I play lots of poker with Ryan. While most parents would talk about Joe Namath, Wayne Gretzky, Bob Gibson and Jack Nicklaus with their children, I fill Ryan’s head with tales of Amarillo Slim, Stu Unger, Doyle Brunson, and Johnny Moss. Most of our “stepfather and son” talks center around the wisdom of guys like Mike Caro, David Sklansky, TJ Cloutier, and Tony Holden. Ryan has a good grounding in the fundamentals of poker. Ryan knows how to be a tight-agressive player, so I usually play him that way.
Every poker book I’ve read (and I’ve read a lot of them) says that poker players can recall, down to the way the chips were stacked, memorable hands they’ve played. I can attest to this fact. They also say that a poker player can recall, in present-tense, exactly how certain hands went down. I can also attest to this fact . . .
We’re on our fourth or fifth hand, playing a no-limit freeze out. I look at my hole cards and find that I’ve dealt myself the Big Slick: A-K, the second best starting hand in Hold ‘Em.
Ryan checks, and I decide to limp in, hoping to get some action on this hand.
“Bet 10,” I say.
Ryan doesn’t even blink, and throws in a blue and three greens.
“Raise 75,” he says. It’s a huge raise this early in the game, and I think he’s bluffing. Ryan hardly ever check-raises.
I put him on a king, maybe a little pair . . . I’m pretty sure that I can blow him out of this pot if I bet into him, let him know that I’ve got cards worth playing.
“Raise 25,” I say, as I deliberately set one green chip in front of me, and flick it into the pot, followed quickly by three others.
“Call.”
The flop is a rainbow: K, 10, 4. I look at my cards, and imagine that it hasn’t helped me at all. I look at Ryan, but can’t read him at all. The kid’s got a good poker face.
He bets 10.
I take a second to wonder if he’s slow-playing a pair of kings. I decide that he’s on a draw, and try to bully him out of the pot again. Even if he calls, my pair is gonna hold up.
“Bet 50,” I say. This time I take five blue chips and two reds, and push them into the pot in a stack.
“Call,” he says, and splashes two greens and a blue.
The turn is the 9 of diamonds. Ryan checks, I bet another fifty, and he calls. We both have too much invested in this pot to get out now, and I’m certain this is going to teach Ryan a valuable lesson about overvaluing cards.
The River is another 4, and I have two pair.
Ryan bets one hundred, a stack of ten blue chips.
I think for a moment, just to make him squirm. I contemplate folding, though I have no intention of mucking this hand, and look at my stack chips. It’s only the fourth of fifth hand we’ve played, and already the pot is bigger than both our stacks.
I check my cards one last time, and say, “Raise 50.” I take my remaining two greens, and put them on top of a stack of blues. I set them in the pot right next to Ryan’s.
“Call,” he says, again without hesitation.
I turn over my A-K. “Two pair,” I say.
He looks down at his short stack of chips, and says, “I got trips, Wil,” as he turns over J-4.
“What?! You played J-4 when I hit you ahead of the flop like that?! What the hell were you thinking?!”
“I was thinking I may get lucky, Wil,” he says, “Looks like I did.”
He smirks, and starts stacking his chips.
“I can’t believe you did that,” I say, “I can’t believe you stayed in until fifth street with a pair of fours.”
“Me neither.” He grins.
I know that I was a statistical favorite to win the hand, and I know that in the long run, I’ll kill him if he stays in a hand until fifth street like that . . . but I don’t care about the bad beat. Sitting here with him, trading barbs like a couple of cowboys in a saloon . . . that is why I like to play cards with him. Some parents play catch with their kids. I play poker with mine.
I pick up the cards, and slide them across the table to him.
“Do you have enough to keep playing, Wil? Or do you need a loan?”
“Shut up and deal, Kid.”