I write about poker in this space about, I don't know, once a year. And like with other competitions, I'm a better chronicler than participant. I love poker and I love playing, but my lifetime earnings are probably only a hair more than I have spent, I usually play without enough focus and discipline (online, that means watching a game and surfing the web while I play), and I don't study enough.
But I do play, and one of the things that appeals to me about the game is that it's relatively easy to rub elbows with some of the world's best. Daniel Negreanu, Barry Greenstein, and a legion of other top pros post at least occasionally on 2+2, the Internet's preeminent poker site. The first post I remember making there was first responded to by Jimmy Fricke, fresh off a 795K runner-up finish in the Aussie Millions main event.
Can you imagine LeBron James being a regular poster on some Cavs forum? I know that Curt Schilling has posted on the Red Sox's legendary Sons of Sam Horn message board, and I'm sure there are some other isolated examples, but not nearly to the extent that poker Gods will gladly consort with poker peons.
That accessibility works both ways, too ... you can play against 99% of today's poker pros if you pony up a tournament entry fee or a couple hundred blinds in cash games at a level that's, while not insignificant, is at least doable.
Hence, when the World Series of Poker Circuit rolled into Harrah's in Atlantic City two weeks ago, I plunked down enough ($230) to play in one of the events. The buy-in was small enough that I'm certain the Joes well outnumbered the Pros, but looking at the career winnings of players who cashed, I doubt it was an all-amateur event.
I was giddy enough to take pictures of the poker room, my seat assignment slip, and the World Series of Poker makeshift arch over one of the walkways. I'd played in a few Atlantic City tournaments before, but just chintzy casino-held ones ... this was the World Series of Poker circuit.
I don't remember as much as I thought I would remember. Sorry to trot out the cliche, but a lot of it was a blur.
I remember shockingly little about the other players. I saw a lot of the cliches — chatty. fun-loving, beer-drinking Asians a la Scotty Nguyen, gruff curmudgeons who seemed to not be having fun at all, and soooo many hotshot kids that, it seemed certain, were making big poker money online.
And a word about these kids ... I must be getting old because I'm really starting to hate their fashion sense. I'm speaking particularly about the way all of them wear their caps placed precariously on top of their heads at any angle, the bill not even slightly clipped down, and usually, for the fitted ones, the size sticker still affixed.
I mean it when I say all of them. This look isn't the exclusive province of one strata of the post-adolescent sphere. Black kids, white kids, loud kids, quiet kids, thoughtful kids, funny kids ... they were all wearing them that way. And that's why I say I'm getting old ... because it's no longer just a faction whose fashion I despise.
I remember far more about the dealers than the players. I can't put my finger on it, but I am fascinated by them in an anthropological sense. At least at this event, the dealers' contingent was ethically diverse enough to outshine the most ambitious model UN. To prevent collusion, the dealers switch off rapidly.
I started with Donald, a blonde twenty-something kid, very competent and a good one-liner reactive sense of humor. Then it was Reggie, perhaps my favorite dealer of the night. He really did look a tiny bit like Reggie Jackson, and he kept the table lively with his banter, calling out the action.
Then was Avraham, a red-headed, no-nonsense hulk whom you would expect to see working security. Renee was probably in her late-30s, seemed kind of trailer-parky, and was a terrrrible dealer — she made frequent hand-killing mistakes and at one point forgot to pick up my small blind on a pot another player won.
"Hey," I said, "you didn't pick up my blind."
She looked mortified by her own mistake. "I appreciate your honesty, sir."
That invoked a debate with half the table, some praising my actions and the good karma it should bring, others incredulous that I didn't take advantage of the mistake.
Then came Demetrios, my favorite dealer besides Reggie. I'm not even sure why, he was pretty quiet, but he had these half-closed eyes, a la "Sleepy" Floyd, that made hlm look high and made you want to get high with him (to be sure, he was very alert and competent).
Then I had more dealers — retirees, mostly, that I forget now, and second go-rounds with Donald, Reggie, Demetrios, and a young Asian lady with a strong accent whose long hair covered her name tag. Then an Asian male, Dung (laugh now, get it out of your system). By the time I got to Dung, I was very tired and making poker-etiquette mistakes that he had to endure/correct, or forgetting to put my blinds or antes in.
Finally came Juan, whom I'm guessing was Dominican because he sounded like Edward James Olmos, but looked like an older version of Isaac from "The Love Boat." He also suffered my errors, and less gladly than Dung.
As far as the cards go, I was luckier than I was skilled. I got pocket kings at least five times, and I just seemed to hit the flop when I really needed to, must memorably when I as the big blind with 33 got in a multiway flop that came down 443. I won a lot on that hand, but should have won more, because I apparently overreacted ... I hemmed and hawed and shook my head and carried on and then reluctantly called another player's turn bet. On the river, he checked, I waited awhile before making a bet, and he insta-folded.
"Man, that flop hit you HARD!" said a player next to me, not involved in the hand. "Look at you, going for the Academy Award."
That was sort of an ongoing theme with me throughout the night, predictability. I guess I was playing ABC, unimaginative poker. No less than four times, a player folded or called my bet while correctly verbalizing the hand I held. And, again, I was lucky. Twice I doubled up when someone made all-in bluffs when I held a monster.
At midnight, 13 hours hours after play began, I was seated at the final table, with comfier chairs and a beside a mini-grandstand of 10 seats. I was eighth out of those 10. When the short stack pushed all-in, I called with AK. He showed JJ, and I did not improve.
That made me the short stack, and with just four or five big blinds (and I would have been the big blind in the next hand). I shoved with A5. The chip leader re-raised all-in and got a caller. That caused quite a commotion as they both turned over KK. Hitting an ace would mean tripling up and put me in great shape. Alas, it did not occur and I went out in 10th. I filled out some paperwork and Juan escorted me downstairs to the cashier, which made me feel important.
Sucks, too, because the prize money tripled from 10th to ninth, and it's with nine left that the WSOP photographer and journalist arrived to start writing up the action.
Oh well. I can't complain on finishing 10th out of 521 and winning a grand. Well worth my once-yearly poker article, and I'm looking forward to seeing my buddy, the hand holding a 5-card straight on oversized cards that Marc James, venerable editor of the site, always puts with my poker pieces.
Leave a Comment