UWSWSOP Day 3 on...
spies
I'll do my best to recollect the events of the next three or four
days. Things got a little hairy, I stopped really sleeping or
spending any time in the hotel room at all, and worst of all at one
point I stopped keeping notes, so the trip reports became almost
impossible to continue.
The trouble probably all started on day three, Friday, the day of the
$2000 No Limit tournament. The day before John and I had layed down
$2000 each to play this event. Now John, he plays these kinds of
stakes pretty regularly and can handle it, but for me this was a
colossal overreach. Before this, the most expensive tournament I had
ever played was $500. I felt good about my tournament finishes lately,
both online and live, and I also was so taken in by the action and
excitement of the WSOP that I wanted to get in the middle of it all.
But it didn't take me long after sitting down in the game to realize
how totally out of my element I was.
John and I got there early for some reason. Nobody shows up on time
for these events. They all stream in a little bit after the first
level starts. So for a round or two of blinds, we were like five
handed at my table. Then a familiar guy comes over to seat 5 and puts
his card down. I look at the name on the card: Hong Hon Lee. Yeah, I
recognize you. Jesus Christ. But it gets worse. A couple of orbits
later and Scott Fischman walks over to Hon and starts talking to him.
He sits down in the six seat, and I figure he's just sitting there to
talk to Hon. Then he pulls out his card and sets it on the table.
Scott Fischman, seat 6. Fuccccckkkkk.
While the blinds are still 25-25 I manage to lose half my stack to
Scott Fischman when I pick up KK and raise it to 100 and he calls in
the big blind. The flop is 664 and he check-calls my 150. The turn is
a 5, he check-calls my 200. The river is a 4, and he bets 450. I
think forever, and put him on a pair of 7s or an ace thinking he will
chop at worse, and finally decide to call. He turns over 67 of clubs.
Josh had called me before the tournament started to talk over some
strategy with me and told me not to play many hands in the first round,
just watch and see how people play, how often it is raised preflop,
etc. I think to myself, Josh would be so disappointed. Half my stack
obliterated during the cheap round.
But its really not true that the first round is a tight, feel-it-out
kind of round. There was TONS of action in the first to rounds of the
tournament. Hon Lee got busted with his two pair against a straight
during the 25-25 level, and Fischman got busted in the 25-50 level in
an insane hand where two guys went broke in a pot that was UNRAISED
until the river. That's right, the pot had 150 chips in it to the
river. It was checked around on the flop and the turn, and on the river
all three players made a straight, but one player had a 10 in his hand
for the nut straight and busted the other two, who had basically put
all their money in the pot before it was even his turn to act. He only
needed to raise Scott all-in, and Scott called after a long long time
thinking. I made a joke to the guy on my right, a really cool asian
guy whose name I didn't recognize, that he should keep on busting the
pros off the table for us. He had the chip lead and had busted Hon and
Scott already. He said pretty matter-of-factly "I am professional,
too!" and seemed genuinely hurt that I didn't recognize him as the
same caliber of Hon and Scott. But I definetly recognized his talent,
just not his name. It was a little bit of a sad moment when he got
upset and/or embarrassed.
Later on in the tournament I asked this same guy for change for a 500
chip. He gave me change and gave me the 500 chip back with my change,
which I didn't notice right away. But a couple of hands later I
picked up JJ and started counting my chips out to raise, and noticed I
had more chips than the last hand I played, even though I lost that
hand. I wasn't sure what to do since we were in the middle of the
hand, so I said "time" and explained to the guy that I just noticed
an extra 500 chip in my stack and that I thought he may have given me
too much change before and handed him the chip. Nobody else at the
table said a word about it and the guy got all excited and grabbed my
shoulder and said "you so good to me! You good to me!" as if he
were surprised that I was honest. But as bad of a rep as poker players
have, I have to think that the vast majority of us would do the exact
same thing. If for no other reason than the karma alone will cost you
so much money.
I eventually went bust with an AQ when I pushed in early position
during the 50-100 level and got reraised all in and called all in by
bigger stacks. I was up against AK and KK and an Ace flopped. At
least I outflopped the KK. If only the AK could have been in the
bathroom.
My reaction to playing in the event was pretty dramatic. I was
literally petrified the entire time. I was panicked when I picked up
big hands that I knew I'd have to play. I agonized over totally
simple decisions. I mean, I've been playing poker tournaments for
like 8 years now but the stakes and the caliber of players really
tilted me and made me play horrible. I was disappointed in myself, to
be sure. But I also felt awful that my friends would get to town today
expecting to come sweat me and John in the tournament and we would both
be busted out. I wanted to show well in the tournament to prove to my
friends how good I had become more than I wanted to make a lot of
money. I had no naïve notion of winning this tournament, that is for
sure. But I did think I could battle out long enough to make a run for
the money. There would be more spots though, as you will soon see.
