My flight was cancelled because of a thunderstorm in new york city. That had to be some kind of omen, I'm sure, but I ignored it and boarded the next flight out of town anyway. There is a line from Positively Fifth Street we often quote to each other, about how every time a plane leaves for Vegas from Ohare, a little piece of my heart goes with it.
The guy next to me on the plane was enormous. He had a shaved bald head and a chinstrap beard and hoop earrings. He looked like a giant black pirate. He noticed me reading "How Good Is Your Pot Limit Omaha?" and asked "do you play poker?"
"Yes, I play poker. Do you?"
"Actually, I play Texas Hold'Em."
This guy wasn't the first person to distinguish for me Texas Hold'Em from the more generic 'poker.' To this guy, and countless others entering our sick, sick world, the game of Texas Hold'Em has more reverence than garden variety 'poker.' 'Poker' is what you play in your kitchen. Texas Hold'Em is what you play on ESPN.
"You must be going out for the tournament then?" I asked him.
"What tournament?"
Great. Just great.
This is what really perplexes me about our yearly pilgrimage to the World Series of Poker. Here next to me on the plane is just the kind of donkey I need to be playing against, yet probably won't be. I take every penny of my bankroll and some more money I probably can't afford to lose with me to Vegas once a year for the WSOP and risk it against the best players in the entire world. Why? How on earth is that good game selection?
It has to have something to do with a feeling of belonging, of membership in this deranged community. As I walked in to the gargantuan arena that serves as this year's playing field, I can't tell you how little I felt I belonged.
The railbirds were heavy in full force, all railbirding the usual suspects: Negreanau, Lederer, Raymer, Fischman, Duke, Matusow, all easily identifiable by their ill-fitting basketball jerseys with their last names spelled in 8 inch letters across the back. In the crowd guys with "Im all in" t-shirts excitedly point and say "there's David Williams! Get a picture of him!" "What is this, Omaha? I need to watch this to see how this works." "Who is Jim Meehan?"
Minneapolis Jim Meehan is only the guy with the healthy stack of chips in the final two tables of the Omaha 8 tournament when I walk up to the rail, and he's adding to it with gusto. I heard a short while ago he was chip leader at the final table, going on as I write this, and it doesn't surprise me. Jim the Nit is an unsung hero of this game, one who doesn't have and probably doesn't want his name across his shirt in 8 inch letters.
I go sit down and play a $225 satellite, hoping to win some lammers to get into this Friday's $2k No Limit event. This is the event we timed our trip this year for. The event we all plan on taking a stab at. This is going to be my first ever shot at a bracelet. But I want in as cheaply as possible, and so I must try a satellite.
Or two, I suppose, as my three 9s are obliterated by a straight and I'm crippled in chips. So I buy in for another, and last a little longer but the same result, zero lammers. I try one more and finally cry uncle. Its late in New York and I have yet to eat anything today but an apple.
I go to the Horseshoe where we are staying for the next couple of nights (John met me out here early, and he convinced his friend Keith to come as well) until the gang gets in to town and we move over to the Mirage.
The sad thing is that I always wanted to stay at the Horseshoe during the WSOP, and now that the tourney has moved, I finally can. I'd rather be anywhere but here, though. This place is just a poker mortuary, a fucking morgue. The poker room is sad enough, empty and quiet and not even all that smokey. The alley outside, once filled with excited smoking poker players regaling each other with bad beat stories and crackheads begging for change, is now only filled with crackheads. Benny's Bullpen, once the most exciting place in the world for 6 weeks a year, is now home to the Vinnie Favoritio comedy revue. The worst part of all is that for some unknown reason, Harrah's has stripped the name Horseshoe from the chips, the walls, the shirts in the giftshop, and is in the process of stripping it from the signs outside, opting for just "Binion's." Criminal.
This whole scene kinda makes me sick. The popularity could be great, I suppose, but the whitebread corporatizing of this game is a real drag. Where is the mystique? Where is the danger? Where is the allure of the seedy backroom, the wiseguy card sharp, the Texas road gambler? Getting your aces cracked by a twangy old cowboy who pats you on the back and tells you "the sun will even shine on a dog's ass every once in a while" is far preferable to getting them cracked by some goateed frat boy who wears sunglasses inside and tells you how some bad beat story about his aces getting cracked in the $215 on Stars last week.
I'm shelling out two grand for the tournament on Friday, and taking a shot at glory, demons begone. I won't be wearing sunglasses unless they make us sit outside away from the shade. I hope I can keep my composure and chip my way to the money, but mostly I just want to feel like I belong. Barring that, I may not ever play again.
But the Upper West Side World Series is happening on Sunday, and I can always make a good showing in that. There are some 15 people coming this year for our yearly capers. I'll report on it nightly godwilling.
Dave, I loved your report, and your style of writing. I feel exactly the same way as you do. Hope I meet you this weekend, registered already for the $2K myself.
> My flight was cancelled because of a thunderstorm in new york city. > That had to be some kind of omen, I'm sure, but I ignored it and > boarded the next flight out of town anyway. There is a line from > Positively Fifth Street we often quote to each other, about how every > time a plane leaves for Vegas from Ohare, a little piece of my heart > goes with it.
