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