Part three of our turgid tale is here.

For the next hour, I only open two hands: once with Ajax, which I win when my bet on the turn gets no callers, and again with pocket fives, which I fold when the A-8-x flop is bet and raised ahead of me. I’m thrilled to be out of that hand when it goes into a heads-up-raising-fest-from-hell between Drunk Guy’s Dead Man’s hand, and Chicago, who holds a set of eights.
Chicago racks his chips, and can’t leave fast enough. He’s about halfway to the cashier before he comes back and flips a red chip to the dealer. A couple of hands later (8-3d: fold, A-4o: fold) he is replaced by a woman in her 40s. Short, short hair, no jewelry, light makeup, wears a black vest over a white blouse.
During the shuffle, I imagine her story:
Her name is . . . Rebecca. No, it’s Dianne. Yeah, Dianne. She moved to Vegas four years ago because she’s running away from something. Nothing criminal . . . probably a broken heart.
Las Vegas was the perfect destination: it’s running away from things, even if only for a weekend, and she knew she’d be blend in among the transient population of tourists and fortune-seekers.
“I’m moving to Las Vegas,” she told her sister one morning, while her niece played in a shaft of sunlight on the living room floor.
“Why?”
“I need a change.”
“But why Vegas?”
“I don’t know. It just feels right.”
She packed her apartment into a few boxes, and drove across Interstate 10, with Wayne Dyer and Neil Diamond for company.
She has an apartment in Henderson, and a job at Lindy’s in the Flamingo. The shifts are lousy, and so are the tips, but she’s in a dealer’s school right now, and has high hopes for the future. She has started over, and she is happy, if a little lonely.
About three weeks ago, she caught the eye of a poker dealer named Andy. Hold’Em has played an important part in their courtship, so here she is . . .
Or maybe she’s just another tourist . . . but making up people’s stories is fun for me, so that’s what I do.
She gives five twenty dollar bills to a chip runner.
“One hundred behind,” he says.
Dianne tells the dealer that she’d like to play this hand, and the cards are in the air.
I fold again, and get up to pee. When I come back, Moneymaker and Drunk Guy are standing up. They’ve probably dropped two hundred bucks between the two of them, but they don’t seem to mind at all.
“Dude, let’s go to Olympic Gardens,” Drunk Guy says.
“We were just there last night,” Moneymaker says.
“I know, dude!” Drunk Guy laughs, and they do that hitting-each-other’s-fist thing that seems to have replaced the high-five.
As they walk away, I catch Pungent’s eye. “I’m going to miss them,” he says with a glance at his chips. The dealer laughs, then the whole table laughs.
“Two seats open!” The Dealer says, and we get two new players:
Seat Two: Late 40s, golf shirt, baseball cap perched above a high forehead. His wife kisses him when he sits down, and walks off with a stack of bills. I immediately like this guy.
Seat Four: If Gabe Kaplan had massive male-pattern baldness, and sweat like Roger Ebert, he’d be sitting across from me right now. This guy looks so terrified when he hands two fifties to the chip runner, I’m convinced it’s an act . . . but why waste the effort at a 3-6 table? You know what I have to call him . . .
Kotter has a weird, nervous energy that would probably get him pulled out of line at the airport, and I notice that the players next to him slowly but deliberately move away from him. This shifts the whole table around, and I end up so close to the dealer, his left hand hits my elbow on the next few deals. I try to give him some room, but Golf Shirt is so close to me our knees bump together . . . which reveals a big, fat, juicy tell: when he likes his cards, he bounces his leg. This saves me a few “borderline” calls, which is pretty cool.
For another few orbits (that’s what I call it when the button goes around the table) I don’t see much of anything, but I don’t mind, because I’ve got Catherine Wheel and then The Cure on my iPod, and well over 100 bucks in profit stacked up in front of me. It’s also interesting to watch Kotter slowly bleed his stack away, one crying call at a time. When he finally does make a hand, it’s one of the most tragic things I’ve ever seen.
He’s in middle position, and Hipster has the button, and they go heads up on a flop of 6d-9s-8s. Kotter bets it out, just like he has every hand, so I put him on random cards, but probably an Ace, maybe A9, but I’ve gotten a pretty good read on Hipster, and I think he’s made a set. They fire bets at each other until it’s capped, and I pull one of my headphones out, so I can hear them talk.
The turn is the six of clubs. Kotter looks at the dealer and says, “What’s the most I can bet?”
“Six dollars, sir.”
Kotter picks up three chips in each hand, and deliberately slams each stack down in front of him. His eyes dart around the table; I avoid them.
Hipster frowns and says, “I raise.”
“Six again, sir,” the dealer says to Kotter.
“What?”
“It’s a six dollar raise, sir.”
“Oh. Okay. I want to raise him back.” The way he says it, it’s like he’s looking for permission. Weird.
“That’s six more to you,” the dealer says to Hipster.