After I busted out, John was still in, so I took the keys to the van
and just drove around Vegas aimlessly. It was sad, for sure. I
questioned a number of times whether or not the amount of money
affected my play, or if I would have froze up and played shitty even if
someone had staked me. I wondered if I had been foolish to think that
I can compete with players who do nothing but think about poker day in
and day out. I wondered if maybe I should stay on the sidelines and
stop trying to push myself to play at the next level. I wondered what
Josh and Wayne and everyone would say about how I played.
I didn't have to worry about that one much. I went to pick up Rob at
the airport, and later that evening we had dinner with Josh, Wayne, and
Choko at the Mirage. The conversation about my tournament went
something like this:
Choko: Hey Dave, how'd you do in that tournament today?
Dave: Really awful, I busted out before the first break.
Chonko: That sucks.
Josh: Do we have to do credit card roulette for this?
Rob: Is John still in it?
Dave: No he busted a short while ago, but he had about 4k so I don't
know what happened.
Wayne: If we're doing credit card roulette I'm ordering a bottle of
wine.
Chonko: When does everyone else get to town?
So I didn't have to worry so much about disappointing my friends
after all. Maybe they never figured I'd get past the first break
anyway. But I was pretty destroyed inside, and wanted to at least have
people listen to my bad beat stories, critique my play, whatever. We
always come out here and play dozens upon dozens of hours of poker but
nobody ever talks about poker, other than to tell their bad beat
stories. Nobody wants to have any thoughtful conversations about the
game. That is disappointing to me. I think if I'm ever going to get
better at poker I need to find people who are really good who will talk
to me about it.
By the way, we did end up doing credit card roulette for dinner that
night, Josh's first night to do it, and he lost. He had been in
Vegas for about two or three hours and was already stuck $80 without
playing a single hand of poker.
I played 20-40 that night at the Mirage and did pretty good. I won
about $400 before everyone decided they wanted to walk to the Bellagio.
I wanted to hang out with everyone, so I got up and went with them.
This was the second biggest mistake I made during the trip, I think,
right behind entering the $2000 event.
The Bellagio was really hopping that night. There were so many
4,000-8,000 games going that they had to use a table on the main floor
because there weren't enough in "Bobby's Room." So the table
right behind my 30-60 had $100,000 pots going on and Barry Greenstein
drinking tea from a little ceramic tea cup and teapot at the table.
There were some low limit games going, too. Josh Arieh was commanding
a $400-$800 mixed game table that seemed to be breaking up as we
arrived. He was pleading with people to stay and play, maybe change
the games, add a round of Chinese, but people were walking away,
probably busted.
I bought in to a 30-60 and played the most solid game I could play.
But I picked up so few hands that I developed a very tight image pretty
early on and didn't get much action, or got pushed around a little
when I came in and had to commit more money to hands than I wanted to.
One hand in particular cost me a lot of money when I flopped top two
pair with Ace King. I had made it three bets from the big blind with
the hand and got called by the raiser. I bet the flop, he raised, I
reraised him and he called. The turn was a 9 and I bet and he reraised
and I reraised and he four bet it and I called. The river was a blank
to any straight or flush draws so I bet out hoping he missed and would
call me because the pot was so large. He of course raised and I just
called and he turned over 99. That hand sucked the wind out of me. I
tilted off pretty bad.
Evenutally they broke up our table and moved us around the room. I got
put in a pretty live game, and won a couple of pots, but the guy with
the 99 was at another table, and I was so pissed off that as soon as I
saw a seat open in his game I asked if I could move there.
The floor moved me into the seat directly to his right. This game was
extremely live. The pots were enormous. Every flop was check raised.
Every hand was at least two bets to see the flop, usually three. It
was absolutely insane. I tried to figure out how to play well in it,
but found myself falling into the usual trap when I get in these loose,
crazy games. I loosened up and played like a fish. And the better
players picked me apart. They figured me out so quickly, it was
embarrassing. They knew exactly when I could be made to lay down a
hand, and exactly when I was strong. The "fish" with the 99 who I
had chased to this table turned out to be one of the strongest players
on the table. I watched him systematically pick off the largest fish at
the table (that's right, it wasn't me!) by check raising him and
betting into him on every street in every hand the guy played. The guy
would usually call to the river then fold the river on almost every
hand. The times he called on the river, he sometimes had it and won a
pot, but there were so many pots where he just layed it down on the
river, that he was hemmoraging chips quickly.
By the time I noticed what was going on, namely that the two seats on
my left were both gunning for this guy's chips the same way, I
figured I'd get involved with him and take some myself. So I get in
a pot with him with AK suited and make it three bets preflop and he is
in the big blind and calls two cold. The flop is 322 and he checks and
calls me on the flop. The turn is a K and he check raises me and I
reraise. The river is an ace and I bet out, he raises, and I call. He
turns over 33. So much for me picking off the fish.