> The guy next to me on the plane was enormous. He had a shaved bald > head and a chinstrap beard and hoop earrings. He looked like a giant > black pirate. He noticed me reading "How Good Is Your Pot Limit > Omaha?" and asked "do you play poker?"
> "Yes, I play poker. Do you?"
> "Actually, I play Texas Hold'Em."
> This guy wasn't the first person to distinguish for me Texas > Hold'Em from the more generic 'poker.' To this guy, and > countless others entering our sick, sick world, the game of Texas > Hold'Em has more reverence than garden variety 'poker.' > 'Poker' is what you play in your kitchen. Texas Hold'Em is what > you play on ESPN.
> "You must be going out for the tournament then?" I asked him.
> "What tournament?"
> Great. Just great.
> This is what really perplexes me about our yearly pilgrimage to the > World Series of Poker. Here next to me on the plane is just the kind > of donkey I need to be playing against, yet probably won't be. I > take every penny of my bankroll and some more money I probably can't > afford to lose with me to Vegas once a year for the WSOP and risk it > against the best players in the entire world. Why? How on earth is > that good game selection?
> It has to have something to do with a feeling of belonging, of > membership in this deranged community. As I walked in to the > gargantuan arena that serves as this year's playing field, I can't > tell you how little I felt I belonged.
> The railbirds were heavy in full force, all railbirding the usual > suspects: Negreanau, Lederer, Raymer, Fischman, Duke, Matusow, all > easily identifiable by their ill-fitting basketball jerseys with their > last names spelled in 8 inch letters across the back. In the crowd > guys with "Im all in" t-shirts excitedly point and say "there's > David Williams! Get a picture of him!" "What is this, Omaha? I need > to watch this to see how this works." "Who is Jim Meehan?"
> Minneapolis Jim Meehan is only the guy with the healthy stack of chips > in the final two tables of the Omaha 8 tournament when I walk up to the > rail, and he's adding to it with gusto. I heard a short while ago he > was chip leader at the final table, going on as I write this, and it > doesn't surprise me. Jim the Nit is an unsung hero of this game, one > who doesn't have and probably doesn't want his name across his > shirt in 8 inch letters.
> I go sit down and play a $225 satellite, hoping to win some lammers to > get into this Friday's $2k No Limit event. This is the event we > timed our trip this year for. The event we all plan on taking a stab > at. This is going to be my first ever shot at a bracelet. But I want > in as cheaply as possible, and so I must try a satellite.
> Or two, I suppose, as my three 9s are obliterated by a straight and > I'm crippled in chips. So I buy in for another, and last a little > longer but the same result, zero lammers. I try one more and finally > cry uncle. Its late in New York and I have yet to eat anything today > but an apple.
> I go to the Horseshoe where we are staying for the next couple of > nights (John met me out here early, and he convinced his friend Keith > to come as well) until the gang gets in to town and we move over to the > Mirage.
> The sad thing is that I always wanted to stay at the Horseshoe during > the WSOP, and now that the tourney has moved, I finally can. I'd > rather be anywhere but here, though. This place is just a poker > mortuary, a fucking morgue. The poker room is sad enough, empty and > quiet and not even all that smokey. The alley outside, once filled > with excited smoking poker players regaling each other with bad beat > stories and crackheads begging for change, is now only filled with > crackheads. Benny's Bullpen, once the most exciting place in the > world for 6 weeks a year, is now home to the Vinnie Favoritio comedy > revue. The worst part of all is that for some unknown reason, > Harrah's has stripped the name Horseshoe from the chips, the walls, > the shirts in the giftshop, and is in the process of stripping it from > the signs outside, opting for just "Binion's." Criminal.
> This whole scene kinda makes me sick. The popularity could be great, I > suppose, but the whitebread corporatizing of this game is a real drag. > Where is the mystique? Where is the danger? Where is the allure of the > seedy backroom, the wiseguy card sharp, the Texas road gambler? > Getting your aces cracked by a twangy old cowboy who pats you on the > back and tells you "the sun will even shine on a dog's ass every > once in a while" is far preferable to getting them cracked by some > goateed frat boy who wears sunglasses inside and tells you how some bad > beat story about his aces getting cracked in the $215 on Stars last > week.
> I'm shelling out two grand for the tournament on Friday, and taking a > shot at glory, demons begone. I won't be wearing sunglasses unless > they make us sit outside away from the shade. I hope I can keep my > composure and chip my way to the money, but mostly I just want to feel > like I belong. Barring that, I may not ever play again.
> But the Upper West Side World Series is happening on Sunday, and I can > always make a good showing in that. There are some 15 people coming > this year for our yearly capers. I'll report on it nightly > godwilling.
Nice post. I share many of your sentiments. The "clubyness" of poker is something that I've always enjoyed, the shared feeling you have with another aficianado. Now it's mainstreamed and the vulgarians have arrived. They've been playing online for a year and now consider themselves the hip, cool ones even though they look like clones and moo like a herd of love sick bovines over their favorite "name" players. It's good for the game but lousy for the atmosphere.