“I call it.”
The dealer rakes some chips off the pot, and drops them into a little box that’s near his right hand. He burns the top card, and deals out the Ace of diamonds.
Golf Shirt mutters, “Someone’s got quads,” and we all look at Kotter. The sweat beads up so much on the top of his head, he looks like an ad for Turtle Wax.
“I bet six again,” he says, nodding his head excitedly, and slams his chips out in the same motion as before. I can hear Phil Gordon in my head: “That’s intended to make your opponent think you’ve got a strong hand when you’re weak. That’s usually a tell.” Dave Foley makes a joke that falls somewhere into that gap between really clever and really awful.
“Raise him!” Says Hipster.
Kotter seems insulted, and says to the dealer, “Tell him I want to re-raise.”
The dealer is so close to me, I pick up the tiniest hint of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “Okay, that’s another six dollars, sir.”
Slam! Slam!
Hipster laughs this time. “Re-raise him!”
“Betting is capped,” the dealer says. “Six dollars to call.”
“I call him!” Kotter says. This time he slams down a $5 chip and a $1 chip, and flips over the 8 and 6 of hearts. “FULL HOUSE!”
Hipster flips up his cards, and I hear Dianne gasp before I can see them: two nines.
The Dealer calmly says, “Nines full of sixes,” and pushes a mountain of chips to Hipster.
In slow motion, I turn my head back toward Kotter. I half expect to see him putting a gun into his mouth, but he just looks shocked.
The color has drained out of his face, and sweat drips off his nose as he says, “I . . . I had a full house . . . ”
“Jesus,” Golf Shirt says.
I feel genuinely sorry for the guy, but my survival instinct encourages me to keep my mouth shut.
Hipster tokes a dollar to the dealer, and just about the entire table chides him into giving more.
“Hey, that’s worth at least two dollars,” Pungent Nose says.
“Yeah, come on, man,” adds Trucker Hat. I notice that Trucker Hat exudes Cloutier-like intimidation.
Hipster gives in, and tokes another two bucks to the dealer as he racks his chips and walks away.
Our dealer is tapped on the shoulder for a shift-change. “Okay, good luck, everyone,” he says as he leaves. I wonder how many hands a day he sees like the one that just played out. I think about how I can’t wait to write this up when I get home, and I wonder if any of this sticks in his mind the way I’m sticking it in mine.
Our new dealer is quite friendly. He’s Rob, from North Dakota, but he went to college in New Orleans, and he’s really worried about Ivan.
As soon as he sits down, he says, “Did you all hear about Ivan? It’s going to make landfall right over New Orleans.” He shakes his head, “Man, that city is already twenty-two feet below sea level, and the storm surge will be over forty feet.” He looks around the table. “Everything that’s not brick or stone in that city could be gone in the morning.”
“I thought Ivan was bearing down on Florida,” I say.
“Nope, it turned again. New Orleans at four a.m.”
“Jesus.” Again I mark how lucky I am to be here and not there.
Rob shuffles, riffles, shuffles, shuffles, riffles and shuffles.
“Blinds, please,” he says, reaching across me to tap he felt in front of Golf Shirt, and pointing at Pungent Nose.
“Forty feet, man,” he says quietly to himself, and the cards fly.
Pungent calls. Kotter looks numbly at his cards, and folds. Trucker Hat folds, grabs a pack of Pall Malls from his shirt pocket, and walks away. Siegfried calls, Dianne calls, and it’s to me. I look down at 87o. It’s not a hand I like to play, but I’m starting to get a little antsy, and I am in late position . . . so I call. Golf Shirt checks.
“Five players,” Rob says.
The flop completely misses me. Pungent checks, Siegfried checks.
“Maybe it missed us all?”
Dianne bets.
“Maybe not.” I fold.
Golf Shirt calls, Pungent folds, Siegfried calls. The three of them go down to the River, and Golf Shirt picks up the pot with a split pair of Cowboys when his 9 outkicks Dianne’s 5.
This is the beginning of a rather frustrating run. For the next two or three orbits, whenever I get a marginal calling hand, I make the wrong choice. I get K-5 off-suit in early position, and when I fold it, the flop comes A-5-5. I get A-4 of clubs in late position, and when I call it, the flop is all spades. The most memorable hand is J-7 of hearts in early position. While I thought of calling, Golf Shirts started bouncing the hell out of his knee, so I folded . . . only to watch the Ace, King, and Five of hearts hit the flop. It ends up being a monster pot between Golf Shirt, who held Big Slick, and Siegfried, who made trips on the turn.
I know that I’m playing things “by the book,” so I’m not too upset — especially when I count my chips and realize that I’m still ahead well over one hundred bucks after just about two hours. I recall some Lou Krieger advice: “If you play it wrong on just one hand, you can completely wipe out everything you’ve earned in your session, so play ‘by the book,’ and stick to it!” I’m pretty sure that my rush has come and gone, and I should get up and leave, but a seductive voice in my head says: “Let’s just take down one more pot from these tourists, and then we’ll go.”