As the night wore on I started to get really loopy. I didn't play
too many hands but the ones I played I played terrible. My nemesis on
my left and his friend on his left actually took up my cause and
started helping me, and they showed me where I was making mistakes
folding on flops to check raises or reraises, where I should call down,
where I should abandon ship. Another player at the end of the table
who was drunk and had been stacking tons of chips complained that they
shouldn't help me, and I realized then that I was the sucker in this
game, and it was embarrassing. But the fact was, up to that point, I
hadn't lost anything in that game. I was pretty even at that table,
and had won my share of pots (although I was stuck about a grand when I
moved over there, so in my own head I was chasing the loss). It
didn't matter, though. These players were waiting to catch me in a
hand so they could move me off a hand. I figured, stupidly, that now
that I knew what my table image was that I could take advantage of it,
but shortly after that the drunk guy took a huge fucking pot off of me
when I had aces with his 36 suited. He flopped bottom pair and called
my check raise on the flop and turned a 6 on me for three sixes and let
me bet his hand for him. Another bad turn card. Another huge pot I
lost.
The entire night ticked away and I went up and down a grand like it was
no big deal. By the time I quit the game the next day I was stuck a
grand total of $2200 in that game, which isn't a huge loss for 30-60
at all, but it was a huge psychological loss for me, and I was crushed.
I not only hated how badly I played and how I let players push me
around like I was a fish, when my usual style is to take control of
hands, I also hated how I reacted to beats and being stuck. I pouted,
complained, whined, I acted like a huge baby all night. Later on I
started to feel awful about how I had been acting, and decided around 8
in the morning to perk up and start being nice and cool with people and
not forcing people to deal with my tantrums when I lost. I always
hated that kind of player and was disappointed in myself that I was
being one. But I fear it was too little too late. I was everyone's
least favorite player at the table easily.
At one point I even went off on this young guy with one leg at my
table. He was kind of a douchebag, anyway, acting loud and boastful
and dropping lots of names of poker stars and coffeehousing in every
hand he played. There was a particular hand I played where I started
shaking when I made my bet, which wasn't any indication of my hand,
really, because I was just raising AQ preflop, but another player made
a joke about how bad I was shaking and the guy with one leg started
laughin hysterically and mimicking me and making fun of me. I totally
tilted off because, come on man you have one leg! I could totally kick
your ass, how can you be such an asshole to my face? I can knock you
down so easy, you should be nicer to me. So I said "Hey man, maybe I
should get some mirrored sunglasses like you have so no one can get a
read on me. What do you think? Would that help?" "Yeah, that
might help." Chortle har har har he kept it up, so I say to him,
obviously aggrevated, "maybe you don't know this, but every time
you have a hand and want action, you talk to the guy next to you and
pretend you don't care what's going on, but whenever you are afraid
of action you put those damn glasses on and you stop talking and stare
your opponent down." Then I got up and walked off. I was so fucking
tilted, I should have picked up my chips and took my loss, which at
that time was only around a grand. But I just took a walk and collected
my wits and came back and apologized to everyone and kept playing.
When I finally went broke in the game and started walking back to the
Mirage, I was so fucking tired and hungry and delirious I wanted to
take a cab because I wasn't sure I could make the walk. When I
opened the door to the outside of the casino, the sunlight was so
bright and the glare off the white sidewalk so bright I felt like a
goddamn vampire. I wanted to run back inside hissing and shading
myself from the light with my cape. The walk back to the mirage was
sick. I was physically exhausted and emotionally strung out. I had
been playing poker for about 24 hours straight and hadn't had any fun
at all. In fact, it had been one of the most tense and stressful 24
hours of my entire life, and one of the most expensive. I had given up
almost five grand.
When I got back to the hotel, the rest of the gang were just getting
up, so they wanted to go out to lunch. I climbed into bed and slept for
a few hours, only to be stirred out of my sleep by Rob coming back to
the room to get his golf clubs. Playing golf seemed like the perfect
way to avoid playing poker or even thinking about poker and trying to
get back into having fun during my time away from work. So after a 24
hour session, I get up after about 4 hours of sleep and get dressed for
the golf course.
Rob, Wayne, Keith, John, Josh and I all go to this little par 3 course
south of the strip to play a round. Of this group, I am easily the
worst golfer, so I naturally start offering everyone to play me for
money. Everyone wants to play me, of course, but I figure I'll get
the most action from Rob, since his is the best golfer. I ask for 5
strokes, which he smartly declines. I tell him it takes me 5 strokes
just on the green, and that I think it's a fair spot. He won't
budge though, so instead we agree on 3 strokes and two free mulligans,
and play $5 a hole with skins.
The spot turns out to be pretty dead on, as we head into the 9th hole
with two skins and me stuck only $10. I had also made a side bet with
Keith taking Josh against Wayne for $20 giving Josh 3 strokes for the
entire day. Josh's cart was a little bit ahead of us, so going into
the 9th hole I felt like Josh was still winning against Wayne and that
I might be practically freerolling, so I got a little cocky. When my
ball landed right off the green, everyone started saying I should putt
to the green, play it safe, don't use the wedge, you'll over shoot
it. I pull the putter and wedge out of the bag and walk towards the
ball. Everyone is saying "putt it, putt it" even Rob, who really
truly thinks putting is the smart play. I look over at this crazy dude
in a tank top who had been playing behind us all day. He and his
friend were watching us play waiting for us to get off the green, and
were so bored they were driving their cart into bushes and trying to
jump over embankments. He is standing near the green, and I look at
him and say "well, what do you say? Putt or chipit?" "Dude, chip
it! Totally chip it!" Rob starts laughing and says "well, now you
know what you gotta do." I think he meant that if this nutcase wants
me to chip, I should putt. I throw the putter on the ground and chip
it with the wedge and I don't get too bad of a bounce. I have about
a 5 foot putt to win the hole and the game, and I grab the putter and
walk over and manage to over putt it about 10 feet and lose.
