in."
Used to be, the phrase "all in" was a seldom-stated pronouncement of one's commitment to a relationship ("Baby, I'm all into you!") or an answer to a question a husband might ask his wife ("Where are the kids?"; "They are all in here."). If you're from across the pond, to be "all in" simply means that you're spent, tired and weak from a long day of work or play. Separately, the phrase is nothing more than a combination of monosyllabic noun and adverb. But when applied under the perfect conditions and in the ideal scenario, this little grammatically-flawed phrase holds more power than the layperson can fathom.
I am, of course, referring to the term popularized in the very recent past by the likes of "Jesus" Ferguson, Phil Hellmuth, and any movie or television personality that can be gotten on Celebrity Poker Showdown. The television age has opened the public's eyes to a craft perfected by such pioneers as "Amarillo Slim," Puggy Pearson, and "Treetop" Straus.
A whole new breed of athlete, having honed his or her skill in the smoke-filled back rooms of warehouses, dank groggeries, and cabarets, has emerged, packing a wallet full of money, a pocket full of lucky charms, and a truckload of lies, tricks, and dreams. These are the often portly and somewhat slovenly athletes of the game called Texas Hold 'Em and they've become every bit as large a part of our sporting world as the chiseled leapers of the NBA, the swollen goliaths of the NFL, and crafty batsmen of the MLB.
What does this magic phrase really mean, you ask? Well, that's quite simple ... to go "all in" is, as it is known in popular culture these days, to wager all funds available in any given table game with the obvious intent of winning you're opponent(s) monies, generally in a tournament forum. More succinctly put, it is to put all your faith in one glorious hand and bet all your money. As alluded to earlier, the term has wormed its way into the pop culture lexicon through hours of cable television poker exposure and weekend card games with your buddies.
Never before has Johnny Average, sitting in his favorite La-Z-Boy, been able to feel so close to a professional athlete. Suddenly, his two pack-a-day smoking habit and fast-food-crafted abs don't stand in the way of a lucrative sponsorship on an ESPN network. Now I know, there is always the question of whether or not you can call poker a "sport," but if bass fishing, auto racing, and curling are sports, well, friends, so is poker.
That being said, it is unique to the sporting world in at least one regard, and that is it gives the aforementioned Mr. Average a chance to win (or, unfortunately, to lose) like the pro athletes he's longed to be like. (Just one quick aside here ... I can't help but notice the irony of the pro sports fan. We long to be on par with these incredible athletes, all the while eating ourselves out of shape and lounging around like hibernating bears ... the longer we watch in awe, the less chance we have of being like them. It's quite a bizarre human trait. Fortunately, this "poker as a sport" argument helps heal those wounds, but I digress...)
Like a right hook from Ali or a Superfly Snooka dive from the top ropes (dating myself a bit there with that vague WWF reference, but you get the point), "all in" is one of the all time power moves in sport. Unlike a 500-foot Sammy Sosa homerun or two-handed Tracy McGrady windmill dunk, though, this power move is one that can be repeated by even the novice pseudo-athlete. This latter fact is the difference-maker, the part that endears it to you and to me and to Johnny Average alike.
Never before has two simple worlds had the ability to turn the sporting community on its collective head. Admit it, you'd switch from a Colts/Patriots playoff football game, if even just for a minute, to watch a 350-lb. man wearing plastic dime-store lizard glasses push his stack of chips into the middle one time with pocket aces, regardless of what quarter it was, what the score was, or who had the ball and where. Reread that last sentence one more time for effect and truly think about its content. Now tell me this, wouldn't you call that a revolution?
I know I would.
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