Ah, sweet hubris, how I love to hate thee.
Tomorrow: Part Five

Note: Part two is here.

I sat down at the table which was closest to me, which was . . . well, it would be cool if it was nineteen, since I’ve been reading Song of Susannah, but I’m pretty sure it was fifteen.
“Would you like me to get you some chips?” My helpful new friend asked.
“That’d be great,” I said, and handed him some cash as I sat down in Seat One of table fifteen.
“Two hundred behind,” he said to the dealer as he walked back to the cashier.
“Would you like to play this hand?” the dealer said.
I would be in the small blind, not exactly where I’d like to start. “I’ll wait for the button.”
The dealer mixed the cards around, and I noticed that the felt was the freshest, cleanest, and nicest upon which I’ve ever played. It’s one of those details that I never would have noticed before I thought of myself as a Capital-“W” Writer, and I’m glad I noticed it.
“No matter what happens during this session, I have a cool image to record and put down. I like that.”
The dealer finished mixing the cards, shuffled them up, and dealt them out to my new enemies. Er, opponents, I mean. Yeah, opponents:
Seat Two: Smells like booze, is drinking a margarita. Can’t be older than 22, wears the Moneymaker cap and sunglasses.
Seat Three: Older man, wrinkles up his face like he’s constantly smelling something pungent. Seems to be hanging on in not-so-quiet desperation.
Seat Four: Moneymaker’s friend, who is the obligatory drunk guy. I think they’re in town for a bachelor party.
Seat Five: Mr. Not-So-Ironic-Trucker Hat. Based on the stained mustache, heavily lined face, and greyish skin, this guy will be getting up to smoke more often than I’m opening hands.
Seat Six: Late 50s, wears a collared shirt with a Ralph Marlin Cubs novelty tie, and keeps telling his foot-tapping, watch-checking wife “Just one more hand.” Wears a watch with Sammy Sosa on it. I think I’ll call him Chicago.
Seat Seven: Sir Not Sitting At This Table. A nice stack of chips, though.
Seat Eight: The Tokyo Hipster. His Rocker Mullet has “Super Gangster!” written all over it.
Tom returns with my chips. I thank him, and tip him five bucks. I don’t know if it’s too much, or not enough, but he takes it with a smile, and wishes me luck.
I look at rags for several hands, and even though I’m not involved, I watch the other players carefully. When I played on WPT’s Hollywood Home Game, I asked Daniel for some advice that would help my game, based on what he saw. He told me to watch for betting patterns, because most low-limit players don’t know enough to mix it up . . . so that’s what I do. They all pay to see the flop, but they check when a scare card falls. Each time someone bets, he’s either holding an ace, or paired his hand. The strange thing is, just about everyone is a calling station. It’s not quite the no-fold’em games I’m used to at Commerce, but just about everyone plays to fifth street without regard to pot odds.
“This is a loose-passive game, and I’m going to have to choose my starting cards carefully, and play the best tight-aggressive game I’ve ever played if I expect to leave here ahead.”
When I finally do open, I’m two seats ahead of the button. My first peek shows a nice bullet: the Ace of Hearts. My second peek shows me an positively beautiful bullet: the Ace of Clubs.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Rockets when there’s real money on the line. A rush shoots through my veins and ripples out across my skin. I can feel my scalp tighten up as goose bumps form down my arms and legs. I hope nobody notices the flush I can feel burning up my chest and face.
I hear Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice in my head, slightly louder than the Catherine Wheel song playing on my iPod: “You raise for two reasons, Luke — I mean, Wil: to get more money in the pot, and to drive out drawing hands. Don’t slowplay aces in a low-limit game.”
“Raise,” I say, stacking out chips with a hand so steady it surprises even me.
“Six to play,” the dealer says.
Moneymaker calls, Pungent Nose calls, Drunk Guy calls . . . holy shit, it’s called all the way around!
“This is either very, very good, or very, very bad. Either way, this rules!”
“Trust your feelings, Wil.” Obi-Wan says.