Not only that, but when we get to the clubhouse it turns out that Josh
let Wayne out of the 3 stroke spot because Wayne whined too much about
it on the course. Unbelievable but true. Josh let Wayne the Nit out
of a bet. I was stunned. "You let him out? That guy? You let him
out?" "Yeah well he wouldn't shut up about it." "Of course
he wouldn't! HE can't stand to lose! You had him dead to rights
you fucking pussy!" Everyone starts chiming in on Josh. The truth
is, Wayne would probably make a retarded person pay him if they bet him
a nickel that the tooth fairy was a basset hound. Wayne would NEVER
have let Josh out of that bet. Josh, on the other hand, is the most
non-confrontational person, that he can be made to let up, and Wayne
took advantage of him. I wouldn't have cared so much if I hadn't
counted on that $20 to pay Rob off.
In the end, Rob cleaned up on the golf course gambling with us all, and
made another bet with John for Monday to play Las Vegas National for
the green fees and no spot. Should be an interesting bet.
I snapped out of my shitty mood and was excited about going to watch
the Tyson fight that night. We went to Caesar's Palace to watch it
at the sportsbook. The line on the fight was that Mcbride was a +350
underdog. On our way to Vegas, Mcbride was a +700 underdog and we had
all agreed that was a huge overlay and we would bet it. But everyone
else had the same idea and the line moved so much it didn't seem like
near as good a bet. Caesar's offered a prop on going over 3 rounds
at +150, so we all agreed that seemed like a good bet. John went and
bet $200 on will go over 3 rounds. Rob comes back from the window and
says "I changed my mind." He's bet under 3 rounds and Mcbride.
This seems like a stupid bet because there is no way they could both
come in. If Mcbride wins, it will likely be from a decision not an
early knockout. If Tyson wins, it would likely come as an early
knockout.
Well, the will go came in, which was pretty exciting. The entire
sportsbook seemed to have bet it, and they went nuts at the end of the
third round. Everyone started cheering and shit even though the fight
wasn't over. Watching sports in sportsbooks is hilarious this way.
People only cheer in basketball games when someone hits the shot to
bring the over, or when the last meaningless free throws go in to cover
the point spread. Nobody seemed to care about the teams, or the
fighters, as much as their own bets. After the Tyson fight, he gave
this emotionally depressing interview about how he was through with the
sport. He says "I don't want to disgrace this game any more by
getting knocked out by this caliber of fighter." I thought that while
that line may have been a dig at Mcbride, it was at the same time
incredibly humble and grateful to the fans and the sport. By boxing
for money when he knows he can't beat anyone, he makes a mockery of
himself, his fans, his opponents, and the entire sport.
But by acknowledging this fact, he all at once saves himself, his fans,
and his sport. He shows that while he is in fact a boxer well beyond
his prime who will never again contend for a belt, he is also a
sensitive person who has matured and grown completely on his own with
all the cards stacked against him. Mike was showing that while he
could just be another selfish, cocky, greedy celebrity, he just wants
to be real with people and quit trying to front that he's some kind
of champ when in reality he's just a former champ who owes a lot of
money. He said he feels awful that people cheer for him, that people
cry when he loses. He seems genuinely confused that anyone could love
him or root for him when he views himself as a total phoney.
I can relate to Mike on so many levels. I flash back to the night
before, sitting down in that game thinking I was going to bust these
chumps up, then proceeding to get my ass handed to me. I remember how
liberating it felt in that game once I realized what my table image
was, what others were thinking of me, and how if I accepted it and
dealt with it rather than deny it and keep telling myself I'm better
than everyone else, I could improve.
So long as we delude ourselves into believing we are flawless, that we
are experts, that we don't make mistakes, just get drawn out on or
bad beated, then we can't plug the leaks, we can't get better, we
won't be great. There are plenty of us poker players who don't
know shit about the game, but the biggest donkeys are the ones who
don't know shit but are convinced that they know it all. It's a
natural response to defeat, I think, to tell yourself you did ok and
the other guy got lucky. But just because it is natural doesn't mean
its good for you.
I just may continue to get beaten by a low caliber of players, and
probably by a lot of high caliber players as well, but the real
disgrace to the game is to continue to think of yourself as a great
player when all you are is a railbird with some chips.
After the fight we went to get dinner at a thai restaurant on sahara.
Wayne knew about this place from somewhere and told us it was supposed
to be some of the best thai in the city. On the way there, we started
betting on how long it would take to get there if we took the strip,
and at over 20 minutes, I had an easy lock.
The way there, Peter kept calling and asking Josh what we were doing.