Howard Beale
"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"
----- * kill-files, watch-lists, favorites, and more.. www.recgroups.com
> My flight was cancelled because of a thunderstorm in new york city. > That had to be some kind of omen, I'm sure, but I ignored it and > boarded the next flight out of town anyway. There is a line from > Positively Fifth Street we often quote to each other, about how every > time a plane leaves for Vegas from Ohare, a little piece of my heart > goes with it.
> The guy next to me on the plane was enormous. He had a shaved bald > head and a chinstrap beard and hoop earrings. He looked like a giant > black pirate. He noticed me reading "How Good Is Your Pot Limit > Omaha?" and asked "do you play poker?"
> "Yes, I play poker. Do you?"
> "Actually, I play Texas Hold'Em."
> This guy wasn't the first person to distinguish for me Texas > Hold'Em from the more generic 'poker.' To this guy, and > countless others entering our sick, sick world, the game of Texas > Hold'Em has more reverence than garden variety 'poker.' > 'Poker' is what you play in your kitchen. Texas Hold'Em is what > you play on ESPN.
> "You must be going out for the tournament then?" I asked him.
> "What tournament?"
> Great. Just great.
> This is what really perplexes me about our yearly pilgrimage to the > World Series of Poker. Here next to me on the plane is just the kind > of donkey I need to be playing against, yet probably won't be. I > take every penny of my bankroll and some more money I probably can't > afford to lose with me to Vegas once a year for the WSOP and risk it > against the best players in the entire world. Why? How on earth is > that good game selection?
> It has to have something to do with a feeling of belonging, of > membership in this deranged community. As I walked in to the > gargantuan arena that serves as this year's playing field, I can't > tell you how little I felt I belonged.
> The railbirds were heavy in full force, all railbirding the usual > suspects: Negreanau, Lederer, Raymer, Fischman, Duke, Matusow, all > easily identifiable by their ill-fitting basketball jerseys with their > last names spelled in 8 inch letters across the back. In the crowd > guys with "Im all in" t-shirts excitedly point and say "there's > David Williams! Get a picture of him!" "What is this, Omaha? I need > to watch this to see how this works." "Who is Jim Meehan?"
> Minneapolis Jim Meehan is only the guy with the healthy stack of chips > in the final two tables of the Omaha 8 tournament when I walk up to the > rail, and he's adding to it with gusto. I heard a short while ago he > was chip leader at the final table, going on as I write this, and it > doesn't surprise me. Jim the Nit is an unsung hero of this game, one > who doesn't have and probably doesn't want his name across his > shirt in 8 inch letters.
> I go sit down and play a $225 satellite, hoping to win some lammers to > get into this Friday's $2k No Limit event. This is the event we > timed our trip this year for. The event we all plan on taking a stab > at. This is going to be my first ever shot at a bracelet. But I want > in as cheaply as possible, and so I must try a satellite.
> Or two, I suppose, as my three 9s are obliterated by a straight and > I'm crippled in chips. So I buy in for another, and last a little > longer but the same result, zero lammers. I try one more and finally > cry uncle. Its late in New York and I have yet to eat anything today > but an apple.
> I go to the Horseshoe where we are staying for the next couple of > nights (John met me out here early, and he convinced his friend Keith > to come as well) until the gang gets in to town and we move over to the > Mirage.
> The sad thing is that I always wanted to stay at the Horseshoe during > the WSOP, and now that the tourney has moved, I finally can. I'd > rather be anywhere but here, though. This place is just a poker > mortuary, a fucking morgue. The poker room is sad enough, empty and > quiet and not even all that smokey. The alley outside, once filled > with excited smoking poker players regaling each other with bad beat > stories and crackheads begging for change, is now only filled with > crackheads. Benny's Bullpen, once the most exciting place in the > world for 6 weeks a year, is now home to the Vinnie Favoritio comedy > revue. The worst part of all is that for some unknown reason, > Harrah's has stripped the name Horseshoe from the chips, the walls, > the shirts in the giftshop, and is in the process of stripping it from > the signs outside, opting for just "Binion's." Criminal.
> This whole scene kinda makes me sick. The popularity could be great, I > suppose, but the whitebread corporatizing of this game is a real drag. > Where is the mystique? Where is the danger? Where is the allure of the > seedy backroom, the wiseguy card sharp, the Texas road gambler? > Getting your aces cracked by a twangy old cowboy who pats you on the > back and tells you "the sun will even shine on a dog's ass every > once in a while" is far preferable to getting them cracked by some > goateed frat boy who wears sunglasses inside and tells you how some bad > beat story about his aces getting cracked in the $215 on Stars last > week.
> I'm shelling out two grand for the tournament on Friday, and taking a > shot at glory, demons begone. I won't be wearing sunglasses unless > they make us sit outside away from the shade. I hope I can keep my > composure and chip my way to the money, but mostly I just want to feel > like I belong. Barring that, I may not ever play again.
> But the Upper West Side World Series is happening on Sunday, and I can > always make a good showing in that. There are some 15 people coming > this year for our yearly capers. I'll report on it nightly > godwilling.