There’s an Ace on the flop, and I raise it again. This time the only callers are Moneymaker and Trucker Hat.
The turn is a blank, and there’s no flush or straight draw on the board. Could I have these guys drawing dead? Only one way to find out . . .

“Bet,” I say.
Moneymaker folds, and asks nobody in particular to send him a cocktail waitress. Trucker Hat calls. I put him on a big ace, or maybe a couple of cowboys. Either way, I’m still in the lead.

The river is a seven. I think for a second about check-raising, but when I scan my mental library of poker advice, I can’t find an entry that says that’s the right thing to do, so I bet it again. I can’t wait to flip up my aces, but I keep my chin planted firmly on top of my right hand while my let hand shuffles some chips. The cocktail waitress comes by, and Moneymaker orders another margarita. I look up and ask for a bottle of water, and when I look back down, the dealer is pushing the pot my way.
“What?! He went all the way to the end and didn’t call?!” I can’t believe it, but I don’t show my cards. I don’t even look up. I just stack my chips and flip two bucks to the dealer. He thanks me and shuffles the cards.
“Did you have it?” Moneymaker says.
I have waited my whole life to give my reply: “I don’t remember,” I say, with a shrug.
He laughs, and says, “Nice hand, man. Nice hand.”
“Thanks,” I say.
The cards come out, and I’m under the gun. I peek at my cards and see two red jacks.
“Two massive hands right in a row? I think The Mirage is my favorite casino on the planet!”
I try to do this thing where I frown, but I act lke I’m trying not to frown. It’s probably not worth the effort, but it’s fun, you know? I push my chips out: “Bet.”
Moneymaker can’t wait to push his checks in. Pungent calls, so does Drunk Guy. Trucker Hat sighs, frowns at me, and calls. “That’s a tell; he’s got something. Is it better than my Johnnies?”
Chicago calls, and shoots a look at his wife, who has stepped out past the rail to smoke. “Does he have a hand, or is he just sweating her? Okay, he’s more focused on her than he is on any of us. Sweet.”
Not-Sitting at this table must have come back while I was stacking the cargo American Airlines delivered, and I get a look at him while he studies his cards: Young guy with really big hair, almost Richard Marx if he was blonde. Wears a ring on his index finger that looks like a pyramid, and seems to be trying to put on an “I’m so bored” face. He foppishly calls. “Wait. Is that possible? Can anyone ‘foppishly call’ in poker?” I look up at him again. He’s pushing out his lower lip into a full-on pout. I imagine his voice sounds strikingly similar to Siegfried or Roy, and realize that he’s totally got Siegfried and Roy hair, right here in the Mirage. He calls, Hipster calls, and we’ve got eight-way action again.
The flop comes Qh-6h-9c.
Hipster checks. I bet. If someone’s got a queen and they raise me, I’m throwing this hand away.
Moneymaker calls, Pungent and Drunk Guy fold, and it comes to Trucker Hat. He glowers at me. I leave my hand on my chin, just like my hero Howard Lederer, and lose myself in “Black Metallic.” He folds. Chicago folds, Foppish folds, and Hipster calls.
“Three players,” says the dealer.
The turn is the three of diamonds. The dealer holds out his left hand like he’s going to do a karate chop, and says, “Check or bet, sir.”
“Check,” I say. As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I’m certain I’ve just made a mistake. “Okay, if I get called, I can raise, and I’ll tell myself that I intended to check-raise all along.”
Moneymaker checks. Hipster bets. “Shit.” I think about mucking it, but something tells me he doesn’t have me beat.
“Raise,” I say. Moneymaker folds before I put my chips out.
Hipster asks for time, and looks at his cards.
While he thinks, I look at the pot and try to estimate the size: eight calls on my first bet is forty-eight, plus another –”
“I call you!” He says. Trucker hat nods at him and says, “Good call.”
The river is the eight of spades. I look down at the board: Qh-6h-9c-3d-8s
Hipster checks to me again. I search my feelings for the trap, but it’s just not there. I am nervous about that queen, but I recall something I read in the back of Lou Krieger’s book: “Be selective, but be aggressive!”
“There’s no way I’m buying this pot, so if I bet, I have to hope to get called. Am I confident enough in my cards to make another bet? This could be a huge mistake . . . dammit! Why can’t I pause this game and read through my books?”
“Luke, trust me . . . “
“Bet.” I say.
This time, he speaks to the dealer. “I call him again!”
“Show ’em,” The dealer says, and I flip up my boys.
Hipster turns over the Ace of hearts and the six of clubs.
“They’re all Tourists, Wil . . . “
I look up for Tom, spot him across the room, and send him a mental fruit basket, which is not nearly as . . . fruity . . . as it sounds.
Tomorrow: Part Four