This was totally annoying, since Peter had done what we all expected
him to do by deciding not to come and opting to stay in Vancouver
working through the weekend. Josh aggrevatedly rushed Peter off the
phone. Then again at the restaurant as we looked over the menu, Peter
called Josh again to harass him. Just as I hear Josh repeat "how bad
do I want you to come to Vegas?" I turn and see Peter running into
the restaurant with his suitcases. Pretty cool move, especially for
Peter. He dropped everything and came on a moment's notice as soon
as he saw a chance to bail on work, and spent way too much on a plane
ticket. He also brought a pocket full of money and a LOT of gamble
with him, as you will soon see. We celebrated Peter and the
General's arrivals by ordering tons of delicious thai food and wine.
The food was really great, even though the place was pretty
nondescript. It was in a strip mall and there were crowds of lowriders
in the parking lot bouncing up and down.
I suggested we do credit card roulette, and Josh declined. I went off
on him and he defended himself by saying that he had already lost once
the night before, and that he shouldn't have to play again. This
logic was, of course, totally chickenshit and inexcusable, but I felt
pity for him. I mean, here he is, $5,000 flush with a check from the
bank, been giddy as a schoolgirl for several weeks in anticipation of
coming to Las Vegas, and on his second night he is already wussing out
on a bet. Pathetic. I wonder to myself how many nights before he
disappears back to New York on a standby flight without a word. John
of course starts in on him "You can't lose! The odds are like
15-1!" Its important to note that there were only 8 of us eating.
"Its almost impossible to lose!" Eventually Josh agrees that he
will throw in his credit card, and Wayne promptly orders a bottle of
wine.
As we ate Wayne and Rob get into an argument about whether or not Wayne
could run a 6 minute mile. Wayne, who is about 115 pounds soaking wet,
believes he can. Rob thinks it's a physical impossibility. I try to
arrange a prop bet out of it, and we negotiate terms. Wayne wants a
treadmill, Rob wants a track. Wayne says going to UNLV to find a track
isn't worth the money to him, since he can make $40 an hour at 3-6.
The whole table starts chiming in about it and offering up new prop
bets. Eventually John points out that he has a torn ACL and can barely
walk (which is true) and that he could STILL do a 6 minute mile. Then
Peter says "I have flat feet and I could do it." I suddenly
realize that I have never seen Peter run in my entire life. This guy
has more physical ailments between all of his allergies and physical
limitations than anyone I know. I wonder to myself if he could run at
all.
"What about a race between John and Peter?" I ask aloud. This
perks interest. John reacts predictably.
"I'll win! I'll totally win!" John can barely walk.
The table erupts into negotiation over the terms of the bet, and agree
to take it to the parking lot. The whole restaurant seems to be
watching us. Before we leave, the waiter brings the check and we throw
in all the credit cards. Before the watier chooses, I ask Josh what
kind of odds he'd give me that Peter would lose. "I don't know,
3-1?" "That's a bet." I snap back, suddenly realizing all too
late that I could have bargained him higher. "Shit you probably
would have given me 6-1, huh?" "Yeah! Hell yeah I would have!"
"My 5 your 15 then?" "Hell yeah!"
Josh announces to the table the overlay I just gave him, and they all
start laughing at me. The waiter chooses 4, and Josh counts them down
to number 4, the shiny gold Texas Exes card, the only card Peter
hasn't maxed out on Party Poker. Everyone hollers in amazement, and
I stand up and pump my fist. I'm on a roll, lets go outside and make
this bet.
Outside the restaurant, we are still arguing over the terms. As we
discuss them, Wayne starts to get fidgety. He nervously looks over at
the cholos bouncing their cars across the parking lot from us.
"Guys, lets get out of here and go back to the Mirage." "Shut up
Wayne, we're going to do this." "This is a waste of time you
guys." Wayne and Josh keep muttering to themselves and rolling their
eyes as the rest of us excitedly argue about how to fairly handicap the
Peter/John race. Eventually I say to them "hey if you guys don't
want to do this then just leave. We have two cars, nobody is forcing
you to stay." They immediately look at the General, who is driving
the other car, and ask him if he'd take them back. He agrees, and
they waste no time getting back to the safety of honkeytown.
Here are the terms we agreed on: Keith barefoot from the gay bar at
the end of the parking lot, John from roughly 50 yards from there near
where the lowriders are, and Peter with Robert on his back from about
50 yards ahead of John. Winner gets a hundred bucks.
The race lasted about 2 minutes, but the entire parking lot watched in
amazement. Peter with Rob on his back turned out to be a terrible
handicap. John passes him easily, and Keith hauls serious ass to catch
John literally at the wire, just edging him in a tough photo finish
that they argued about for the longest time. Peter's second bad beat
of the trip, and he hasn't been in town 3 hours yet.
As we drive back to the Mirage in the van, the traffic is totally
thick, and we are still arguing about whether or not Wayne can run a
six minute mile. I start arguing that if I trained enough for it I
could do it, and Rob and everyone start questioning my physical
abilities. I inform them that I run quite often, and am in better
shape than they think. John offers me $50 if I can beat them to the
Mirage on foot. I look ahead at all the traffic, think back to all the
nights spent sitting stopped in strip traffic, and without another
moment's hesitation I say to Rob "open the door."