I need to interrupt our regularly scheduled poker story for a moment, because at 2:30 this afternoon, I have an actual on-camera audition, for a very popular TV show.
I’m quite excited, because the material totally doesn’t suck, I can put this character on pretty easily, and when I was pitched to the casting director, she reportedly said, “Oh wow! What a great idea! Send him in!”
So if you could spare a little bit-o-mojo around 2:30 Pacific today, I’d be most grateful.
In fact, to show my gratitude, I offer a link to the official Mount St. Helens Live Volcano Cam, which we should all be watching because there have been lots of earthquake swarms in the last 24 hours, and it looks like she’s waking up.
Updated @ 5:06PM — Just got back, and I am happy to report that I had a really good time! It was the first on-camera audition I’ve had in AGES, but all the nerves and crap that used to get in my way never materialized. I had prepared my sides well, and knew my character all the way down in my bones, so even though I had to wait for almost an hour, I passed the time happily, playing Downtown Hold’Em on my cellphone. (I made it to the fourth tournament before I went all-in with a Jack-high flush and lost to a King-high flush.)
I was very happy with my performance in both scenes . . . and I marked something interesting as I left: the character I read for was a little nervous and scattered, trying very hard not to get caught after he did a Very Bad Thing™, and I had to very carefully and consciously shift gears once the camera rolled. When I left, I thought to myself, “Aw, man, I was nervous and scattered,” until I realized that that was precisely the way I was supposed to be. So they’ll either think that I nailed this character, or they’ll think I was too scattered and nervous . . . but either way, I’m glad I went in.
Thank you so much to everyone who sent mojo and stuff. It made me smile more than once while I was there, just knowing that at least thirty people (the comment count when I left) were thinking of me.

Part One of this story is here.

“If I don’t keep walking, I’ll puss out and waste the entire afternoon drinking Guinness in some bar.” I thought.
“Hey! Don’t you EVER say drinking Guinness in some bar is a waste!”
“I am so right. Consider me properly chastened.”
While I had this conversation with myself, I continued to walk, and when I was finished, I stood at the entrance to The Mirage’s Poker Room.
“There’s no turning back now! Muwahahahahaha . . . “
I stood in front of a podium (think of a hostess-stand in a restaurant, and you’ve got it) and looked around the room: There were about thirty tables or so, but it felt neither cramped nor expansive. Even though I was just a few feet from about a million slot machines, it seemed quieter and more laid-back than the rest of the casino floor, and the air smelled . . . well, sweeter. Weird, I know, but true. It was like an Oasis in the Mirage.
There didn’t seem to be anyone who could put me on a list, or sit me at a table, so I walked around the podium to the cashier. A middle-aged Asian man with huge flakes of dandruff lining the part in his hair stood next to a woman in her 60s, who I am certain was from Texas: huge bouffant, huge make-up, and a huge cloud of perfume. They were both on the phone, so I read a little plaque titled “HOUSE RULES” while I waited for them.

1. Max rake 10%
2. Check and raise is permitted
3. Maximum 1 bet 4 raises
4. Mirage poker room does not employ shills
5. Decision of the supervisor is final

It was a cool little sign, made out of faux-wood-grained plastic with mechanically carved white letters. So much of Vegas these days is gold and brass and music and fiber optics and explosions, it was charming to see this little plastic sign, which was perfectly suited to its job.
The female cashier hung up the phone and looked at me. “Yes?”
“I’ve never played here before,” I told her as I felt my face flush. “Would you tell me what to do?”
“Sure thang, honey,” she said, in a drawl that was straight out of — no joke — Odessa, “Go up to the front and wait a bit. I’ll send Tom over.”
I thanked her and walked back the way I came. I picked up a copy of Cardplayer, but a man came over before I could open it.
“Can I help you?” He said.
“I hope so,” I said. I cleared my throat and continued, “I play in Los Angeles, but I’ve never played here before, and I feel little lost.”
He smiled and said, “Check and raise is allowed, maximum of one bet and four raises in a round, and we take the rake as you go, so you don’t have to think about it. What would you like to play?”
His silvery grey suit matched his hair, and he exuded a disarming charm and kindness, the likes of which I’ve never seen in one of the Los Angeles card clubs. I felt like this man really did want to help me, and for the first time since I hung up my cell phone across the street, I began to feel at ease.
“Uhh . . . 3-6 Hold’Em.” I said.
“Sure.” He picked up a clipboard, “Can I get a name and a last initial?”
“Wil W.”
He put down his pen and looked up. “I thought you were . . . you.” We both laughed, nervously, for different reasons. “Welcome to the Mirage, Wil.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Well, it shouldn’t be too long,” he said, “Are you staying with us?”
“No, I’m in town for a meeting, and I’m staying with my hosts across the street. It’s my first time there, and holy crap, man, the rooms are huge.” I was close to rambling. Stupid adrenaline.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” he said, as he set the clipboard down, and looked across the room, “Hm. Well, it looks like I’ve got two tables open right now.” He gestured to one table that was close to the edge of the room, and another that was more toward the center. “Where would you like to sit?”
“With the suckers. Dah-dum . . . daaaah-dum . . . dum-dum-dum-dum . . . “
“Well, I’d like to sit where everyone pays to see the flop, if you get my drift . . .”
He nodded slowly and knowingly. “Well, they’re all tourists, Wil.”
“Excellent,” I said, in my best Mr. Burns voice.
Tomorrow: Part Three

I stood in my hotel room, and looked out the window across The Strip. On the TV behind me, CNN showed Hurricane Ivan’s terrible fury, and I spent a moment sending some mojo to Florida. Twenty-six stories below me, tourists swarmed around in the late August heat, and I marked the incredible difference a few thousand miles makes.
I picked up my cellphone, and dialed. I got a machine, so I hung up.
Damn.
My phone rang before I could get it back into my pocket.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Daniel. You just called me?”
“Hey, Daniel, it’s Wil Wheaton.”
“Hey Wil! How are you?”
“I’m good, man,” I said. “I’m in town today and tomorrow. You want to grab a beer or something while I’m here?”
“I’d like to, but I’m actually getting ready to leave for Los Angeles!”
“Damn. Well, next time, then.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Where are you staying?”
“The Venetian,” I said.
“That’s a nice place.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t have a poker room,” I said.
“Just go across the street to Mirage, or down to Bellagio.”
I started to involuntarily pace around my room.
“Whenever I hear someone talk about the poker rooms in The Mirage or Bellagio,” I said, “the story usually ends with the same words that end everyone’s Tequila-in-college story: ‘With god as my witness, I’ll never do it again.'”
We laughed together.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll get killed there,” I said.
“Nah, you’re a good player,” he said. “What limit are you looking to play?”
I was a little embarrassed to say it out loud. “Well, it’s probably micro-limit to you, but . . . 3-6 or 4-8?”
“Oh yeah. You’ll do great at either place.”
I drew a steadying breath. “Okay. Thanks. Have a safe trip across the desert.”
“Thanks. If we leave late, I’ll call you and we can grab that beer.”
“That’d be great. Bye.”
“Bye.”
And so it was on the advice of Daniel Negreanu that I picked up my iPod, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed across the street to The Mirage.
In the last eighteen months or so, I’ve studied more than at any other time in my life, and my game has improved dramatically. I’m pretty confident when I sit down at at low-limit table, and my log book has been in the black for most of this year . . . but I was terrified as I walked across The Strip. Despite Daniel’s friendly encouragement, I was certain that I was going to get killed at The Mirage, until I remembered something I heard Phil Hellmuth, of all people, say: “If you think you’re going to lose, you’re going to find some way to lose, consciously or otherwise. You’ve got to go in there expecting to win.”
Good advice. I resolved to play my best: the only person who was going to beat me was me. I imagined the theme to Jaws, as I walked through a faux rainforest and into the casino. I slowed down and looked through a surprisingly smoke-free room, across an armada of slot machines and saw “POKER” hanging from the ceiling about a hundred yards in front of me. In my imagination, a needle scratched across the Jaws record. My palms got sweaty, and my legs felt heavy. I was about to lose my nerve.
Tomorrow: Part Two