So here I am, running down the strip in a steady jog, feeling queasy
from the huge dinner I just ate, sweating out of every pore in my body,
and dodging various fannypacked-North-Strip-folk who fill the
sidewalks. I don't get farther than the Slots of Fun when I realize
that in order to win this bet I am going to have to barf at least once.
Eventually the van catches up to me and I run up to the window and beg
them to let me back in. Failure, both physically and mentally. How
could I ever have thought I could do this? My reputation as someone
easily goaded into taking the worst of it stays intact this year. The
van is shaking with laughter.
Rather than play any more poker, I decide to head off to the room and
call it an early night. There are, after all, several more tournaments
to play tomorrow, my last day in town. I'll never get even in the
20-40, I tell myself. John and Keith have their aims on other fun as
well, I find out on my way to the room. Peter spots them sitting at a
Pai-Gow table. Not paigow poker, mind you. They are playing the one
with the dominoes and the dice, the one where the dealers don't even
speak English, the one where all the asian players make all the noise,
the one where they bet stacks and stacks of black chips on each hand at
the commerce. We saunter up next to them, they have the table to
themselves, and they have the little cards that show the ranking of
hands. "Hey guys, the dealer will help you, come learn this game
with us!"
We play paigow all night long, which is easy to do because it takes
forever to deal each hand. Half of the allure of paigow is the
aesthetics of the game pieces. First there are the dominoes, which
they call "cards" since the Chinese word is the same. They are
black and shiny, and from time to time the dealer will lay them out and
polish them with a rag. Then there is a dice cup, which the dealer
shakes high over her head before slamming down on the felt. All of
these theatrics serve only to decide who gets dealt the first hand, and
disappointingly have no further impact on the game. Players can shake
the dice as well, which I desperately wanted to do, but only if they
agree to play the bank, which means you win when everyone else loses,
but you have to pay the winners off yourself. This I did not want to
do, so I never shook the cup. Then there is the little white square
that the dealer places over her hand to separate it from the other
hands. All of these pieces are beautiful and make you feel like you
are playing something very regal and special.
The game play was pretty rote, since the dealer told us how to play
each hand. The few times Keith was brave enough to play his hand
different than the way the dealer suggested, he lost, so we figured
we'd stick to the house's advice. Some surly white guy wandered
over to our table and started helping me play every hand. I kept
inviting him to sit down and play with us, but he always declined,
probably broke, which didn't bode well for his paigow advice. He
creepily watched me play for about an hour, always cheering for me when
I won, always getting mad at the dealer when I lost. I wanted security
to taser him and drag him out. Eventually he wandered over to another
table.
The other thing I liked about paigow was that the best hands were
called "wongs" and "gongs" so your hand was always called
"pair-wong" or "wong-5" or "wong-gong."
I won about $300 playing $25 a hand. I hadn't lost a single hand. I
figured it was like the stock market in the nineties, and there was no
way to lose. What a great game! Does the dealer ever beat us?
Naturally I started playing $100 a hand. The dealer asked if I had a
rate card, and it dawned on me that this was probably the only time in
my life I'll play $100 a hand at anything, so I should get rated. I
gave the dealer my ID and forced everyone else to do the same. The
floor disappeared with our ID's to get our rate cards, and three
hands later I was even.
Shaken and pissed at myself, I decided not to play this ridiculous game
anymore. What a stupid game, I thought. Those aren't cards,
they're dominoes, chips even, but certainly not cards. "Cards."
HA! What a bunch of morons. This game sucks.
The floor never came back with my ID, so I stood around looking like a
marmaluke for a long time before finally deciding to go to bed.
"John, get my ID when it comes. Make sure they rate me for my black
chip action, too." "Yeah sure, Dave, I'll make sure. Maybe they
will comp your room or something." Even the dealer is laughing, even
though I'm sure the only English she speaks is "change one
hundred."
Sunday
Today's order of business is to win the Mirage Sunday tournament at
5pm. There is no other goal, no other point. At $330 with $200
rebuys, and the only big tournament around town on Sunday, this
tournament should have a huge prize pool. I want to be sure to sign up
early. Can't get shut out of this one, I tell myself. This is the
big one.
I play in a single table satellite with John, Peter, Rob, and Keith.
Between the four of us, I figure we are sure to chop this thing. Then
with precision Peter and Rob fall off the table. John and I get it
down to us and one other guy, and he is playing perfectly, not giving
one inch. The blinds get up high enough to make the whole affair a
ridiculous affair, and he is hitting his luckbox like a son of a bitch.
I get all in with 88, he has 10 10. I get all in with 77, he has 88.
He and John take the seats and I take a long walk.
I sit in the 20-40 for a few hours, but take some awful awful beats
from some awful awful players. In fact, my AK gets called all the way
down on a QJ987 board by 22. That's right. In 20-40 a guy called me
down to the river with 22 after I CAPPED preflop. Then, right after
scooping my huge pot, he gets called for 40-80. I wanted to cry. Put
me on the 40-80 list please.
Eventually the tournament starts. It is not the sold-out affair I
imagined. In fact, it is only three tables. The dealer seems
surprised. She says the Rio must have taken all the players, because
it is usually a 100 person plus event. I'm not sure whether or not
the small field is good or bad for me. But I go sit down and who is at
my table but Peter Russo himself. That's right, Peter Russo, humble
college student, has bought himself in to a $300 tournament. "Did
you win money playing Pai Gow or something?" "No, I just feel like
playing some tournaments." Peter Russo has some serious gamble in
him, I'll give him that. Since being in town he lost credit card
roulette, then lost a race with a guy with a broken leg, and then lost
at a Chinese game he had no idea how to play. Now he's in a $300 buy
in tournament, easily the most expensive tournament he has ever
entered.
I tell myself I have one rebuy and an add-on in me if I need it.
I've taken two rebuys in less than an hour. My kings lose to 85
suited, and my tens lose to JJ. But I hit a stride at some point and
make the break with a decent enough stack and add-on. My entire stack
is completely bought and paid for. Pathetic. Peter and John remain
in, and Peter it seems has also taken a rebuy. You're through the
looking glass now, buddy.
Not surprisingly, Peter outlasts both John and I and makes the final
table. He plays like a complete tell bag. He holds his cards up where
everyone can see them. He prepares to flick them in the muck well
before the action is on him. He fingers with his chips to prepare his
bet or raise before it gets to him. He telegraphs every move he is
planning to the entire table. But, luckily, it doesn't matter. He
is playing only good cards and they are holding up.
John played great, built a huge stack, then bluffed most of it off in
true-to-form John fashion. (he would go on later in the week to be the
first guy out of the uwswsop) One particular guy at John's table
(which I was at for a while) was wearing a WSOP hat. He made some of
the most absurd moves I have ever seen. Going all in preflop with a
huge stack into a tiny pot, shit like that. One hand he got me to lay
down J-10 suited after I raised to steal the blinds by going all in.
There was probably 800 in chips in the pot, and he pushed over 4k. As
I folded, I said "you probably just cost yourself a lot of money by
doing that" and he looked at his buddy and laughed. "I just won the
pot, kid." I swear to god, he called me kid. What a moron. How can
I not be rich? How?
Well, this douchebag eventually busted John somehow I think. I don't
know because I was at the other table making horrible laydowns to the
table maniac, some young guy who said he was stuck 30 grand at the Rio
and needed to get even before he left. I believed him. He came over
the top for every preflop raise. He had a gargantuan stack which they
said was due to some guy at their first table who rebuyed an absurd
amount of times. I folded AQ to him when he came over the top. After
the hand when I told him what I had, half the table chastised me for
folding. He laughed and told me he had me beat, but I'm sure it
wasn't by much. Bad fold. I might as well leave now.
Peter makes the final table but misses the money. We cheer for him
anyway. I bet my last $100 on a parlay on the spurs and the over. I
hate betting against the Pistons but I know I have to do it, I need the
money. The parlay comes in and without hesitation I ask Greg to drive
me to the Rio to make the second chance tournament. He agrees, and we
head out.
This is beyond degenerate behavior. My flight leaves at 6am. This
tournament I'm headed to may not even end by then. Not to mention, I
have yet to say goodbye to Josh or anyone. I'm going to the Rio to
spend my last hours in Vegas desperately playing poker. Nobody seems
to care, though, and Greg, Rob, and Peter join me. Peter, it seems,
wants to enter the tournament as well. He must feel juiced up after
making the final table in a 3 table tournament. I don't try to bust
his bubble, I encourage the gamble. Hell, a guy like him could win the
whole thing, you know? A guy like me is destined to lose, if for no
other reason than how badly I want to win, and how little I deserve it.
He, on the other hand, could give a fuck if he wins and deserves it so
much more. He may be a dog in New York, but he's a fucking favorite
in this town, and especially at a quarter to midnight his first night
in town.
I play pretty decent poker for a while, and even double up on some
freak who opens the pot all in in middle position when the blinds are
50-100 for his entire stack of 2000. Im in the big blind with KK and
call and double through his measly A-10. The guy next to me chastises
him, I think they were friends, and says "you are a better player
than that, man" even before he turns over his cards. No matter, in
the small blind I get AJ and the guy on the button tries to steal. I
come over the top of him and he calls all in. He has KJ and says "I
committed myself by raising too much." He's right, but I comfort
him by telling him "don't worry man, you're up against the right
dude. You'll catch your king." And he does. He seems to feel bad
about it. I don't. I'm beyond feeling bad. I go all in the next
two hands blind and take a walk.
The room is more lively than it was the week before. Phil Laak has his
movie star girlfriend in tow. She huddles next to him at the table,
sweats his hands, plays for him when he's up walking around the room.
The Chinese poker game is in full swing. There are several 50-100 no
limit games. Phil Hellmuth is playing 400-800 mixed games with a table
full of Asians and it is capped on every street every hand multiway.
It is nervewracking to watch. The chips go into the pot with such
quickness, without any hesitation at all. Every pot is over 10k.
Everybody seems to go all in every hand they play. Phil is steaming.
Here are two hands I watch, they give some idea of how insane this game
was...
They are playing triple draw, and the dealer seems to be unfamiliar
with the game. He fucks up and burns one too many cards, and Phil
stops him. "Dealer! How many times are you going to burn?" The
dealer apologizes. Phil tells him to count the deck down, and the
dealer starts to count down the deck in his hand. "Not that deck!
The discards!" The dealer stops and looks totally flustered.
"Dealer, sit back and relax, ok? Just take a deep breath." Phil is
comforting the guy. The player across from the dealer takes the
discards and counts them down, then tells the dealer exactly what to
do. He is no longer in control. He is merely a prop in their game.
They tell him where to deal and when. They play out the hand, and
Phil's 7 loses to a better 7 that some guy drew to. Phil stands up,
knocks down his chair, calls the floor, and asks that the hand be
declared a misdeal because of the dealer's fuck up. The other
players start laughing hysterically. "You can't win every hand,
Phil!"
Later they are playing Paducah I think, and some guy has put in the
last raise on the river. Phil is contemplating calling him. The pot is
pretty big, and Ted Forrest is yet to act after Phil. The guy who put
in the raise stands up and says "call, Phil, I want you to call."
Phil stares him down. Then the guy picks up a $5,000 chip and throws
it in the pot. "If you call that stays in the pot." Everyone
roars with delight. Phil takes off his sunglasses. "I was going to
call anyway man!" He stares at the pot. "That stays in there?"
He nods. Phil laughs to himself and says again "I was going to call
anyway. Maybe you misread your hand." And throws $800 in the huge
pot. Then it is Ted's turn. Everyone looks at him and the crowd
starts laughing again. "That stays in the pot?" he asks. "Of
course!" Then the guy picks up another $5,000 chip and throws it in
the pot. "That, too!" The whole room is now watching the table,
and everyone is laughing hysterically. Ted laughs and mucks his hand.
"Good fold, Ted" the guy turns over the nuts, A234 of different
suits, and takes down the pot.
There are also two final tables going on. The final from the tourney I
played in, the $2k nlhe, where Cindy Violette is getting beat by Erik
Seidel, and the final table from the limit holdem tournament. Plus,
the last 10 or so tables from the pot limit holdem is going. It is now
3am, and the room is totally buzzing. Nobody in here has any idea what
time it is. Nobody cares.
I head to the Mirage to pack and Rob drives me to the airport.
Meetings at work are keeping me from competing in this year's
UWSWSOP, which is a drag, but I'm broke anyway, so it worked out for
the best. I want to whine and cry to Rob about my bad luck, but he
says how proud he is that I took such big shots this time, and he is
amazed at how far we've all come.
He's right. Not only did I play some pretty big events, but Josh
ended up playing a lot of 40-80, managing to break even for the trip
after getting stuck quite a bit. And Brandon is currently still out
there, and reportedly playing 80-160.
I took this old Diamond Club chip out there with me to use as a good
luck charm while I played. As it turns out, it was a pretty
interesting choice of talisman. When we first moved to New York City
from Texas, I remember looking the Diamond Club up in the phonebook
(they were listed!) and calling them, only to get hung up on when we
confessed we knew no one who played there. Several months passed
without any idea how to get in to the club. Bus trips to Atlantic City
and ferry rides to Foxwoods were the order of the day. Eventually Josh
met someone who played at the Diamond Club, a friend of his girlfriend.
He told us he played 30-60, and we imagined that he was rich.
I remember taking Brandon to the club, and he would just walk around
and watch. Eventually he worked up the guts to play 4-8, and lost
every time he played.
I remember the first time I won $500 playing 10-20 there, and getting
on the list for the pot limit, anxious to graduate. Luckily they never
called my name.
I remember the shame I felt when one of the Hanley's told me, as he
put the penalty clock on me in a tournament I was chip leader in, that
it was the best thing that could happen to me. "You aren't very
good, kid. This way you can't lose those chips." He was right,
but at the time I felt burned.
I remember sitting at late night pizza joints around Chelsea with Josh
after all night losing sessions, talking about poker and figuring out
what the hell we were doing wrong.
The Diamond Club is long gone, but the players it borne are still
alive, still out there trying to get the money. Hell, Brandon is at
the 80-160 at the Bellagio right now, a mere 5 years off his
knee-knocking 4-8 sweat sessions on 21st street.
The chip didn't bring me any luck, and I think I left it in my room
at the Mirage anyway. But the memories of our humble beginnings gives
me the courage to dust myself off and get back in the game.
As I fly back to New York, to the stress and the bullshit of my daily
grind, I'm already planning my next trip out. And this is how every
story ends, every year, it seems. Its sick, this game we play. It's
a sick, sickening thing. 3-5 says I money next year.
Bruce I.
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PrestoET
- Chris Farley
Sykopathik
stories, sounds like a very interesting trip.
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